CHAPTER 2

The Nose Knows—Kara

“Dried green apples. Lime and melon and mango. Ripe.” I swirled the glass and dipped my nose to sniff and sleuth out the golden liquid’s history. “Green pineapple. Freshly cut grass. There’s definitely a green theme here.”

“Cut out the commentary and focus, Kara. Go with the system.”

Dipping my head to acknowledge my crotchety mentor, I continued my practice exam. “The wine is clear, bright. Medium intensity.” My fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass. I inhaled the aromas and took a deep gulp. I swooshed the wine, using my taste buds to take it all in. After forming the story, I spat the wine into a plastic container. “This wine is dry with a chalky note. This wine has flowers, white flowers,” I clarified quickly, knowing that Roddy would chew me out after the practice exam. I took another swirl and spat. “No evidence of oak. Green herbal notes. Medium acidity. Nicely structured. This wine is from a cooler region, possibly somewhere in France.” Pausing from my assessment, I took another sip. “This wine is from Northern France, the Loire Valley. Sauvignon blanc. Produced in 2012.”

Taking a deep breath, I moved on to the trio of red wines, utilizing my deductive tasting techniques.

Roddy grunted and nodded his bald, shiny head in approval. “Nicely done. But I’m not surprised. You’ve got a good nose, and you’ve already passed the service and theory portions of the test.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned away from the table. “Have you been practicing blind tasting outside of our meetings?”

With everything else in my life, I was Superman, but blind testing was my archnemesis, my kryptonite, and I acted like a weak-kneed, nose-bleeding swooner when it was waved in my direction.

I knew the theory, in theory, but it always tripped me up during my exams. “Yes. I’ve got my taste cards in my purse.” I patted my slender crossbody Coach bag that mostly held my three-by-five notecards.

“Good. Study with Eduardo, Claudia, and Martin. They’re hungry and talented and will make good partners. You’ll be ready to take the test next year.”

Pretending to pluck lint from the pristine white linen table, I avoided his keen blue eyes. Kevin, the head server for Pie Squared, a five-star Italian restaurant, milled about the tables, setting up to open at noon.

“Hi, Kevin.” I waved at my colleague.

Kevin smiled and looked as if he was coming over, but after a quick glance at Roddy, the slender waiter pivoted.

Wuss.

“Kara,” Roddy leaned closer, lowering his eyebrows to a father-knows-best stare, “tell me you are taking the Master Sommelier Exam next year.”

A bitter black coffee taste blasted my mouth. I couldn’t blame the tannins from the wine, it was the fear of the test—this Herculean task had bested me three times over. “I . . . I’m not sure if I’m ready.”

Roddy’s beet-red face moved closer to me. This time I leaned away.

“Then why in the hell are we here practicing? Why did I get up from my warm bed and warmer wife, drag my carcass downtown to quiz you on this shit? You think I have time for a wishy-washy somm who’s afraid of her own shadow?” His voice rose with each word.

I wasn’t prepared to go to blows with my mentor, but I wasn’t going to let him chew me up and spit me out like the rest of the trainees either. This man made Gordon Ramsay seem like Father Frank, my sweet old Catholic priest.

Gearing up for battle, I mentally played “Eye of the Tiger” and dropped my voice to sound cool, firm, and confident. “Roddy. I’ve taken the test three times already, with two years in between. I’m just being cautious and giving myself time to prepare.” I gave him the small, practiced smile I usually gave to my know-it-all wine patrons and reveled in my quick win. He couldn’t argue with logic.

“What’s in your head, girl?” He tapped a wrinkle on his forehead. “What happened to that young lady who practically harassed me to hire her because she’d read in Wine Enthusiast that I was the best and she refused to be taught by anyone less than the best?”

I didn’t need his lecture. I wanted to swipe a bottle of wine, take it home, and not spit it back into a bucket. But when Roddy was on a roll, he was on a roll, and there would be no victories for me today. I could not win this battle.

Roddy’s meaty hand slapped the table. The glasses clattered from the force. “And who was the young woman who bet me a thousand bucks that she would become an Advanced Sommelier in a year?” His voice rumbled like an old Chevy engine.

That was easy money. I was young, cocky, and thought I could take over the world. Now I was an old worrier, if you considered thirty-two being old. That was all before I’d buried someone I’d loved. That Kara was fun and energetic—now I checked the weather, listened to podcasts and NPR, and thought about hitting fifty and taking advantage of AARP discounts.

