Pumpkin and Spice

by Abby Knox

  “She made a batch just this morning. You know she does this every time you visit.”

  “Oh thank god, I’m starving.”

  I can smell the baked cookies as soon as I step inside the house. “Mom!” I call.

  Elizabeth Novak comes out of the kitchen in her favorite polka-dot apron and hugs me close. “Oh, it’s so good to see you, Baby Max.”

  I snuggle into my mother’s embrace and let myself feel happy at my mother’s favorite nickname for me.

  It doesn’t matter how successful I am or how old I get, I will always be Baby Max.

  Even though technically, I’m the older sister. “So sorry you had Samantha stuff to deal with and couldn’t make it to the airport,” I say.

  “I’m right here, obviously,” my sister Samantha says, hands on her hips.

  Sam always stands like that, arms akimbo, whenever I’m getting too much attention.

  I grit my teeth and hug my sister. “How’s my little sis?”

  Sam starts in on me as soon as the hug is over. “Well, I still can’t work because of my back and I think the last doctor really messed it up this time. I can’t sit, I can’t lie down. Nothing feels good. The doctor won’t give me pain pills, the liquor store won’t sell to me because my sponsor talked to them.”

  Here we go, I think. Don’t engage. But I do. “Get a new sponsor then.”

  “I can’t just do that, do you even know how 12 Step works?”

  Oh god, I think. She’s off her meds and on a tear.

  As I smile and nod politely at my sister’s exhaustive list of all the ways in which the world is to blame for her problems, I text Joy.

  I landed in Chicago about an hour ago. And I need a drink already.

  Thank god for my lifelong best friend.

  Joy nearly sprints over to join me in stuffing our faces with my mom’s kolaczki cookies.

  Then, we grab some more and, like a couple of grannies, stuff them into our handbags to take to Butch’s Bar with us.

  “We can’t get these in San Diego,” I say, munching on one filled with apricot jam, my favorite, as I enjoy the ride in Joy’s cookie-delivery minivan. “Well, I can, but they don’t hold a candle to Mama Elizabeth.”

  Through a mouthful of raspberry-filled ones, Joy says, “I make these for the Cookie Cottage, but they’re never as good as your mom’s.”

  She parks the car on Milwaukee, a block down from the bar.

  As we approach, I notice the now-empty rectory and I start having high school flashbacks. “Well, this place hasn’t changed a bit,” I say. I still get the willies looking at it.

  “Why did we wait 20 years to drink at Butch’s?” Joy asks, clearly eager to steer my attention away from the place she knows is creeping me out.

  “Because I have existential dread of running into people from high school.”

  Joy laughs.

  As soon as we set foot in the bar, I recognize Stoner.

  I draw in a breath. The last time I’d seen him was grad night. As I recall, he’d brought me safely home. According to Sam, who had been creepily watching from her room, Stoner had put me in my bed and, other than removing my shoes, left me untouched.

  According to what we were able to piece together over the months after graduation, Joy and I had deduced that Stoner had actually saved us from a would-be assault by Rick Fullerton and his band of assholes.

  But on this day, Stoner looks 20 years older, and in an impossibly better way. Chiseled jawline. A little bit of gray at the temples. His shoulder and chest are broader and he has the build of a fighter.

  It’s definitely Stoner Spice, just a 100 percent hotter version of himself.

  I have to keep my cool and try not to let my jaw drop open as I approach the bar.

  “Look who it is,” Joy mutters.

  “I know, can you believe it?” I say out of the side of my mouth.

  “And he is checking you out,” she says in a sing-song voice.

  I hiss at her to shut up without moving my lips, slide onto the bar stool facing Stoner and order myself a dirty martini.

  He’s still got gray eyes, but now when he smiles he’s got some crow’s feet that are seriously sexy.

  He doesn’t seem to recognize me, so I go first.

  “You know, it’s not fair.”

  He smiles at me and says, “What’s not fair?”

