I was uninspired, boring, sad, and not at all like myself. But today wasn’t the day for an intervention. My raised hand turned to a stop sign. “Don’t go there, Roddy. Too soon.”
But he kept going. “She died. You didn’t.” He lowered his voice and dropped the usual boom to his version of gentle. But it wasn’t enough. The floodgates were about to open.
“Don’t.” I lowered my voice to subzero temperatures, but despite my reproving tone, my voice still shook, and my eyes and nose burned.
“Right.” His eyes softened but his tone did not. “Kara, get your head out of your ass. Find that competitive spirit you used to have, and for God’s sake, take that damn test! And do not, under any circumstances, ask me to help you study when you have no intentions of doing anything with your talents.”
I faltered. I wanted to agree with him, and tell him that I was taking the test. But I just couldn’t take the snickers from my colleagues. I freaking hated to lose. I especially couldn’t handle the disappointed look on my husband Darren’s face when I told him all the sleepless nights of blind taste tests, thousands of flash cards, the endless study sessions with my quirky group, and buckets upon stained-pink wine buckets were for naught. And it wasn’t just that. I’d lost faith in myself once I didn’t have Mama, my number one motivator, to whisper encouragements in my ear.
“Roddy I . . . I . . .” My throat closed shut. I exhaled and steadied my voice. “‘I will let you know what I decide.”
“What a fucking waste.” He rolled his eyes and stood up. “Stay outta my sight for a while.” He stormed away, muttering something about pansy-assed millennials.
Master somms could be divas, and he was one of the greatest.
My thoughts drifted to my mother. She was originally from the Virgin Islands, and a devout Catholic who raised her daughters to be proper Catholic girls. Not a curse word came from these lips and not a sin confessed that wasn’t absolved by Father Frank. I was all that and more before Mama died.
A warm, soothing feeling, like being wrapped in a fleece blanket, came over me, and my mother’s soft voice whispered in my head. You want anything, sweet pea, you pray real hard to God and you work your butt off, too. Guaranteed, there isn’t anything you can’t do or ask for that He won’t provide. I shucked off the blanket and shucked off the memory as the too-familiar feeling of bitterness soured my stomach and burned through my chest. I hadn’t only lost faith in myself.
I lost faith in God.
And I didn’t need to serve a God who took good people away before their time.
God didn’t provide for things that counted. Win a marathon race, sure. Close on your dream house, of course, my child. Save Mama from the cold hands of death . . . not so much. I’d prayed on my knees until they were sore that Mama would beat cancer.
I banged my head on the table and got a commiserating shoulder pat from the now-brave Kevin, who whispered, “It’s all good.”
I gave in to my earlier desires and bought a bottle from the wine shop on-site at the restaurant. I wasn’t working tonight and planned to take full advantage of it.
Roddy had put me in a black mood, so I needed to go dark. Black cherry, blackcurrant, blackberry. And violets. The color purple and sometimes violets signified death, and maybe I wanted my dreams of being a master somm to rest in peace. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if I never achieved the master level.
Advanced somms still made good money. Seventy thousand dollars was nothing to sneeze at—it was enough to buy a spacious home for the kids Darren and I had yet to create, and enough to go on our annual friends’ trip, as well as my girls’ trip. There was no shame. Roddy wouldn’t make me feel ashamed.
There was no going back to the failure-is-not-an-option girl I used to be. A lot had changed. Back then Mama was alive and cancer-free. Dad hadn’t swallowed his grief in a daily forty-ounce bottle, and my sister Tracey wasn’t dating a deadbeat I was sure I’d seen throwing a chair on The Jerry Springer Show last year.
The only good and steady thing in my life was Darren. Quiet and unassuming, he was a true nerd who preferred gaming to going out, anime marathons to movie nights, and reading random Reddit threads rather than a book. I used to be the fun one in our relationship. I was the one who would bungee-jump from a cliff or challenge someone to a race in a crowded parking lot. But then I grew up and had to put away my childish things.
I lifted up the bottle of my hubby’s favorite bourbon that I’d picked up from the store on the way home.
“Thanks, babe.” Darren hugged me and then poured his bourbon into an empty decanter on the bar. “How was your meeting with Roddy?”
I shrugged my tired shoulders and placed my newly acquired wine treasure on the rack. “Same ol’, same ol’.” I sighed and leaned against the kitchen counter. “So get this, he wants me to—”
“Take the test,” he finished for me.
“How’d you know?”
Tilting his head, he stroked his goatee. “Why else would you be meeting with him?”
“To stay sharp.”
He shook his head and moved away from the bar. “Okay, Kara. So . . .” Darren ventured carefully, “Are you going to take the test again?”
On the surface his tone was casual, but I could tell he was anything but. His muscular forearms bulged with veins brought on by a clenched fist barely hidden under his crossed arms. The tightness in his cleanly shaven jaw also gave him away. He swallowed, and I lowered my gaze, noticing his Adam’s apple against his dark chocolate skin bobbing, once, then twice.
Tension and stress and aversion permeated the air.
I could darn near taste his displeasure, which was no surprise . The master’s exam was not for the faint of heart, with a pass rate of less than ten percent. Here was the reality: Roddy was the only master in Georgia. Less than fourteen percent were women. None were African American women.
Ten years ago I had dreams of breaking the mold. My passion was deep, bold, and full-bodied. The optimism was overripe citrus. But after failure number three, not to mention being thousands of dollars poorer after paying for each test, I lost the taste.
Darren didn’t enjoy the journey of nasty spit buckets and nerdy wine experts staying at our place until the wee hours in the morning. My months of burning the midnight oil, studying theory and flash cards, and having various mixtures of wine on my breath and a permastained red tint on my tongue weren’t good for a relationship. We didn’t kiss or have sex much during exams.
“It breaks my heart when I see that devastated look in your eyes.” Darren’s words after the last failed test about a year ago echoed in my head.
I took a deep breath. “What do you think?”
He shrugged. “Give it another go.”
“What?” I jerked back my head. “You think I should try? Remember, this is attempt number four.”
“Yep. Not gonna lie. I’m not a fan of how obsessive you become, and I hate your study partners.” He did a mock shiver, and then smiled. “But . . .”
“But what?”
“It’s what you love to do. You get this . . . I don’t know . . . this gleam in your eye when you talk wine. It’s damn sexy. But . . .”