He didn’t wait for my answer. “And who was featured as one of the top ten sommeliers on the rise?”

I shivered remembering the photo of seven white men, two white women, and my token black ass grinning in the middle. The photographer for the magazine had forced me to smile. Can’t be black and unhappy. And of course the interview questions they asked me and only me were about diversity in the industry and not about my experience as a wine expert. “Why don’t more black people pursue this career?”

“Oh, I don’t know. After trying to catch up from four hundred years of enslavement, Jim Crow laws, segregation, and other forms of inequality, some of us don’t quite have time to think about tannins and acidity.”

The editor didn’t print my quote. It’s not that I thought my career was unimportant, and I loved doing what I do, but let’s be real; I wasn’t saving lives, just food pairings.

Roddy, however, believed wine was life, and although I was feeling a bit spicy today, I thought it prudent not to share my negative experience with my mentor. “Yes, that was me.” I raised my hand. “Top ten sommeliers on the rise. And I’m still right here, Roddy.”

“No, you’re a damn ghost! And you have been ever since your mother, God rest her soul, passed on.”

A sharp pain struck my chest. I knew this. Since my mother passed nearly two years ago, I lacked motivation, creativity, and zest. Being a sommelier required storytelling, and one needed to have a certain je ne sais quoi.

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 . . .”

“But what? What’s with all the suspense? Just tell me already!” I slapped his shoulder.

He grabbed my hand and pulled me closer to him. “All right, all right. Don’t take this the wrong way, but for the past year or so you’ve kind of lost your mojo.”

“My mojo?”

“You don’t compete anymore.” He moved us to the dining room, near my Wall of Winning. He wrapped his arms around my waist, then pulled me back against his chest.

“Three years ago you won the tennis championship for our neighborhood. Two years ago you placed second for the Peachtree Road Race.”

“Should’ve won first place. Stupid leg cramp.”

“Right, and then the Bron-tasms won the kickball tournament. You led us to victory, team captain.”

I chuckled at the team name that I had chosen in honor of my favorite basketball player, LeBron James. “Good times.”

“Great times. But you don’t enjoy these things anymore. You gave up.”

“I’ve been busy.” My voice was a note too high to give my defense credence. I shrugged out of his embrace. “But I’m still active. I run, I hike, I play tennis, just not competitively. It’s not healthy to be that aggressive.”

“Yeah, for normal people, but for you, it’s different.”

“So I’m not normal?” I asked, crossing my arms. Irritation slithered across my skin. What the heck was he getting at anyway? We didn’t have these types of conversations. Darren had never been this pushy. It was the reason why our relationship worked.

“Hell, no,” he said with zero remorse. “But that’s what makes you, you. And that’s why I want you to take the test again. For yourself . . . and for the promise you made to your mom.”

I rolled my eyes and stomped to the sofa. I sat, stretching my legs on the couch before my too-honest-for-his-own-good husband got any ideas of sitting beside me. “Why does everyone keep bringing Mama up?”

“Roddy?”

“Yes. He said I’m a ghost.” I frowned and crossed my arms. “Am I a ghost?”

Darren settled on the leather ottoman in front of the couch. His eyes scanned me over. “You’re . . .” He hesitated, probably assessing my crossed arms and clenched-jaw body language to mean “woman on edge.”

“You’re not a ghost, but she haunts you. Sometimes I think you wanted to . . . to go on with her.” His tone was loving, but there was a deep sadness lurking in his eyes. It wasn’t sadness for me, but for himself.

I was dragging in the moving on with my life department. I knew that I needed to heal, but I hadn’t done much to move forward. I did a few counseling sessions, but if anything they just cut open my wounds. My family and I didn’t talk about Mama. In fact, we rarely spoke these days. I swallowed the hot, painful lump in my throat. I would’ve completely lost it if it weren’t for my husband.

Darren had nursed me back to health after Mama died, becoming my rock. He took me out on dates, forced me to eat, to comb my hair, and encouraged me to be a productive member of society. I relied on him so much that I was scared it would drive him away. When I told him this, he reassured me, told me that no one or nothing could push him away, that he’d always be by my side.

And I needed him because my cheerleader was gone.

