Back to You(21)
Don’t fuck with the Mama Bear! I lean down to whisper in her ear, “Well played. Hopefully that shuts up Southern Barbie for the rest of the ride.”
And it does. The remainder of our trip to the winery is soundtracked by the driver pinpointing the local scenery and soft, almost-muted music coming from the tiny speakers. I think it’s country. I’ve never minded country, but I could so go for something a little more upbeat. I’ve been toying with that song that keeps coming to me in dribs and drabs and cowboy whining ain’t gonna keep it flowing.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Mia finally says as her eyes travel to my foot that’s tapping to the beat I’ve started to create with my imaginary guitar.
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it?” I ask, kissing her on the cheek. Before she can answer or worry that my silence has any significance, I let her know about the song. “Wanna know a secret?”
She squeezes my arm, snuggling closer. “Is it juicy?”
I laugh, because Mia loves gossip. Too bad I have nothing dirty or scandalous to feed her curiosity. “No, nothing juicy, but I think you’ll like it anyway.”
“Do tell,” she sings.
“Lyrics to this new song have been playing out in my head. An original. I think it could be pretty epic. And lucky for me, my beautiful wife made me my very own recording studio. When we get back from Newport I’m gonna play around down there and see what I can come up with.” The idea of writing something new excites me. In fact, something like this is exactly what I need as an outlet. This trip has been very relaxing and fulfilling so far, but after that talk Mia’s forcing us to have and once I tell her about the job offer, I know I’ll need a release… pouring it out creatively has a way of proving constructive.
“You have no idea how happy that makes me, Dec. That’s exactly why I built it for you. It’s been too long since you worked your magic… I haven’t even heard one word—and I don’t want to until you’re done—but you’re right. This is going to be epic!”
She’s just as excited as I am. I’m so grateful that she supports my hobby. Most wives would probably bitch and complain at the idea of their husband locking themselves in a sound proof room after working a fifty hour week. Not my Mia. She deserves an entire album full of songs dedicated to her—I better get to work. And God knows I have plenty of angsty material to work with. I might even write up a song about strangers on shuttle buses and what they can do with their useless opinions. I’ll call it Shove It!
If I’d known I was supposed to call ahead for a private tour, I would have gladly done so—and maybe even sold my fucking soul to the devil just so I don’t have to spend my supposed-romantic afternoon with these assholes.
Yes, I get the thrill of looking important by asking all kinds of pretentious know-it-all questions about the natural character, acidity, and fermentation of the grapes, but we can’t step two feet without one of these bozos making a comment or clicking their tongues in their mouth.
What happened to getting lost in one of the vineyards and screwing around? I’m here to get drunk and get it on. And Fanny Pack and Steve-O are not part of the equation.
I eye the tour guide for any chance of a quick, discreet getaway, but then notice that Mia is just as content as the rest of the group, listening to all the details and sipping away on a sample.
I follow suit, accepting yet another mouthful of one of the whites (can’t remember if we’re in Pinot Grigio or Chardonnay territory—who gives a fuck?), and chug it down without following any of the suggested guidelines for proper tasting. Tastes fucking fine to me! I’m annoyed that I have to share Mia with these people and frustrated that this isn’t going as I’d planned it in my head.
“Hey,” Mia nudges against me. “You okay?” She must sense my agitation.
I roll my neck on my shoulders with an audible crack. “Yeah, but… wanna head out of here?”
Her eyes go wide and she actually stomps her foot. “No! I’m having fun! I’ve always wanted to do this. Aren’t you having a good time?”
How can I tell her I’m not, especially since she’s obviously enjoying herself? From the looks of her glassy eyes and the grin on her face—Mia’s having a really good time. “Ha! You’re tipsy, aren’t you?” I ask, poking her in the stomach with my finger.
“No,” she says with an ear to ear grin. “Okay, maybe a little,” she whispers, bringing her thumb and index finger an inch apart as measurement. “I didn’t eat anything before we left and that cheese they offered in the beginning smelled like feet. You know how much I hate cheesy feet.” She giggles, letting out a loud hiccup this time. Her hand flies over her mouth, trying to hide her embarrassment.