by S. A. Wolfe
“Will you stop saying my name like that? You’re giving me flashbacks of a terrible man I once worked for. He’d line up the employees for weekly inquisitions. He constantly accused us of being thieves when customers called him about items missing from their homes. Whenever a client misplaced their jewelry or tchotchkes, they’d chew our boss out because it had to be his cleaning crews stealing their paper clips. You know, us immigrants are all shifty con artists. We’ll take anything that isn’t tied down or locked up. We’re especially fond of pencils with zoo animal erasers.”
Peyton’s deep, rumbling laugh stops me from blabbering.
“It’s true,” I say. “A client actually accused me of taking her daughter’s new box of pencils and erasers, so my boss gave me the fifth degree.”
“Third degree,” Peyton corrects.
“Right, third degree.” I get a little angry thinking back to that incident.
“Did you take the animal erasers?” he asks in amusement.
“Of course not. The mother found them still in the shopping bag on the back seat of her car. She never apologized.”
“Sounds like it was a shitty job.”
I sigh. “It was.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t explain why you and the refrigerator broke up.”
“His name is Marko, and it’s the same reason other people break up. The relationship ran its race.”
“Course.”
“Fine. It ran its course and that was that. It happens, and I’m okay with it. I don’t hold a fire for Marko.”
“A torch.”
“What. Ever.” This makes Peyton grin, and for those few seconds, I memorize his magnificent features, and especially the way he makes me feel right now—relevant. I inhale all of it.
This man whom I so easily judged is really pleasant to be with, and it suddenly dawns on me that maybe I don’t want to see him leave Hera.
This little revelation reminds me of the loneliness I’ve endured over the last few months. Restricting my confidences only to my mother and sister created a terrible isolation.
“What’s your favorite movie?” I’m determined to get to know him better, starting with the safe questions.
“Easy. Jaws.”
“I thought you’d pick one of the Bond movies. Men always want to be James Bond.”
“Nah. Jaws is the best. It’s the ultimate battle, man against beast. What’s yours?”
“Eat Drink Man Woman.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s about family bringing people together with food. Food is the glue and a symbol of love, like in many cultures.”
He acknowledges it with a “Hmm,” but his mind seems elsewhere. I let it go. Maybe he’s not interested in the topic, or he’s really too preoccupied about the restaurant.
• • •
The baby sleeps soundly as we listen to “Sweet Dreams” at the lowest volume. Annie Lennox’s voice lulls both of us into a trance as Peyton navigates the dark terrain. At some point, Scotty wakes with a deafening scream, and Peyton calmly pulls the SUV over and climbs in back to feed him a bottle while I drive. After an hour of the baby slurping his way back to sleep and another belch, Peyton takes over the driving again while I stretch out lazily in the passenger seat.
“Get some sleep,” Peyton says.
“That wouldn’t be fair. I should drive since you have to work tomorrow. Today, actually.”
“I’m too wired to sleep. I’ve got lists running through my head of everything I need to do once we open the doors.”
“Are you nervous?” I ask through a yawn.
“No. I’m excited. Bringing in the people is the fun part. Now get some rest. You can barely keep your eyes open.”
I’m twisted on my side with my cheek buried in the soft leather seat. “If I do fall asleep, promise you’ll wake me in a couple of hours so I can drive.”
“I promise,” he murmurs while the rhythmic crunch of the gravel road and the sway of the vehicle coax me further toward sleep.
Peyton
IN A DEEP SLUMBER, Talia is curled up like a cat, her toes pointed as she hugs her knees. She pushed her shoes off an hour ago when she changed position, never opening her eyes, never waking. Each breath she takes causes a wisp of hair to float up and down against her cheek.
I’ve been driving like this, studying her face and listening to her talk in her dreamworld. Neither the bright morning sun nor the squealing baby rouses her.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” I say as I brush the hair off her face. Her skin is as soft as it looks. “It’s time to wake up.”
Her eyes part, then close quickly at the harsh sunlight. She yawns and stretches her limbs. “Oh my God,” she groans. Her hand goes to her chest as she struggles to sit up. “God, that hurts. What an awful position. How long was I out? You promised to wake me up. We were supposed to return to the house after four hours.”
“I did. I drove back to the house and texted Carson, but he didn’t respond. Everyone was asleep, so I kept driving. You and Scotty looked pretty comfortable, too. And I just woke you now, so technically, I did wake you.”
“Well, now everything aches.” She keeps one hand firmly planted against her chest as if she needs to hold it, protect it.
“Are you okay?” She looks like she’s in serious pain, and I wonder how I missed this while she was sleeping. But she slept like the dead, at least the contented dead. “Did you hurt yourself? Your hand? Your chest?”
She puts her hand down as she rights herself in the seat and begins to smooth down her hair and make a new ponytail. “My hands and chest are fine. I feel a bit mangled,” she says, wincing and cracking her neck.
“You were out for hours. You even slept through a diaper change and another feeding. Scotty woke up two hours ago, and he’s been jabbering away the whole time. You didn’t budge. And, by the way, you talk in your sleep. You were having whole conversations in Polish, I’m guessing.”
