“Lanie, it’s best—”
“I’m going to finish it, Evan. Not you, Mom, or any other naysayer can talk me out of it. Now, let’s go home.” I flick down the visor and wipe the mascara from under my eyes.
It’s then I see Wes sitting in the backseat, staring at me. This time his eyes give everything away. Approval.
eighteen
It’s several hours later, long after midnight, and I lie in bed, listening to Evan snore. I blink away tears into the darkness, my skin crawling with all sorts of emotions. Anger. Resentment. Hope.
He did call. Many times.
Twenty minutes later, I tiptoe downstairs with hopes that a cup of hot tea will ease my nerves.
Moonlight slips through the shutter slats, lighting my way into the kitchen. Already I feel better with the cool tile against my feet, preferring the calm, constant hum of the refrigerator to Evan’s snoring.
A shadow sneaks toward me.
Oh, God. Oh, God. A chill snakes up my spine. There’s an intruder in the house. An intruder!
It’s getting closer.
In a knee-jerk reaction, I dart toward the silhouette and thrust my punch into the darkness, smacking my fist hard into the flesh with a loud thump. Ouch! That felt like concrete.
He groans.
I raise my fists again, wishing our largest kitchen knife wasn’t buried in the dishwasher.
The man grabs my wrists.
I start to scream.
“Shhh, Lanie. It’s me,” Wes says.
“Wes? You scared me.”
He releases me.
I bend over and catch my breath while he flips on the stove’s night light.
The dim glow does nothing to conceal the fact that he’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of jeans.
“You’ve got a hell of a punch.” He rubs his chin.
“I’m sorry.” I squeeze and release my hand, growing stiff with pain, convinced that should my broker career not pan out, becoming a fighter is not a viable second choice. Cool air blasts my face as I open the freezer and fill a Ziploc bag full of ice cubes. “Here.” I offer him the bag.
“Thanks.” He nods toward my clenched fist. “Why don’t you put it on your hand?”
“It hurts like hell.”
“I bet.” He rests the bag on my knuckles. Ice slides around my fingers and the coolness is instant relief.
“Do you always punch your houseguests?”
“Only those who prowl around at night.”
He laughs. “Sorry, I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither. Want a cup of tea?”
“Sure, but I’ll get it. Keep that ice on and go sit.”
“Thanks.” On my way to the couch, I peek toward the stairs, wondering if Evan woke from the commotion, but I neither see nor hear any sign of him.
A couple minutes later, Wes silences the kettle at the hint of its whistle. “Here you go.” He hands me a mug.
Shirtless. Did I say that already?
“Thanks.”
“You okay?” I sense he doesn’t mean my hand.
“Yeah.” I set the ice on the table and blow on my tea. After a few moments, I say, “Not really.”
“You know, your whole face lights up like a Christmas tree when you talk about the jar. I can tell it’s really important to you.”
“It is,” I say, grateful for his objectiveness.
“Tell me the story.”
“What story?”
“There’s always a story. Tell me more about the jar.”
“Well, it’s the typical poor-me scenario of my dad leaving when I was fifteen, causing all sorts of abandonment and self-worth issues. Blah. Blah. Blah. Before he left, Dad bought the jar while visiting Cabo San Lucas, said it reminded him of me when he saw it.
“Long skinny neck, fat bottom?”
“Funny.”
“Fine. No more jokes.” There’s a playful tone in his words.
I tuck my legs under myself and rub warmth onto my calves.
“Hold this.” He hands me his tea. Wes retrieves the blanket from the love seat across the room and drapes it over my legs.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “So . . . um, my dad had a wanderlust, spent his time traveling the world, hiking, parasailing, river rafting, you name it. Anything fun, he did it.”
“A wealthy man,” Wes says.
“He was a freelance journalist. I suppose he made enough money to chase his dreams and—”
“No, I meant wealthy with life.”
“Oh, good. I was afraid you might ask to see his tax returns.”
“W-2s are fine.”
I giggle, but talking about my dad heavies my mood. I stare at my tea.
“I gather you don’t see him much?”