Carla Kennedy, Mama, had been my support system all my life, even when Darren and I were married. She had been my best friend, my confidant. We went on trips together just the two of us, and we had inside jokes that were three decades old, often feeling like we lived in our own orbit.

I reached for Darren’s hand and whispered, “I miss her. I think of her every minute of the day. Sometimes, though, I forget, like when I see something ridiculous happen on The Real Housewives and I pick up the phone to call her, and then I remember and I’m devastated all over again.”

“Your mom would want you to live. She’d want you to pass that test. You know that.”

Moving closer, he pulled me into his arms, settled me on his lap, and hugged me tight. “You can do anything you put your mind to, Kara.” His words were so sincere. Flutters of butterflies attacked my chest, and I felt warm, secure, and loved.

Immersed in the moment, I touched his face. This was a mistake. He clutched my hands, kissed my balled fists and playfully shoved them away.

The butterflies disappeared.

“And I’ll support whatever decision you make.” His voice was tight and tense.

The last statement wasn’t filled with the same warmth as seconds before. I was glad Darren couldn’t see my eyes because he could always read me. I nodded against his chest and squeezed tighter. After years and years with someone, you know the things you shouldn’t do. Seven years later, I still didn’t know why my husband hated when I touched his face. No idea why he flinched, as if expecting something hot and heavy to attack him.

Pushing down my pain, I smiled and settled for a kiss on the lips. “Got any new games?”

He went on describing a new game about an attorney who solves mysteries for his clients. It seemed boring, but I feigned interest.

“Cool. I have a Jack Reacher book that’s calling my name. Why don’t we hang out on the couch tonight?”

He smiled, this time a fraction wider, most likely relieved that I hadn’t call him out about the flinch. I wasn’t the only person with ghosts.

* * *

It was Friday night, and I was preparing for our girls’ night. The vibrating phone buzzed against the marble countertop. I dashed to my cell, clicked the answer button, and then cradled the device to my ear as I rushed back to arranging the cheese and charcuterie platter.

“Please tell me you aren’t calling to cancel our girls’ night,” was how I immediately greeted my best friend, Sienna. The woman was on a mission to get her fiancé, who was also an attorney, reelected to a city council position. Between visiting nursing homes, kissing puppies and babies, and grand openings and closings, I hadn’t seen my best friend in a month.

Her rich laughter flooded through the receiver. “No. I told Keith that I could either be indisposed for the night or I’d be disposed of for good once you and the ladies caught up with me. And you’d be the ringleader.”

“Damn right,” I agreed.

“What’s the murder weapon of choice?” Sienna asked.

“A bottle of Cab.”

“Motive?”

“You canceled on girls’ night? Obviously I’m a woman scorned.”

“Nice,” Sienna had started this game with me years ago when she was in law school.

On the surface, Sienna seemed to be all positivity, kindness, and light. But she certainly had a slightly morbid sense of humor. As a public defender for the city of Atlanta, she needed the balance, otherwise her clients—hell, the world—would feed on her warmth and drain her dry.

Her fiancé was already doing an excellent job of that. Sienna proudly wore oversized rose-colored sunglasses when it came to Keith. She thought he was the second coming of Martin Luther King Jr. who would save our city from poverty, drug abuse, and gang violence and achieve world peace.

But what Sienna didn’t see was that Keith was pretentious, third-generation black wealth, who liked the sound of his voice, and was in lust with his looks and in love with anything in a skirt. How Sienna didn’t notice his wandering eyes was beyond me.

My best friend cut into my unkind thoughts. “I’m calling to let you know that I’m bringing salsa and guac. But it’s the store-bought kind. I didn’t have time to mix and mush.”

My hands froze from arranging the tray. My breath rattled in the receiver.

“I know you have that ridiculous no store-bought food policy, but some of us work seventy hours a week defending the rights of our citizens. And even more hours helping to win the city council position.”

The election was over a year away.

“You’re not even the one running.”

“Yeah, but Keith is. He needs me. He told me I was a key component of his reelection campaign.”

More like his I’m-down-with-the-black-community card, because prior to the election he hadn’t formed real relations with the black populace in his district.

“Fine. I’ll see you in an hour. Just do me a favor and put it in a nice container.”

“Of course.” Sienna’s tone straddled the line between amused and offended.

“All right. See you soon.”

