Chapter 7
Tucker
We woke around eleven, having definitely missed breakfast. When I stirred, Dani inhaled and flipped, lifting her head onto my chest. She threw her top leg over mine, her top arm coming across my chest to my shoulder. Her fingers worked along my shoulder and bicep, and I stroked the velvety skin of her arm, relishing being close to her and pulling her in even tighter. I realized for the first time how wonderful it felt to wake next to the woman you loved. And the luxury of sleeping in was also something unfamiliar to me. Normally I would be aggravated with myself for having slept so late and would be jumping out of bed, charging into the morning to make up for lost time.
But we lay there, wrapped in each other, not in a hurry to be anywhere else.
We talked in vague terms about my upcoming trial, and she told me some funny stories about Tabby, as we drifted along our own lazy river of time. Our fingers were laced together and we looked at them idly as we spoke. On my drive from Lincoln I'd second-guessed myself, debated, and re-debated my decision to meet her. We really hardly knew each other and we would be spending the weekend together. What if it was awkward? I mean, how couldn't it be? She worked as a lunch lady. I was a lawyer. We shared nothing in common. No shared friends, different environments, different life experiences...
But the moment she flung herself at me from the porch it was like coming home after being gone a long while. Or maybe more like finding something new, and special. We did have things in common—a love for music, the trials and tribulations, the joys and heartaches of parenting... And the parts of her life foreign to me gave us more to talk about, more to discover, and learn. Even the brief periods of quiet between us were comfortable. She was simply easy to be with.
Around noon my stomach growled loudly. Dani laughed. "Was that you stomach?"
"Yeah."
"It sounds like an alien is going to pop out of there or something."
I laughed. "I'm sorry. I must be hungry."
She sighed. "I guess we should get up."
She slid out of bed and began to root through her bag, presumably for clothes. I swung my legs over and got out too. Leaving our cocoon of warmth was depressing. "Well, I'm not sure if the place I planned for lunch serves breakfast." I glanced at the old-fashioned alarm clock on her dressing table, one of those numbers with bells on the top that had keys in the back to wind. "Or if anyone is serving it this late."
She gathered a toiletry bag and a stack of clothes in one arm. "That's okay. I can do lunch."
"Okay. You hit the shower first and I'll shave."
By one, we were walking out the door. Dani headed toward the SUV. "Not that way." I held out my hand.
She smiled, traipsing toward me. "Where are we going?"
I took her hand and tucked it under my arm. "For a walk."
"Okay."
The day was going to be perfect, gorgeous in fact, but a chill still hung in the air. She burrowed into her blue jean jacket. "Are you cold?" I urged her closer and put my arm around her shoulder, rubbing her to warm her. We were a block off the downtown area, so we meandered along cobblestone streets peeking in shop windows. By the time we reached our destination, the exercise had warmed us both.
I tugged Dani along with me into an opening with a short entry "hall" to the front door. On our left, worn brick lined the passageway. On our right, glass from floor to ceiling, even around a corner.
Her eyes grew wide as she took it all in. "What is this place?"
A warmth that was becoming familiar crept over me from head to toe. My heart was pleasantly full. Everything seemed so right with her. She was so right for me. I opened the door and held it for her. "Welcome to the Pullman Diner."
We took a step inside and she froze, turning her head from side to side and craning her neck to look at the arched, ribbed ceiling, designed to make the viewer feel like they were inside a train car. A long counter lined with stools took up the majority of the long narrow space in front of us. Behind the counter chefs worked in an open kitchen, like one would find in some greasy spoon. But the fare was hardly traditional diner material. As a waitress passed by with a tray taking food to a table in the front glassed-in section, the plates looked ready to photograph for some gourmet magazine—sauces drizzled, vegetables carved into roses, colorful spices sprinkled on top of succulent meats... If my stomach weren't growling earlier, it would certainly be doing so by now, as the aroma made my mouth water in anticipation.
A perky blonde addressed us. "Hi. Table for two? Would you prefer a booth or sitting at the counter?"