I shake my head. Tears form in my eyes. “At first, I didn’t want to. I was hurt. Hurt that he could leave Mom and me. Then weeks turned into months, months into years. After so long not hearing from him, I was too stubborn and proud to call. Figured if he didn’t care, then neither did I. Until tonight, I didn’t even know he tried to contact me.”
So at ease with Wes, I allow the pain and thoughts of Dad that I buried for so long to flood my mind. “The night he left, I wrote a couple of wishes and tucked them in my Someday Jar. My plan was to fill it with all sorts of adventures. Goals that would impress him. Certain that once he saw how much fun I could be, he’d come home. Guess I was young and naïve.”
Wes says nothing.
“All these years I thought he didn’t care, but now I wonder if he did. If he still does. Maybe he . . .” My voice trails off.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” I fiddle with the blanket string. “One thing I don’t get is why do Mom and Evan make such a big deal out of me having a little fun? I know scuba and kickboxing lessons sound silly, but that isn’t the point. The jar is my connection to my dad. It’s all I have. It’s for me. Just me. Does that make sense?”
“It does. Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but I think your mom’s afraid you’ll risk all that you have going for you and wind up alone. She doesn’t want to see you struggle. That’s a powerful sentiment. And for Evan, maybe he doesn’t like your independence. I’ve noticed a building confidence in you the past couple of weeks.”
“Really?” I sit taller. “Accomplishing these tasks, foolish or not, makes me feel great.” I glance out the window into the darkness. “I don’t need their approval, but I would love their support.”
“I get that.”
I blink to clear my damp eyes. “Anyway, what about you? What would your Someday Jar slips say?”
“Start a bobblehead collection.”
“Oh. You think it’s silly, too.”
“No, I don’t. I really don’t. Look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry your dad—” He pauses as if thinking what to say. “Finish the jar, Lanie.”
I nod, then reach for the bag of ice. “Enough of my pity party. What’s your sad story?”
“Me?”
“Sure. You said there’s always a story. What’s yours?”
Wes stares at the window. “You don’t want to hear it.”
“Spill it.”
“All right.” He shrugs. “After graduation, I landed a job at an architecture firm. I was stoked. Not only because I worked in this huge, glass-walled building that overlooked downtown Los Angeles, but because at the desk next to mine was this sharp-tongued brunette. She had a smile that made me stutter like a twelve-year-old boy.” His shoulders give way to a slight laugh. “We compared ARE scores.”
“How much higher was hers?”
“Whatever.” He sips his tea. “She may have scored higher, but she was a compulsive thief, always stealing my highlighter.”
“A highlighter? Big deal.”
<
br /> “It was a big deal. I loved that highlighter. It had a resounding click when you put the cap back on, nice angle to the felt tip, too.”
“Right.”
“Well, after a dozen times of finding it carelessly left on her desk, hidden in her drawer, or nestled between her lips, which made it impossible to concentrate, I told her she could keep the damn thing if she went out with me.”
“Nice technique.”
“We married the following October at the same place her parents did, a Spanish-style chapel not far from here. A year later she was pregnant.”
“That’s no sad story. It sounds perfect.”
His focus fixes on the window.
In the shadows I see his jaw clench.
Oh.
He says with a crisp voice, “At first she thought her achy back and nausea was morning sickness. I told her to get it checked out, but she brushed it off, saying they were common symptoms and didn’t mind the discomfort, she was happy to be pregnant. It’d pass soon enough.”
My stomach tightens, fearing what he’s about to say.
“A couple days later, we sat at her doctor’s office and she choked back tears, doubled over in pain. We feared a miscarriage, but the heartbeat was steady in the ultrasound. They ordered a CT scan and found a kidney stone. She was relieved. Stubborn as she was, she refused any pain medication because of the baby, said she was feeling better. They sent her home, telling her she’d pass the stone soon.” He swallows, nodding. “Like an idiot, I went to work. When I came home, I found her shivering underneath a mound of blankets, a bucket of vomit by the bed, and a purple bruiselike rash covering her lower back. She was unconscious.”
“Oh, God.”
“There were more scans, drain tubes, I lost track of how many times they pricked her veins with needles.” He is trying to hold back tears. “Twelve hours later she was gone. Septic shock, they called it.” He gazes out the window again. “It happened so fast. We never found out if she carried a boy or a girl.”