“Byeeeee!” Sienna clicked off.

I’d Swiffered the floors, wiped down the counters, and lit a few vanilla candles for atmosphere. Bending over to my freestanding stainless-steel wine cooler fridge, I selected two white wines for Nikki and Sienna. Earlier, I’d chosen the reds for Raina and myself from the wine cellar Darren had built in the basement a few years ago.

I scanned the kitchen and living room. Everything was in place and quiet, but in a few minutes, my home would be filled with raucous laughter. It had been a few months since we all hung out.

When the doorbell rang I jumped from the couch. It was probably Sienna. Raina and Nikki were always notoriously late. Nikki had an excuse with the kids, but Raina was just . . . Raina.

Peeking through the blinds of my front door, I was surprised to see Nikki. She knocked. “Hurry up, Kara! It’s muggy as hell out here!”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your panties in a twist.” I opened the door and Nikki rushed in like a whirlwind. Surprisingly, tonight she wasn’t in her Stepford mom gear of pearl necklace, pencil skirt, and pumps with an all-hair-in-place bob. Not that I didn’t prefer the look on her, but anytime she was in PTA mom mode, she was in a bad mood. Instead, she wore beat-up jeans, black Chucks, and a hoody. Her bob didn’t have the typical middle part—she’d probably raked her hands through it, something she did when she was frustrated.

Nikki drummed a catchy beat against her thighs. “Girl, where’s the wine?”

“Take a load off. I’ll pour you a glass of Pinot Grigio.”

“My favorite,” she trilled in a musical voice.

“Don’t I know it.” The girl kicked back wine like a toddler with apple juice.

“You can turn on the TV. I know Raina won’t be here on time, and Sienna has stuff going on with Keith.”

Ever the hostess, I poured my friend a healthy portion in a large wine glass that would make even Olivia Pope from Scandal envious.

Nikki smacked her lips and reached for the glass. “Gimme!”

“You’re starting to talk like Junior,” I said, referring to her son. “And how is my handsome man, by the way?”

“He’s a demanding diva, just like his—”

“Mother?”

“Moi?” She shook her head and gave me her best duck-face impression. “Why, I’m the most down-to-earth person you’ve ever had the pleasure to meet!”

Despite her joking, Nikki was unpretentious and came from humble beginnings. It made her role of being a stay-at-home mom and the wife to a husband who earned well over six figures and worked with Atlanta’s rich and famous a challenge that Nikki hadn’t quite mastered.

The doorbell rang again. This time, Raina stepped through the door.

“Hey, girl.” Raina pulled me into a hug. Her light, flowery perfume tickled my nose. I took a step back and surveyed my gorgeous friend. “You look cute.” I pointed at her off-the-shoulder white romper. I was tempted to ask where she got it from, but it would be a waste. I was more of a pressed slacks and blouse type of girl.

Raina patted the turquoise wrap covering her head and struck a pose. “Thanks, boo.” Raina greeted Nikki and then turned back to me. “Where’s Sienna? She’s usually the first person here.”

“She’s running a little late, probably from some fund-raising event with Keith. Anyway,” I shooed her toward the couch. “Go, sit. I’ll get you a plate of nibbles and a drink.”

After a few minutes, Sienna arrived with her store-bought dips.

“Sorry I’m late. Keith had this thing, and I needed to show my face and be the doting fiancée that I am. I couldn’t miss it.” She rushed into the kitchen, her heels clicking against the hardwood floors, and opened the cabinet.

“What do you need?” I asked. Even though Sienna had been in my home a million and one times, I didn’t like people messing up the order of my kitchen.

“I’m looking for your cute little bowls for the guac and salsa.”

I nodded to the lazy Susan on the counter. “I figured you wouldn’t have time to get the containers. Kick off your heels and relax. I’ll pour you some Chardonnay.”

Sienna kissed me on the cheek with a loud smacking noise. “You are the best!” She leaned against the counter and reached down to take off her navy blue pumps. I raised my eyebrow and nodded toward her conservative shoes. Never, in the fifteen years that I’d known her, had she ever worn boring footwear. She’d always sported ankle-and-neck-breaking heels in bright, bold colors.

“Election season. I have to wear these two-kids-and-one-on-the-way heels.” She shook her head. “I mean hello, I can still be fashionable. Look at Michelle Obama.” She brandished her shoe in the air.