  Oh god. That deep, sexy voice got even deeper and sexier.

  “That men can look their age at 38 and be sexy as hell. And women have to start re-evaluating their skincare plan on a weekly basis,” I say.

  He laughs, “I don’t know what a skincare plan is, Maxine, Maxine, Pumpkin Queen, but I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  I laugh and stick out my hand to shake his. “Good to see you, Stoner Spice.”

  “California looks good on you, girl.” He’s making some serious eyes at me but not in a creepy way. At the moment, I am regretting not keeping in touch with him.

  “How did you know I was still in California?”

  He shrugs and gives me a mischievous smirk and turns away to fill another drink order.

  “I have my ways,” he says when he returns his attention to me. He gestures with his chin in that way that only confident guys seem to be able to do. Wow, he really has changed. “You went blonde and tan, so it’s an educated guess.”

  Joy sighs, “Oh my god, you two talk as if Facebook stalking is not a thing.”

  Stoner shrugs. “I’m not on Facebook.”

  I smile. “Well, maybe you should be. It would be good for business.”

  He waves off the idea. “I’ve been trying everything to get fresh crowds in here. I’m not doing bad business, but it would be nice to have some new clientele. I’m thinking about buying the empty rectory next door and building a kitchen. Maybe serving food.”

  I nod enthusiastically as I stir my drink. “You should do that! I hate seeing that place sit empty.”

  “Yeah,” he says absently, as if his mind is already on to something else.

  “Tell you what, you make it happen and I’ll hook you up with all the advertising you can stand.” I slide my card across the bar.

  He picks it up, staring at it as if I’ve just handed him the golden ticket to a chocolate factory.

  He then meets my gaze and he has that hungry look like he wants to leap over the bar and kiss me.

  I break his gaze and look over at Joy, who is staring at her phone.

  “Oh my god,” she says. “Speaking of Facebook, check out this shit.”

  “What?” Stoner and I both say at once.

  Joy holds up her phone to reveal an event announcement.

  “Annual Saint Emil’s Class of 1998 Turkey Crawl, starting at Butch’s Bar. Beginning right now.”

  Joy and I and Stoner each exchange panicked looks and then Stoner shifts his focus to the front door where the bell is ringing.

  “Emmett, incoming!” he shouts to his other bartender.

  “Pumpkin Ale keg, coming right up!” Emmett vamooses into the stock room.

  Over the next 30 minutes, the place becomes the high school class reunion I never wanted. Rick Fullerton, Betsy Carpenter, and everyone else who peaked in high school are pouring in and ordering pumpkin-flavored everything.

  Fortunately, not many of them stop to talk to me or Joy. Maybe they don’t recognize us or they are choosing to pretend they don't. Either way, it suits me fine.

  I sit up straight to get Stoner’s attention and say, “Joy and I are gonna get a table,” I say with a wink.

  Stoner reaches across the bar and grabs my hand just as I step off the stool. Electricity sparks all through me.

  “Whatever you do, don’t leave the bar yet. They do this every year and they’ll be gone soon. You and I are going to continue this conversation.”

  I nod and blush at his forcefulness. No way am I leaving.

  Off at the corner table, Joy gives me the third degree.

  “What was that all about? That
hand grabbing?”

  “You were right there, you tell me,” I say with a chuckle.

  “You want to know what I think?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “He never stopped having a crush on you.”

  I smile and look over at Stoner, who is filling beer glass after beer glass of seasonal ale. He catches me looking and gives me a subtle wink.

  That wink sends gooseflesh rising on my thighs, and heat everywhere else.

  I hope that the Saint Emil crowd gets bored and moves on quickly.

  No such luck. Betsy Carpenter saunters up without warning. “Oh my god, I didn’t know you guys were in town; you’ve never joined us before!”

  “Hi Betsy. Yeah, just a fluke, I guess. Didn’t mean to crash your pub crawl,” I say.