I turned to look at Dani, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh. Um. Either's fine."
A booth would be more private, and I didn't want to share our time with anyone else. Plus, I'm sure we'd be distracted by the chefs, watching how they made their amazing dishes come together.
"Booth, please."
She led us to a table, and after I took my seat Dani said, "This place is fantastic. It reminds me of this spot my dad took us to in San Francisco—Ollie's Trolley. It wasn't a sit down place like this..." She frowned. "Or at least I don't remember it that way. But it was the cutest little trolley car and they had the best food."
I pressed her hand before taking up a menu. "From the stories you tell, it sounds like you had a nice childhood."
She thought about that. "Yeah. We did. Things were tough when Mom was sick, and after she died, but we had each other. And as you've already seen, we are a bunch of characters."
"I like your family. Even Don," I joked. Her brother displayed a tad bit of overprotectiveness when we met in Denver. I need to win him over...
She shook her head. "Don can be a piece of work sometimes. But he usually doesn't act quite as obnoxious as he did in Denver. I think you guys would actually get along if he could stop being a big brother for a second."
"Oh, I'm sure we would. I could tell he only looks out for you. In fact, when Denise first dated, I probably treated the guys she brought home the same way." I scanned the menu. "Of course, some of those guys deserved to be grilled." I grimaced in recollection.
"That's the sister who's watching the kids."
"Yep. She and I, and my brother Ed. But he lives in Arizona."
She nodded and it became quiet as we mulled over our choices.
I rubbed my chin. "Charcuterie? Am I pronouncing that right? I don't even know what that is."
"I've gotcha on this one. It is like this plate of different meats. Like sausages and salamis. And pickles and stuff. And they usually add some kind of bread, I think."
I stared at her over the top of my menu.
"I saw it on the Food Channel."
"The Food Channel?"
She shrugged. "I like those shows where people compete."
"And you are a lunch lady."
"That's not cooking, that's warming stuff."
I chuckled. "Ahh. Your secret is out." I glanced around, then leaned forward. "I'm not sure I'll be able to find anything to eat on this menu. I like normal food. I stretch a little further than meat and potatoes, but not much."
She checked our surroundings, too. "I think the same thing. In my book only four vegetables exist. Carrots, peas, green beans, and—"
"Corn! Yeah. None of that asparagus stuff for me. Or avocados." I sat back and crossed menu options off my mental list. "Who wants to eat something called guacamole?" I emphasized the initial sound making it sound like I hacked something up.
"Or artichoke hearts," she put in. "They're hearts for goodness sakes." After several seconds, she added, "You could get the burger and ask them to hold the avocado."
"I looked at that. But what's this aioli stuff?"
"I don't know. I wondered that myself."
I smirked. "Didn't catch that one on the Food Network, eh?"
She ignored my teasing. "Not the episodes I watched."
The waitress interrupted us. "You look like you have a question," she said with a smile.
"Yeah." I poin
ted at the word on the menu, and she dipped her head to catch what I said. "What's this aioli? Am I pronouncing that right?"
"Yep. You're doing fine. A lot of people compare aioli to mayonnaise. But while it looks like mayonnaise and contains some of the same ingredients, it is more garlicky and has a bit more body to it."
I pressed my mouth together. "Hmm... I like mayonnaise, and I like garlic... I generally have a rule of not eating things I can't pronounce, though."
She grinned. "Well, we just determined you are pronouncing it right. So, you're in the clear."
"I don't know..."
"Come on. Live life on the edge," she teased.
I glanced at Dani, and she lifted her shoulders noncommittally. "Okay. I'll try it. But I'm not sure if she's ready to order..."
"No. I know what I want. I'll take the Patty melt, please."
I quickly searched the menu. "Hey. Not fair. Yours doesn't contain anything unpronounceable."
"Yes, it does. The sof-ita?" She looked at the waitress.
"Sofrita. But you were close."
"What is that?"