“I don’t disagree with you. But if they’re not your style, don’t wear them.”

She sighed and then pasted on a smile. “No, no. I’m just being a brat. It’s fine.” She waved her hand as if swatting a gnat. “I don’t want to put Keith in jeopardy, and image is everything. I’m five ten in my heels, and that means Keith and I are nearly the same height.”

I shrugged as I scraped the dips into the bowls. “I’m sure you aren’t the first tall woman Keith has encountered. He can deal.”

Or not. I’d prefer not so she could find someone else. Preferably not Ben Carson’s doppelgänger. Sienna had made a lot of sacrifices. Recently she began sporting a fifteen-inch weave instead of rocking her natural hair that she usually wore in a short, curly fro.

Sienna made a noncommittal sigh.

“Girl! Get your ass over here and say hello!” Nikki yelled from the couch.

After pouring Sienna a glass, I grabbed mine and walked into the living room. Nikki was in the middle of blasting some of the moms at her kids’ private school.

“I swear they’re cornering me.”

“Who?” I asked, settling on the couch beside her.

“Sandra, Meegan, fucking Lynette.” She growled and gulped the wine.

We’d named them the Witches of Eastwick, and although Nikki had a flair for dramatics, she was right on the money about them. They made Mean Girls look like child’s play. If you didn’t participate in baking fund-raisers with homemade dishes, and come to every event and PTA meeting, then you were deemed a “bad mother.” The only reason they sniffed after Nikki was because her husband, James, was a tax attorney for celebrities and big-deal CEOs.

“I ran into Meegan at the bookstore. I was trying to find something for Junior’s story time, because if I read that damn green pork and egg story again I’m going to stab myself in the eye with a fork.”

Sienna, our resident vegetarian, gagged. “Green pork? What are you teaching your kids?”

“She’s talking about Green Eggs and Ham.” Raina shook her head.

“Right.” I nudged Nikki’s shoulder. “What happened?”

“So anyway, she struts up in her tight little skirt and says ‘Nicole, you haven’t signed up for our bake sale. All parents are required to this year.’ ”

“What do they need now?” Sienna asked.

Nikki snorted. “I dunno. Probably a chocolate fondue fountain for fucking recess.”

“Damn, those kids are spoiled.” Raina shook her head. “Your kids excluded, of course.”

“Oh, they’re spoiled, too. It’s a struggle to keep them grounded. Especially when James is putty in their hands.”

“He’s putty in your hands, too,” I added. And it was true. That man adored Nikki.

“Yeah, yeah. So anyway, she’s all pushy giving me this gotcha look, as if I’m gonna sweat anything this chick says to me. So, I tell her I’m bringing air pudding and wind pie.”

We all crack up laughing.

“The worst part,” Nikki continued, “was that she really thought it was a dessert! Of course I kept going on and on about it being a special recipe handed down from my great-great-great-grandmother.” She took another sip of wine. “Anyway, her dense ass smiled and told me she’d tell the others about my contributions. She must’ve done it because her henchman, Lynette, emailed me last night and told me that it wasn’t funny and I needed to support our children. Blah, blah, blah . . . the children are our future. And she had the nerve to copy James in the email like I was in trouble with my dad.”

“So are you bringing something?” I asked.

“I just said it.” Nikki smirked. “Air pudding and wind pie. Now . . . who wants more wine? Screw it.” She waved her hand. “I’ll just bring over the bottles.”

“Finish your drink first, Nik.” I rolled my eyes. She had a good five ounces left.

“Yeah, and it’s just a matter of time before I’m done.” She looked at Raina and Sienna, then shrugged. “Why’s she trippin’? She knows the deal.”

“She,” I pointed to my chest, “is sitting right here.”

“Girl, just get the wine.” Nikki smacked her lips. “You know you don’t want me poking around in your kitchen.”

“Fine.” I sighed. “Why don’t I bring you a big straw and you can just pop it in the bottle?”

“Ohh.” Nikki rubbed her hands together. “I actually would be down for—”

“Joking. We may not be in public, but you will act like you have some decorum.” I stood and then retrieved the wine bottles, placing them on my wood serving tray.

Nikki leaned over and grabbed her favorite Chardonnay. In her other hand, she had a large straw—the kind that was meant for Big Gulps from highway convenience stores.

