The sommelier frowns. “The wedding couple have chosen a lovely local Furore Bianco,” he says in his thick Italian accent. “It will work well for a toast with dinner.”
“A lovely wine, it is. But the McRae family has a tradition. We toast with”—I glance down at the bottle in my hand—“Chianti. For good luck. A . . . fruitful harvest. A lifetime of love and . . .” I trail off as I search for the right words.
“. . .peaceful domesticity,” Franki finishes behind me, her voice muffled against my suit jacket.
I smile, nod, then heave a deep sigh of satisfaction. “Peaceful domesticity.”
The sommelier shifts uncomfortably. “With Chianti?” he asks doubtfully.
I nod, my expression deeply serious. “It’s very special. Embracing centuries of family tradition.”
My father coughs.
I avoid Dad’s eyes and stare down the sommelier, daring him to tell me a family of Scottish Americans can’t have a tradition of toasting with Chianti.
We don’t. Obviously. That would be ridiculous. But I dare him to say it.
He clears his throat.
Franki pokes me in the center of my back with a finger. I step forward, as directed.
“If I’d known, I’d have made sure to have enough on hand for everyone,” the man says.
I grip his shoulder with my free hand, then decide shoulder gripping is too intense for the moment and pat him, instead. “No need, friend. It’s but a small, private tradition.”
Franki makes a weird snuffly noise behind me and pokes me harder.
I move onward, steering us gently but firmly through the parted crowd. People avert their eyes. Someone coughs. Dad mutters, “Good for you, son,” under his breath.
When we reach the stairs, we switch positions with Franki in front. She looks up at me, mortified and laughing and entirely alive, her ears painted crimson. “‘It’s but a small, private tradition?’” she wheezes. “You turn medieval when you fib?”
I kiss her knuckles, unthwarted despite our setback. “Next time, we use the linen closet.”
5
Adore You
Franki
Elliotbehaveshimselfatdinner. Not that I expected anything else. But even I’m surprised when, red-faced, he apologizes to me in front of his mother, then later to his brother and Dante.
He even makes a toast that doesn’t reek of arrogance or snark, using the Chianti on our table.
When Elliot retakes his seat across from us, he sneaks a nervous glance at Henry. Henry smiles blandly in return. Elliot flinches and immediately looks down to fuss with his napkin.
I lean into my husband. “What did you do to him?” I whisper. I’d been too distracted to ask earlier.
Henry brushes my hair back and speaks softly against my ear. “I dangled him off a cliff until he apologized for being a wanker.”
It’s impossible to tell if he’s kidding. But if that statement is true, he put himself in danger for no good reason.
I turn accusing eyes in his direction.We’ll discuss this later.
His lips quirk at the corners.
I sigh. He’s sitting beside me perfectly safe. That’s what matters. “You know what you are?”
“Are you going to call me a scamp? I accept.”