"Well, it's kind of like his aioli," she waved her pen in my direction, "as it has oil and garlic in it, but it has a Spanish twist to it. The chef puts in some tomatoes, and onions, and a little paprika... and I think he throws in a few bay leaves, too."
Dani cleared her throat. "Sounds great." She put her menu up to block the waitress' view and scrunched her face.
The waitress took our drink orders and walked away, reassuring us we'd made the right decisions.
"You realize you brought us to this fabulous place and we ordered two burgers, right?"
"Yeah. But we got that aioli and sofita thing going on."
"Sofrita." She giggled. "We're such dorks."
"Hey. You should eat what you want."
"Then I want some of that Bananas Foster Bread Pudding."
I snatched her hand from the table and gave it a kiss. "And you shall have it, m'lady."
"Ooh. You're so gal-lant for a meat and potatoes guy."
"Meat and potatoes and aioli." I leaned in. "Which sounds slightly dirty, by the way."
She threw her head back and laughed.
A half-hour later we were stuffed to the gills. "That tasted pretty good for unpronounceable stuff."
"Delicious. But sadly I have no room for the bread pudding."
"We'll get it to go." Despite her protests, I called the waitress over and got a to-go bag. "Are you ready to be literary?"
"Are you kidding? I've got the whole areola and sofrita thing down."
I leaned in. "Ooh. I love it when you talk dirty." I gave her a quick kiss as, from out of the corner of my eye, I could see the waitress approaching.
After the waitress left, I leaned back with a sigh. Thus far the weekend had been wonderful, but different than I expected. I was much more comfortable with her than I should be, considering the fact we barely knew each other. It would be interesting to see how we meshed on our literary walk. A little different than a hockey game. But we spent our morning lying in bed talking to each other. It was hard to believe our afternoon would be anything but fantastic.
Chapter 8
Samantha
Like the schmuck he has always been, Bill called about a half-hour after he was supposed to come get the kids and cancelled, saying simply "something came up." No doubt, his dick. He found some new ho to do him, and the kids always came in last to that. I fumed for about a half-hour, then I piled the kids into the car and headed to St. Louis. We would go to the hockey game, spend the night, and maybe do the zoo or something in the morning. It would be fun for the kids, and I'd get to see more of Kyle, a double win.
I made Bill purchase tickets, and we soon found our seats at the Scottrade Center, the second level from the ice. The game was exciting, the score 3-2 in the third period. I watched Kyle skate backward and forward down the ice, hike himself up on the boards when a play came too close, and drop the puck between pairs of contesting sticks. He always seemed so professional. A strange pride washed over me as I watched him, not to mention a driving lust as I examined his cute butt when his feet cut, zigzagging, across the ice. I studied his movements with each call, got to where I could almost pick out his whistle from the others.
And so I had my eye right on him when it happened.
A play crashed at the net, then, as so often happens in hockey, a scuffle broke out between two players. Kyle skated easily between the two and separated them, but while he was distracted with that, another pair behind him dropped their gloves and went at it. The other linesmen came to break up the second fight, but when they tried to separate the two barbarians—who had yanked each other's jerseys over their heads—the pair lost their balance and went careening into Kyle and the first pair of fighters. A major pile-up occurred and after everyone else disengaged themselves and got to their feet, he remained laying on the ice, completely motionless.
The crowd, who jumped to their feet when the fight began, still stood, and I balanced on my tippy-toes and dodged around people's heads so I could see what happened.
"Oh, no," I breathed, my heart in a vise.
A heavyset woman in front of me wearing a New Jersey Devils jersey gasped. "You don't think he's dead, do you?" she asked her husband, who was equally-round and wore a matching jersey, along with a bushy beard and mustache. Not waiting to hear his response, I moved out around them and found myself in the aisle. Like a zombie, I advanced forward, my gaze riveted on Kyle's prone form. I moved, step-by-step, trying to get closer so I could see for myself he was okay. An usher attempted to stop me, but I dumbly stepped around him, continuing my course down the stairs despite his shouted warnings.
Somewhere on the periphery of my brain I heard Ryan's voice. "The ref is her boyfriend."