“What in the hell is wrong with you?” I shook my head, equally irritated and amused.

“I keep straws in my purse.” Nikki shrugged. “It’s a mom thing.”

“Aww. I so miss your shenanigans, Nik.” Sienna sighed. “How long has it been since we hung out?”

“Four score and seven years,” Nikki replied between sips.

Sienna patted Raina’s knee, giving her a sunny smile. “I’m glad you texted us. Between my job and Keith’s campaign, life has been crazy.”

Raina nodded and bit her lip. “I actually have a proposal to make.” She paused. The only thing moving was her gaze, which drifted from Nikki to Sienna and then finally to me. Her eyes bounced from scared to determined. After her dramatic pause had run its course for ten whole seconds, she whispered, “You ready?”

“Girl, yes. Just tell us.” Nikki waved her hand in a get-on-with-it motion.

Raina rooted through her large purse and produced a tattered blue notebook. She raised the book in the air, still silent and with serious eyes.

A rush of adrenaline blazed a path from my toes to my head. I recognized that notebook. We’d written our goals and what we’d accomplished. It had been my idea to create a points system and award the winner every semester. Back then, I had no doubt I’d be a master sommelier by thirty. I swallowed around the knot that had formed in my throat. Was the universe trying to tell me something or torture me?

“Well, this is a blast from the past.” Sienna’s voice was low and careful.

“Girl no . . . just . . . just no.” Nikki’s voice shook with emotion. “We aren’t doing this. I refuse.”

“Just hear me out.” Raina slapped the notebook on the ottoman. “We all know what this is. We created our group years ago and we fell off, which sucks, but I think we should reinstate it.”

Nikki groaned. “That was years ago. Things change. Why are you bringing this up now?”

Quite honestly, I wanted to ask the same question.

Sienna piped up. “We promised to hold each other accountable.”

“Yeah, when we were barely twenty. We didn’t know what we wanted out of life.” Nikki’s voice was high and pinched and stressed.

Nikki was usually a straight shooter, but I could taste the acrid lie. She wanted to be a professional musician. Nothing had changed and nothing could take away her talent. Not her husband or her kids or her lack of confidence.

Raina shook her head. “Nikki, you are so talented. You could still go for it. But you’re gonna have to put on your big girl panties, and most of all, don’t lie to yourself. You know you aren’t happy with washing clothes and keeping house.”

“Being a stay-at-home mom is—”

“Sucking away your life force.”

“Damn, girl,” Nikki muttered under her breath as she folded her arms across her chest.

Classic Raina, the queen of duality. She was a like a Sour Patch Kid. First she’s sour, then she’s sweet. I think she used most of the sweet at her job that she ironically hated and for Cam, whom she actually loved but was too afraid to admit it.

“And Sienna,” Raina tapped Sienna’s shaking legs, “you wanted to go to law school, pass the bar, and become an attorney. You’ve done all of that. You have just one more goal: running for office.”

Sienna tugged at her skirt with an uncertain smile. “Yeah, and now Keith is on city council.” She shrugged and cleared her throat. “I’m helping his campaign. It’s the n-next best thing.”

Raina shook her head. “But is it?” Her voice was full-on Raina, the radio therapist. “I’m just saying that you deserve to have your own thing. Your own piece of happiness.”

“I can’t run against him, Raina.” Sienna’s normally soft voice grew hard.

“No. But maybe do something else. Run for a school board position. Just something to consider, okay?”

Sienna nodded without her usual enthusiasm.

Raina tilted her head and moved on to her next victim: me.

“Kara.” Raina cleared her throat. “It’s great that you are working in your field, but don’t you want to pass that wine test?”

My cheeks heated from her direct question. “Of course I do, but it’s not that simple. I’ve tried three times.”

“Then try again. Didn’t you tell us a few months ago that you were practicing with Roddy?”

“Yeah, well, Roddy is pissed with me. He thinks I’m not living up to my potential.”

Raina bobbed her head. “I’m not picking on you, but girl, you used to run around like a My Little Pony on crack. If you weren’t working, you were zip-lining, BASE jumping, or climbing a pile of rocks. I know that things changed since—”

I squared up my shoulders, squinted my eyes, and scrunched up my face in a don’t-screw-with-me look.

