Whiskey, Vows & Legacy

"I cannot believe it; you are really not coming!" Rosie McCallister yelled over the phone. She was pissed, and anybody in a twelve-mile radius could tell.

Imagine seeing a five-foot-one, fiery, bright red-haired woman stomping around the pavement in five-inch-high heels. To top that, she is yelling at the top of her voice and flailing her arms around like a crazy chicken.

All that at the entrance of one of the most prestigious event halls in the country. Anyone would be right to call her insane.

No wonder passersby hurriedly walked past, for fear that she would decide to take it out on them.

Well, no one could blame them. She would do the same in their shoes.

She has been at this for over fifteen minutes now, saying the same words repeatedly.

She couldn't believe it; her sister had ditched her to go hang out with her sleazy boyfriend, who had happened to show up from nowhere.

Sophie was the one who convinced her to come to this stupid event, where a bunch of pretentious wine and whiskey know-it-alls were gathered.

All trotting around like they knew the difference between a Château de la Lumière and a three-dollar bottle of gin mixed with food dye.

"What do you expect me to do now?" She asked, "You are the one that knows the guy with the invites."

"Rose, you are being dramatic again," Sophie, Rosie's sister, replied. "Just look for a guy with blonde hair, a goatee, a silk scarf, and a pair of Ray Ban glasses, then ask if he is Alistair."

"You are joking right?" Rosie said, sounding incredulous. "You do realize almost every man here is wearing a silk scarf and a pair of Ray-Ban glasses, right?"

Rosie was about to lose it. Sophie, the one with the connections, always got them into these kinds of events. Rosie was the wine expert and self-proclaimed critic, the brains behind the business, and a wine podcast host.

All she knew how to do was talk to a bunch of two thousand strangers on the internet about wine, whiskey, and all things spirit.

Social events were Sophie's thing, not hers. She is a socially awkward wine and spirit lover who mostly preferred her own company. A night out for work or play was never her thing.

She and Sophie run a wine business and hosted a podcast to help promote their late dad's struggling vineyard.

They loved him, but he left them with a business dream and mounting debt, which they were desperate to pay off if they were going to survive for another year.

Sophie felt getting to the Riche Tonneau gala, the biggest wine, whiskey, and high-end spirit event of the year, would get them the right investor to invest in their family business.

And trust Sophie, immediately she gets any idea in her head; there was no stopping her. This was no different.

She reached out to a bunch of guys involved in getting the event together, and one actually responded. She got the invites, or rather got someone with the invite.

The guy told them to come here, and he would let them in because he was a bigshot and was supposedly close to one of the organizers. At least that was what Sophie told her.

But the big problem is Sophie is now a no-show, and Rosie doesn't have the faintest idea what the guy looks or sounds like.

This is one of the many reasons why Sophie seems to be having a shouting match with her phone in front of a hall entrance, full of potential investors, partners, and future podcast guests.

"Hey, babe, ready to go?" A man's voice echoed in the background. Freddie, the sleazy son of a...well his mum was pretty nice, so Rosie couldn't finish that statement.

"Why in heaven's name are you ditching this event for that sleaze bag?" Rosie screamed again, wanting to tear her hair out.

"You never really liked him, so you don't understand what we share," Sophie replied defensively.

"Of course I don't; he treats you like trash, and he doesn't believe in our dream, Daddy's vision, our vision!" Rosie replied frustrated.

"Well, he just needs time," Sophie responded, getting defensive again.

"You know what? This is not the time for this,", Rosie replied, deciding to deal with more pressing and immediate issues "How am I getting in? Can you call the guy and tell him I am waiting for him?"

"Uhmmmm, I don't have his number," Sophie responded nervously.

"Wait. What? You don't have his number?" Rosie said in utter disbelief.

"Yeah, I just described what I would be wearing and that I would be standing with my sister at the entrance." Sophie responded more confidently.

Rosie's mouth and eyes were opened wide, staring blankly at absolutely nothing. She was bewildered and totally short of words.

"You know what, Rosie, maybe you should just go back home," Sophie said, breaking the awkward silence. "We will get another shot. I promise you, I will make it up to you."

Before Rosie could respond, she heard in the background, "Tick tock, babe, we've got to get going. The guys are waiting." Freddie's annoying voice echoed once again.

"Alright, hun," Sophie replied.

"Rosie, I really have to go; I promise I will make it up to you," Sophie says to Rosie and hangs up.

Rosie, still in shock, removed the phone from her ear and stared at it in utter disbelief, till the screen went blank.

She still couldn't believe it. So she canceled all her plans, rented an evening gown, paid someone to do her makeup, which she decided was overkill, and ended up doing it herself, and ordered an Uber to get here, just for her to be stood up by her sister.

No, this night wasn't going to be a complete bust. One way or the other, she was getting something out of these efforts.

Rosie opened her purse, dumped her phone in there, picked up her compact mirror, looked at her reflection, and touched up her makeup.

Rosie decided that she wasn't going to go home just like. She was walking in there and having a glass or twenty of whatever premium liquor they were serving at this gala. Talk to some stuck-up rich wine magnate and get his number, even if she had to beg someone to get in.

So she guesses she has to start asking every pretentious wine aficionado in this place if he was Alistair if it was the last thing she did.