“My mother says I’ve been doing that since I was two.” She rubs her cheeks and eyes to wake up.
The color comes back to her fair complexion, and the sight of her in the naked morning light is nothing short of breathtaking. A slight smudge of mascara, a tangled mane of hair, her eyes slightly crusted with sleep—she’s beautiful.
I feel a familiar, swirling ball of yearning, the same feeling I had with my first crush in sixth grade. I’m too old for crushes, but all I want to do is enjoy this moment with the woman sitting next to me.
As we cruise slowly up the long driveway to Carson and Jess’s house, I try to redirect my thoughts about the big day ahead of me.
“I guess my great idea proved that I’m not much of a babysitter. I fall asleep on the job. But you were terrific,” she says, lightly touching my arm for a second before she unbuckles her seat belt.
“I wouldn’t have done this if you hadn’t initiated it. We make a good team.” I sound like a sappy fool. The truth is, I’m completely wired now, and I wouldn’t mind if we kept driving. She’s easy company, and my brain seems to downshift on its own from high speed to a low-gear comfort zone when she starts talking. I like it. I like her.
“Still, you should have woken me up. Jess and Carson will think I’m too incompetent to babysit.” Her mouth quirks into a small smile.
“You were so tired that I even took two phone calls from Zander and Greer, and you slept through it all. They were talking pretty loudly, but I could barely hear them over the argument you were having with someone in your dream.”
“Oh.” She thinks about that for a moment. “I was probably arguing with my father. He and my mother are divorced, and he lives in Florida, but we still push each other’s levers.”
“Buttons.”
“Fine, we push each other’s buttons. You sure don’t give me any breaks.”
“Can’t help it. You make it so easy.” I can’t tell her I actually look forward to her vocabulary screw-ups.
When we park in front of the home, Jess ru
ns out in slippers to meet us before we even step out of the vehicle. A mother’s intuition; she knew her baby was near and coming home.
She runs toward us, her arms open with a big smile, while Carson leans against the front doorframe, sipping a mug of what I presume is fresh coffee. He looks content and rested, smiling as he watches his wife.
Scotty squeals in delight as he’s removed from his seat harness and returned to his delirious mother. Jess raves on and on about how well they slept before she practically squeezes the life out of her baby with a joy that borders on hysterics.
“So, you’re available to come every night and drive Scotty around so he snoozes?” Jess jokes.
“Right.” I smile. “I think we’ve discovered that he needs motion, or at least the feel of it, and some white noise to keep him asleep.”
“What about putting a vibrator next to him in his crib?” Talia adds.
Jess’s brows come together and she purses her lips. I don’t blame her. What mother wants to share with her Mommy & Me class that her baby sleeps soundly every night with the aid of a big dildo?
“A big fat dildo,” Talia clarifies in a serious tone as if she read my mind.
“Oh boy,” Carson mutters, going back into the house.
“It sounds pree-verted, but …” Talia’s explanation dies off as she studies Jess’s skeptical expression.
“Perverted,” I correct. “Really, it’s not such a bad idea. There’s probably some other kind of device out there that creates the right vibration and noise and is safe to put in Scotty’s crib.”
“True.” Talia nods. “Some guys can be very jealous of dildos—cocks bigger than their own. Right, Peyton?” Talia looks at me with a pert smile, her eyes lingering longer than normal, and so do mine.
“I’m not jealous of a dildo. I’ve got the real deal.” Wow, I sound like a first-class moron. Then again, I do feel exposed, the workaholic guy who doesn’t have time for women is staring just a little too long at the pretty woman next to him. I have to shake this off. “We have to go. I assume you need me to drive you home.”
I hear Talia’s soft chuckle behind me as I head to my truck. She follows and jumps in the passenger side, then waves at Jess as we pull away.
• • •
“That was fun,” she says. “The drive, not the movie. I didn’t even see the movie.”
“You thought the drive was fun? You slept through most of it. Didn’t I do all the work?” I look sideways at her. She’s grinning. The sleep creases have faded from her face, and she’s glowing.
“You did,” she replies. “And teasing you back there was fun, too. I’ve never seen you embarrassed before.”
“Not embarrassed. A little amused that you would suggest a baby sleep with a dildo. At first, I thought you were joking, but you said it with a straight face.”
“I was serious. A big, fat, fake cock—”
“You sure like saying cock a lot.” I speed up on the bumpy dirt road, trying to remember the turn to Talia’s house. I’ve never been there, but I have her address mapped out in my mind. I’m curious to see where she lives. “Jesus, why can’t this town or county pave these roads?”
“You sound a little angry. Is it because I said cock and it riddled you? Too much cock talk?” She laughs.
“Rattled,” I say forcefully.
Talia rolls her eyes.
“I have no problem with you talking about cocks. I have my own and am damn happy with it.” Great, I’m a raging idiot and a moron.
Talia covers her mouth and laughs.
I laugh, too. “Yeah, that sounded stupid.”
“No, it’s nice that you’re proud of your cock.”
Every time she says it, my dick gets harder.