  Joy rolls her eyes at me. “Hi Betsy, I’m Joy. I never left Chicago. But as always, thanks for the invitation.”

  Betsy looks confused. “But I didn’t invite you to anything before.”

  “I’m fucking with you, Betsy. Enjoy your night,” Joy sneers.

  “As enchanting as this conversation is, Betsy, I think your group is leaving,” I say.

  It’s true. The mass of thirty-something moms and dads are starting to file out the door.

  Betsy seems to forget that we exist instantly.

  Even though two dozen bodies just left the bar, the temperature in the room goes back up to a warmer, more comfortable level.

  Chapter 2

  Stoner

  Thank god that crowd is gone.

  The school, church and rectory have been closed for more than ten years, so I never understand why these people still try to relive their glory days.

  Maybe because none of them experienced what I did.

  But I am damn happy to see Maxine sitting across the bar from me again after they leave.

  “So, you’re buying the rectory,” she’s saying.

  “I actually bought it already. Just working up the nerve to take a sledgehammer to the place,” I say.

  She seems to stiffen at my words. She doesn’t know. Of course, she doesn’t know.

  How would she? I had told nobody but the police and my attorney.

  “I’m sorry you had such a shitty time in high school, Stoner.”

  “Yeah. Someday I’ll explain more about it,” I say.

  We lock eyes for a few seconds, and I try to communicate without words. A look of sudden shock and understanding comes over her face, without words.

  “I…”

  I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, so I change the subject.

  “You do remember I have a real name? It’s Talbot.”

  She smiles. “Talbot?”

  I shrug. “Yeah, it’s terrible.”

  She shakes her head. “No, it’s a great name! But I’ll keep calling you Stoner if you want.”

  She can call me Dudley Dursley for all I care. As long as she’s talking to me, all is right in my world. “Whatever you want. But you should know I don’t do drugs anymore,” I say.

  She smiles. “That’s pretty clear to me already. Well, look at it this way; now you’ve earned the name ‘Stoner’ because of that rock-hard body.”

  “Oh my god!” Joy interjects. “Can we go now?”

  Max shoots me an apologetic look. “I should probably get her home.”

  “Yeah. Damn, I really want to keep talking to you,” I say.

  “Me too,” she says, a slight pink flushing her cheeks and lips.

  “How long are you home for?” I ask.

  “Until Sunday. On Monday I have to give my decision to Green Wave,” she says.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s this global company that wants to buy my ad agency.”

  “You gonna sell?” I ask. I can’t believe I haven’t asked her anything about her life this entire time. She must think I’m a heel. This is probably why my relationships never last long; I have trouble getting out of my own head sometimes.

  She replies, “I might. I’ve busted my ass for 20 years and now I kind of want to have some fun.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” I say. “But listen. Those idiots cleaned me out of beer, so I’m gonna close up early. Let me take you guys home.”

  “But my car’s here,” Joy says.

  “And I’ll drive you home with your car and then Max and I can take a walk,” I say, assertively enough to give Max another blush to her cheeks.

  Emmett agrees to close up the bar, and we leave quickly.

  First, we drop off Joy, and I’m having flashbacks of grad night. Except this time, she’s not leaving town in the morning. And, she’s not drunk.

  We walk the short three blocks down toward the Novak house, and I smile to myself. If the Universe ever gave someone a second chance, it’s now.

  Suddenly, Max stops and turns to me.

  Her blue eyes pierce me to my core under the streetlight. She wants to say something to me, but she’s building up her courage.

  “What is it, Max?”

  She shakes her head like she doesn’t know what it is herself. “I don’t want to go inside. I want to keep walking with you.”

  Her breath is like clouds floating in the cold air and her nose is sniffly and red.

  “But you’re freezing,” I say.

  “You don’t want to hang out some more?” she says with a look that’s somewhere between a smirk and a pout.

  I am done for.