I halted only when the glass stopped me. Too many people huddled around for me to get a clear view, but I tried to peer around backs and in-between the legs of the players and refs. They brought out a stretcher and it disappeared into the midst of players, linesmen, and medical personnel. Frustrated with my view, I peered into the faces of those on the ice who could see what went on, and their expressions were grim. Ryan put his hand on my shoulder, and I gazed into his face. He gave me a comforting squeeze and continued to watch with me until the stretcher went up and rolled across the ice.
"Come on, Mom." I followed him as he headed toward our seats, but kept turning around to watch the progress of the stretcher. Kyle still hadn't moved. When we got to the usher who strove to stop me, Ryan asked him, "How do we get back to where he is?" He gestured with his head to the ice.
"Come with me."
We scrambled after him. Ryan signaled for Jake and Elise to follow us, and they rushed down the steps. The usher walked quickly, and I had a hard time keeping up. A couple of minutes later, a loud horn announced the end of the game, and people flooded out into the corridor we were in. But the crowd didn't seem to stop our leader. He wove in and out of them, and we followed as best we could, forming a human chain by linking hands. Finally, he opened a door marked only with a letter and a number, and we found ourselves in a series of empty hallways. Although I soon lost all track of direction, our guide seemed to know where he was headed. After what seemed like forever, we arrived at the area where the locker rooms were and ran into some bored-looking security people. "This is the injured ref's wife," our usher told them, "and kids." I wasn't sure if he lied for us, or if he already forgot who we were.
They looked us over. "Kyle's married? I didn't know that."
I found my voice. "Where is he? Is he all right?"
They exchanged a look. "He sounded like he was in a lot of pain," one of them told me reluctantly.
"He's awake then?"
They nodded. "They took him to Barnes Hospital."
After getting directions to the hospital, we set off in search of the car. By the time we found it and made our way to Barnes, almost an hour had passed. As I entered the building, my pho
ne rang. To my astonishment, Kyle's number came up.
"Hey."
"Kyle!" The second I heard his voice a whoosh of relief moved through me, starting at my head and flowing down to my toes. The tightness in my chest dissipated, and I was finally able to bring in enough air to fill my lungs. And to have it sound so normal—it almost caused me to break down and cry.
"Listen, hon, I know it's late, but I wanted to let you know I probably won't make it back by lunch tomorrow like I thought."
I was so ecstatic to hear him, the urge to tease him a little took over. He needed to pay for worrying me. "Is that so?" I responded, trying to sound pissed.
I could almost hear him cringe. "I'm not offering some lame excuse like Bill would, I swear. There's a good reason why I won't make it."
I pushed inside the doors, searching around the emergency room for him while at the same time responding, "If you say something stupid and cliché, like you did a face-plant during the game..."
I almost felt sorry for him when he responded, "But... that's exactly what happened."
"Uh-huh," I answered doubtfully, spying a stretcher with the familiar black pants and zebra-striped shirt. He sat, the bed folded like a chair, with his back toward me. "I suppose you're going to say you were breaking up a fight and had your feet knocked out from under you from behind, passed out, and the whole shebang."
"That's exactly what happened." His surprise turned to suspicion. "Were you watching the game on TV or something?"
I disconnected.
"Sam? Sam? Damn!" He slammed his cell shut.
I snuck up from behind him. "Or something."
"Samantha!" He jumped, and I threw my arms around him. His sharp intake of breath was coupled with a moan.
"What? What is it?"
"Nothing," he said through gritted teeth. "It's... that stupid oaf, Moseley, fell on my leg, and they're pretty sure it's broken. But they haven't x-rayed it yet." Elise slipped around me and reached for Kyle. "Oh." He looked around. "You're all here." He grimaced as Elise gave him a hug but didn't make a sound. I could tell, though, by the pallor of his skin and the set of his jaw, he was in a great deal of pain. "Were you guys enjoying the game? You didn't leave before it ended, did you?"
Damned If I Do Page 7