“Turn left up there.” She points. “Hey, how do you know where I live?”
“From the insurance paperwork.”
“You memorized my address?”
“Hell, there are only, like, five roads in this town. I think my GPS and I can find your house.”
“Don’t you like Hera? Or are you getting crabby because you didn’t get any sleep? This is such a beautiful place.” She has that wistful look again.
“I love it,” I deadpan.
We come to a row of small homes in a cul-de-sac. It looks like a planned community that was started then left unfinished, as if the developer ran out of funds and walked away. There are four, ranch-style homes each on a small plot of land, equally spaced, all similar to one another with their 1980s facades. If it weren’t for the landscaping connecting them together, they would look really sad and depressing, as if they were the town cast-offs, left to fend for themselves.
Someone next door to Talia’s house has been tending to their home with care. It stands out as the only non-depressing house. The shrubbery and trees are healthy, and the house looks freshly painted in white with gray shutters and flower boxes under the windows. The other homes, including Talia’s, look a little neglected in comparison.
I recognize Talia and Aleska’s company van, so I pull in behind it.
“You don’t need to park. I can get out here,” Talia says with an air of urgency.
The front door to her home opens, and a woman steps into view just behind the threshold. She looks like an older version of Talia. Blonde, willowy, dressed in jeans and a white blouse. She smiles when she sees Talia jump from the truck.
“Your mother, right?” I ask.
Talia shoots me a look. “She’s not the most social person …” She stops herself from saying more. “Thanks for the ride, and for the interesting night.”
I kill the engine and step out quickly, rounding the truck so I’m by Talia’s side in a flash.
“What are you doing?”
“Going to meet your mom.”
Talia looks stricken, nothing short of sheer panic.
“What’s wrong?” I stop, and Talia bumps into me.
“My mother is not well. She doesn’t go out.”
“She’s an introvert, or are you saying she’s agoraphobic?”
“Agoraphobic.” She looks uncomfortable with the admission.
“It’s all right. I want to meet her. I promise to be nice. I know what it’s like to have a mom who isn’t well.”
She still looks uncertain, but she accepts that I intend to meet her mother.
I stride toward the house with my hand on Talia’s back. She glances at me warily, no doubt wondering what I’m trying to prove. I’m wondering the same thing.
As I approach Talia’s mother, I put my hand out, and she immediately takes it.
“Good morning, Ms. Madej. I’m Peyton MacKenzie.”
She beams, not at all like someone who’s afraid to meet people. I don’t know anything about her disorder or what has her trapped here, but she comes across as friendly and open.
“Wonderful. Call me Mila. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Can I get you to come in and have some breakfast with us? Aleska told me that you two were taking care of Scotty last night. You must be hungry.”
“He can’t stay,” Talia stresses with a hint of urgency. “Tonight is his big opening. He has to get to the restaurant.”
I can’t believe she’s trying to get rid of me so fast.
“I have twenty people over there setting everything up. It’s not like I’m pulling off the halftime show at the Super Bowl. This is Hera, I can fit everyone and their cows in the restaurant. It should be easy.”
Talia scoffs.
“I can spare a little time to eat. I’m starved, Ms. Madej—Mila. Thank you.”
Mila steps aside so we can enter.
I hear a low groan of disapproval from Talia, but I ignore her and follow her mother through the formal living room in front and down the hallway to the back of the house that opens into a bright, cozy kitchen. I’m ushered into a chair at the table, and then Mila begins to serve me coffee from a French press.
Talia excuses herself to go change while I start up a conversation with her mothe
r about life in Hera. Talia returns in loose-fitting sweatpants and a short T-shirt that keeps rising, showing her belly button. She catches me looking her over before sitting down next to me.
“You’re so obvious. How do you manage to work around all those pretty women at the restaurant without coming on to them?”
Mila is busy at the stove, flipping pancakes and frying bacon, but she hears every word. “Sounds intriguing,” she adds, returning with a plate of eggs, bacon, and pancakes for me.
“Not really. Strictly business. We always end up with more female staff than male. I don’t get involved with employees.” I keep my eyes down on my plate so I don’t have to see the mother-daughter team scrutinize me.
I don’t know their position on men at the moment. Talia alluded to arguments with her father, and Mila divorced the man, so I’m potentially another untrustworthy guy to them. However, Mila is feeding me and doting on me like the guest of honor, so there’s that.
The attention reminds me of how my mother treated me. As the youngest, I got away with too much. I could piss my mother off, but most of the time, she would laugh and pull me in for a good, hard embrace.
It’s been more than a year since she died. The grief is fresh if I summon it, but I push it back. I try to remember my mom the way she was before she was too sick to leave her bed, when the cancer made its final stand.
“This is great, Mila. I’ve been living on restaurant food and haven’t had a home-cooked meal in a long time.”
She joins us at the table with her own plate and a fresh pot of coffee that she passes around. “Talia hasn’t prepared any of her dishes for you? She’s the best cook in this house.”
“No. My mom is the best cook,” Talia says with a mouthful of pancakes. “Where do you think I learned how to cook? The Cordon Bleu?”