  I brush a soft blonde tendril away from her eyes that the cold November breeze has pushed over them. It’s all I can do to bury all my fingers into her lush mane of hair and get completely lost in her.

  “I absolutely do. Let’s go,” I say.

  I offer her the crook of my arm and she takes it. We start walking east. I know exactly where to take her.

  It is a gorgeous feeling, having my beautiful high school obsession grip my arm while we walk. It feels like we’re an old couple walking arm in arm after a lifetime of love and commitment and babies and mortgages. The only difference is I’m not 95 years old, and I’m as horny as a 17-year-old kid.

  In fact, I’m feeling about as aroused as I was the night I brought her and Joy home on grad night.

  It was too late to tell her how I felt then, but it’s not too late now.

  First, I have to clear the air.

  “I know a coffee place up here on the right. Want some?”

  Chapter 3

  Max

  I love walking arm in arm with Stoner. Never in a million years did I imagine myself feeling so normal and at home with a kid from high school.

  But he is certainly not a kid anymore, and neither am I.

  Every time I come home to Chicago, I feel like a child. I am always surrounded by my family. Everything happy or sad hinges on whether my sister is having a good day.

  And obviously, I don’t have a husband or kids of my own to act as a buffer. That fact on its own is enough to make me feel like I’m stuck in at the age of 18 in their eyes. It’s not that I set out to be single at the age of 38. It’s just that I love to work. I love growing my business. I’ve dated guys here and there, but nothing has panned out. Some of them couldn’t handle my crazy work hours. Others didn’t want kids. Still others just didn’t have … that thing. That spark. Something was always missing.

  But with Stoner, much like I feel with Joy, I’m a whole person. I feel valued and important. Not that my awesome parents don’t value me. They do. They’re just preoccupied so much of the time with Sam. But with Joy, and now with Stoner, I am an individual.

  I am interesting to someone.

  After a couple of blocks, he leads me into a coffee shop that I’ve never seen before. It looks shiny and hip and new. The server brings us menus and it is all desserts.

  At one a.m., this is exactly what I need.

  We chat about home and the neighborhood and the city. He tells me he was there to see the Cubs win the World Series.

  “It was the best night of my life,” he
says. The way he smiles, showing his adorable crows feet and all his dimples, I believe him. I want to brush my lips against every ridge and crease on that masculine face of his.

  “Until now,” he says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That was the best night of my life until tonight,” he says.

  My cheeks heat and I glance down at my coffee.

  “You know how to make a girl feel special.”

  His eyes crinkle at me and I’m swooning. Lust ripples through my deepest, darkest places. Does he know what he’s doing to me?

  “It’s not a line to make you feel special. If I say it, it’s true.”

  I must be beet red in the face. “Can I just take a minute to absorb that? Because that is the sweetest thing anybody has ever said to me.”

  He looks at me a bit more seriously then and says, “I really hate it that that’s true. You deserve to be told sweet things every day. Every minute of every day. Much sweeter than that, in fact.”

  “Keep piling on the compliments because it’s working on my self-esteem,” I say, the teeniest of lumps forming at the back of my throat. I swallow down the teeny lump with a sip of the delicious, strong coffee. No way am I letting tears crop up when a truly good guy is trying to woo me.

  That’s what this is, right? I ask myself. He’s not just hitting on me. It feels … bigger than that.

  Stoner sets down his coffee and puts his hands around mine. “I have some things I need to tell you.”

  “Oh shit, are you married?”

  “No! It’s about Saint Emil’s.”

  I swallow again and wait for it.

  He looks down at the table, rubs his face, rubs his hands through his hair, and begins to tell me his story.

  Like me, Stoner had started school at Saint Emil’s in Kindergarten. Monsignor Roberts had first invited him to the rectory when Stoner was 13.

  It had been right around the time Stoner’s dad, an accountant to some powerful people, went to prison. The family had been caught up in a massive statewide government corruption investigation, and Stoner’s dad was collateral damage.