The Winemaker had deep-set Asiatic eyes that nearly disappeared in the expanse of flesh that made up his broad face, hung with heavy jowls.
He approached me at the gym, friendly and exuding an old-fashioned charm. Safe and warm as a cousin.
My husband and I had been living in Los Angeles for two years, 2,000 miles away from old friends and family. The Winemaker’s Texan flavor was music to my ears. It was Mama playing her guitar on the porch. It was oak trees, mud cakes, sweet potato pie.
It was switches that left welts on our elbows and thighs.