“‘Never mind’ what?” asks Daisy.
“I miss my winesobadly. I was thinking...maybe just a little spritzer.” Vanessa pulls a wry mouth. “Or some sparkling rosé. But—”
“Oh, let’s do it. Just a little drink. It’ll be relaxing.” Daisy grabs on to the idea. They’re both due in a month or so. Surely it can’t harm the babies now?
Vanessa frowns. “Are you sure?”
Daisy smiles. “Of course I’m sure.”
Vanessa puts her hand on her chest. “A woman after my heart, thank God. Can you cut that salami while I get the drinks? The knife’s over there.” She disappears into the glass doors of her beautiful house.
Daisy takes in a deep breath and reaches for the sharp knife on the table. As she carefully slices the sausage, she thinks she really could do with a glass of wine, something to take her tension down a notch. The anxiety and all the resulting cortisol pumping into her body are probably far worse for Baby Bean than a teensy bit of wine in the balmy fall sunshine.
Vanessa comes out of the house with a big smile, two wineglasses, and a frosted bottle of French rosé. She pours the wine, and they sip in the soft sunshine as they pick at the meat and cheeses and fruit. The alcohol blossoms like warmth in Daisy’s chest and makes her feel amazing.
“God I miss this,” Daisy says as Vanessa tops their glasses up.
“Me too.” Vanessa sets the bottle down and takes a healthy sip from her own glass. “It’s so unfair. Men get to carry on as normal, going to the pub, drinking, whatever, and we have to be holy saints and abstain.”
“And then we get to give birth and breastfeed and deal with leaking boobs and breast pumps.”
Vanessa laughs. “Never mind ripped vaginas. I was just saying that to Haruto the other day.”
Daisy reaches for some Cambozola cheese that Vanessa has warmed slightly. It’s soft and buttery as she smooths it onto a cracker. The knife blade glints in the sun. “It was good to meet Haruto at the bistro,” she says cautiously.
“Was it?”
Daisy glances up. “Well, yes,” she says, taking a bite of the cracker. “I think it would be great if both of you could meet Jon, too. Maybe we could all have a dinner together.”
Vanessa regards her in steady silence for a moment, then she leans forward. “Look, Daisy, I know what you saw. I know what you must’ve thought. It was written all over your face. But you need to understand—Haruto is a good man. He’s just—a little coercive at times. He also has a quick temper, not much patience. But his temperament is also what makes him good at business. His mind is incredibly sharp. He doesn’t tolerate fools or people who think too slowly. It’s what enables him to bring in the big bucks and afford us places like this.” She gestures to her home. “I’m sure you understand.”
Daisy is fully aware of what Vanessa is doing. She’s holding a mirror up to Daisy’s face and asking her to look at herself, her own life, her own man. Her own sets of compromises and values.
“Take Jon, for example,” Vanessa says. “Your husband is a champion downhill ski racer, a winner of Olympic medals. His sport is extreme. High stakes. Dangerous. All about power. Money, too. Only certain A-type personalities with privilege can consistently excel—thrive—in a milieu like that. But those A-plus alphas come with other issues, too, right? Can’t have it both ways.” A pause. “Not so?”
This woman is inside Daisy’s head. She reaches for her glass and sips quietly because she’s unsure how best to respond.
“How long have you guys been married?” Vanessa asks. “I don’t think you ever mentioned it.”
Daisy gives a little huff of a laugh. “We married pretty much right after Jon came home with the gold in ’02. We were really young.Probably too young. We’d been dating since high school, though. And my parents loved him. Dad felt Jon was a really good fit all round, with our family ski resort business and all.” Another sip of wine—it’s going down so well and so fast it’s making Daisy heady. “Dad thought Jon had such potential.”
“Had?”
Daisy’s cheeks flush. She didn’t mean for it to come out like that, but she supposes it’s true. She clears her throat and deflects. “How about you and Haruto? How’d you guys meet?”
“An airport bar. How cliché is that?” Vanessa reaches for her glass, sips. “We got chatting and learned we were on the same flight back to Vancouver. We hooked up afterward, and it went from there. We married in Singapore, where Haruto was born. His mother is Japanese, and his dad’s family has deep roots in the UK.”
“So that’s where his surname comes from?”
Vanessa nods.
Daisy sips more wine. She’s still insatiably curious about Haruto but doesn’t want to send Vanessa’s defenses back up. When people feel humiliated, shamed, they go into defensive mode. So she aims for another angle.
“I saw the framed photo near the bar when we came through. The one of you and Haruto. It’s a stunning shot. So exotic. That waterfall, those rocks, that jungle and orchids in the backdrop, your bare feet, and that beautiful white bohemian skirt with the colorful trim—it looks Mexican. Is that where the photo was taken?”
“Nicaragua.” Vanessa smiles. “It was some years back. I found the skirt at a local market.”
Silence falls over the pair. The wind picks up a little and the weather turns cooler. Clouds begin to scud across the sky. Vanessa offers nothing more, but now that Daisy has gotten going, she craves additional details, and the wine is making her bold.