Raina raised her hands in the air, a sign of surrender. “Sorry,” she whispered. “We’re here for you, girl, and you’ve been keeping things in.” Her voice was genuine and a touch worried. It was the tone she used for her raindrop callers who had legitimate issues.

I relaxed and sighed; I knew it was over-the-top. “You aren’t wrong. And it seems like this week is tell Kara how it is.” I recounted my conversations with Roddy and Darren.

Nikki leaned and gave me a side hug. She knew how it felt to lose a parent. Her dad had died when she was younger, and from the reverent way she talked about him, I knew they were extremely close.

“Look,” Raina leaned back into the sofa, “I know I’m coming off as aggressive, and you can go around and take turns on how I haven’t done anything with my life. But I realized something the other day: We’re living scared. We used to be fearless and confident.”

I found myself nodding. I’d been thinking the same thing, and I was tired of this new version of me. I wasn’t weak. I didn’t lose, and if I did, I came back swinging.

Nikki jumped up from her seat. “Well, fuck me, this is sad.” She waved her hands. “Why’d we have to go there? This is like . . . fuck, like a smack in the face.”

There were a lot of talented people in the world, but Nikki was magic. Her soulful, scratchy voice was the perfect mix of blues and rock-and-roll. She always claimed that black people owned it before and she planned to take it back. I wanted that for her. Looking up at Sienna’s and Raina’s sad eyes, I knew they wanted it for her just as badly as I did.

“Maybe we can do this.” Sienna spoke up. “I’m a lawyer, and sure, I’m not running for office, but my husband-to-be is. I can still accomplish my goals to make the world a better place, and I intend on doing it.” She pointed at Raina. “And who’s to say Raina won’t ever be a writer, or Kara won’t be a master sommelier, or you a singer? We’re in our early thirties. We’re still young.”

“Oh yeah, I’ll pack up my kids, tell my hubs to quit his job that supports us all, and take them on tour with me. That’ll be great.”

“Sit down and stop pacing the floor, Nikki.” For the first time during this conversation, Raina sounded unsure. “Take a seat. Let’s just . . . chill out.” She took a deep gulp of wine and leaned back, tapping the glass stem.

Everyone was quiet. Sienna sat still, her eyes unfocused on the television. Nikki patted a complicated beat on her thighs. I wasn’t the only one facing my demons today.

I looked around the living room, taking in my Wall of Winning decorated with plaques and trophies and ribbons. I’ve beaten the odds before—this test was difficult, but I could overcome it.

Maybe it was the wine, but Raina was starting to make sense. I’d been living in fear of my own shadow for the past few years. I needed to grow a pair and get back in the game.

I lifted my eyes to meet Raina’s. I grinned. Her eyes sparked with recognition. She knew I was in. Her smile was bright as the evening star.

I cleared my throat. “Let’s do it.”

“Yes!” Raina pumped her fist in the air. “Sienna?”

Sienna nodded. “Yes. I’ll . . . I’ll have to change my goals. I’m helping Keith right now, and I need to focus on him. But maybe I can do more things for his campaign and be a part of his key staff once he wins.”

“Love it.” Raina bobbed her head. “Nikki, what say you?”

Nikki laughed, a vacant, lifeless laugh. “I’m sooo not in. I tried, remember? I failed.”

“You didn’t fail!” Sienna yelled. “You got—”

“Knocked up. And my band left me in the dust. James went to grad school, I had another kid, and staying at home made more sense. Life happened, my dreams ended.”

I stood and hugged her. I wasn’t a hugger, but I knew she needed it. “Then let’s reform your goal. You don’t want to leave your kids at home. I get it. But you could start off slow. You can write songs and compose music from home, right?”

“Right, but I want to be on stage. I miss it.”

“Then do some gigs, start small.”

“Who’s going to take care of the kids when I go to these nightly gigs?” Nikki waved her hand, but her eyes were different. There was longing there.

It was clear she wanted to go for it, so I pushed the pedal. “I’ll babysit for you. You know that.”

“Me too.” Raina and Sienna chimed in.

“And hello, grandparents!” Raina quickly added.

“I guess I could try—”

“She’s in!” Raina interrupted and went straight into boss mode. “We’re meeting every week, come hell or high water. No excuses, and we hold each other accountable. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” we all said back to her.

“Let’s make a toast,” Raina lifted her glass, and we followed suit. “To finding our happiness!”