Seven Sisters by Earlene Fowler Page A

hand. “I’m happy to finally meet you,” she said. Her handshake was firm, dry, and assured, befitting a successful professional woman. “I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you.”
    I paused for a moment. “Me, too,” I finally said, thinking, Oh, very clever reply . That should send her running to the hills in intellectual terror and intimidation.
    Gabe said, “I’m on the way to the bar to get Benni a drink. Would you like something?”
    “That would be wonderful. Just bring me my usual.”
    “Chardonnay is apparently one of Seven Sisters’ specialties,” he said.
    Her deep-throated laugh caused a glimmer of recollection on his face, obviously bringing back an intimate memory. That and the fact that he actually remembered what she liked to drink intensified my feelings of not exactly jealousy . . . More like anxiety.
    She laughed again, teasing him with the memory. His nervous returning laugh tempted me to smack him.
    Oh, geeze, forget anxiety. Jealousy is exactly what it was.
    After he left, attempting to be mature, I said, “Cappy says their ’91 estate chardonnay is very good.”
    Her lips curved in a half smile. “Are you a wine aficionado ?”
    Don’t even try to compete in that arena, a small voice inside me warned. “No,” I said, for once heeding the sensible voice. “Cappy just told us that. Actually, I know next to nothing about wine. Don’t even like it. Don’t even like grape juice.”
    She laughed again, heartier this time, a there’s-no-male-to-impress female laugh. “You’re honest, I’ll give you that. If you want to know the truth, Benni Harper, if I wasn’t a more secure person, I’d hate you. Not only did you manage to snag Mr. Evade-All-Emotional-Entanglements over there”—she nodded at Gabe’s broad back—“but my son practically worships you. I do appreciate you taking care of my two men so well.”
    Her two men? I cleared my throat, stuck for a comeback. Gabe hadn’t been her man for almost nine years now. Before I could think of a retort, Gabe returned with a glass of wheat-colored wine for Lydia and a club soda for me.
    “The appetizers are really something,” he said. “You ladies should check them out.”
    “Thank you,” Lydia said, taking the glass from Gabe, her hand lightly brushing his. “I think I will after I reconnect with my son and future daughter-in-law.” She sipped the wine. “Umm, this is very good. Ms. Brown certainly does know how to make wine.” She looked up at Gabe, her expression serious and worried. “We need to talk about Sam.”
    “Call me at work tomorrow. We’ll compare schedules and get together.”
    “I’ll do that.” She turned back to me. “It was so nice finally meeting you, Benni. We’ll see each other again soon, I’m sure.”
    “I’m sure we will.” I took a huge gulp of my club soda, annoyed at myself for acting like a tongue-tied junior high school girl.
    “She’s very worried about Sam and Bliss,” Gabe said, watching her walk toward their son. “I think she’s going to try to talk them out of getting married.”
    “And what do you think?” I asked, trying to be calm and mature about everything, attempting to ignore the explicit and very appealing mental picture of her falling off San Patricio pier and being eaten by a passing great white shark.
    “She should be worried. They are young and naive. Then again, I’m proud he wants to take responsibility for this baby. Makes me think that we did some things right as parents.”
    I tucked my arm through his. “You did a lot right in raising him. Sam’s a wonderful person, and so is Bliss. Everything’s going to work out just fine.”
    “Your optimism is appreciated, though not necessarily shared. I spent too many years in a patrol car going to family disputes caused, in part, by the stress of immature children trying raise their own children. Not to mention that he’s marrying into a family that appears to already have its share of