“Wes, I . . .” I don’t know what to say. I long to reach out to him, pull him close, take away his pain. I can’t imagine the hurt and guilt he feels. The loss. Finally, I manage, “I bet she would’ve been a wonderful mother.”
He clears his throat and sits taller. “Since that day I’ve poured myself into work, focusing on commercial or industrial projects. Still can’t bear to draw a residential home for a young family, nurseries, that sort of thing.” He nods. “Work’s been good to me. I opened my own firm eighteen months ago and I’ve been full-throttle ever since. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. Proud of the City Core.”
“You should be. It seems you’ve come a long way.”
It’s then I think of Julie and how his voice softens when she calls. Stripped from love before, it sounds like he’s found it now. I can’t help but wonder what their life is like, especially in the quietness of night once Trevor’s in bed and the two of them are alone. Do they share a glass of wine while cuddled on the couch and talk with soft, relaxed voices about their day? Does she massage his back and shoulders, tight from a long afternoon drawing plans? Does she aimlessly trace her fingertip along his chest, or nuzzle skin on skin, in the crook of Wes’s arm while they sleep? Does she appreciate him? Appreciate his tenderness, his honesty, and his quiet resilience?
Most of all, I wonder if she trembles when he’s close. If his touch prickles then steeps deep inside her skin and weaves through every bit of her body long, slow, and reckless, winding toward each nerve like a drawn-out vine.
Or is that just me?
Dammit. Why do I keep thinking of him this way? Why can’t I shake these thoughts? Is it truly wedding jitters? Is it something more? Something real.
“By the way, the microwaved-water plant is dead.”
“Seriously? I’m never going to use a microwave again. Tell Trevor I learned something from him today.”
“I will, thanks.”
We sit in the quiet before I muster enough courage to ask, “And Julie? What’s she like?”
“She’s the best. I swear that woman gets more centered every day of her life. She—”
“Babe?”
I jump as Evan calls me from the top of the stairs.
“You coming to bed? We have a big day tomorrow.”
“Yeah, coming.” Guilt clutters my conscience. I shouldn’t be this casual with Wes. I shouldn’t be sitting in the dark, inches from his skin, whispering sad stories of our past. I shouldn’t have these thoughts. “Yes, I’m coming.”
“Bring me a glass of water, will you?”
“Of course.”
Evan’s footsteps reverberate toward our bathroom.
“Time for bed.” Wes pats my knee.
I start to get up and the blanket slips toward the floor. We both reach for it. Our forearms brush one another and warmth threads through my skin like a flame burning away its wick. I tell myself it’s from the tea, but I know that isn’t true.
Wes grabs our mugs and sets them in the kitchen sink.
I follow behind.
He turns toward me, clutching his jaw. “Thanks for slugging me in the face.”
“Anytime.”
He doesn’t move.
Nor do I.
We stand close, close enough that his breath tickles my neck. Close enough that I could place my palm against his bare chest, feel the beat of his heart. We hold our gaze for several moments and I find myself more comfortable than I’ve felt in a long time. More comfortable than I’ve ever felt in Evan’s condo. Or with any man. Looking at Wes, I find myself home.
I force my gaze toward the floor, afraid of what I’ll see in his stare. Afraid of what I won’t. And mostly, afraid of what I want.
nineteen
Hollis and Bevy will be here shortly.
It’s business as usual between Evan and me. Neither of us has mentioned last night’s dinner, which I’m grateful for. I don’t want to explain or justify my feelings to him or anyone else. I will finish the jar. For me.
Evan spent the morning pacing his office, reviewing my market analysis and proposal, while I arranged the bouquet of daisies and assortment of muffins I picked up this morning.
If all goes well and the Murphys sign a listing agreement, I will be Evan Carter’s new business partner. Though my heart is thick with emotions about Dad, Mom, and Wes, I push them aside and focus on the task at hand.
I wipe a scuff off my desk and clean a smudge on the nearby mirror with my rag. After a final scan of the office and myself—I free a piece of fuzz from my cocoa-colored cardigan and comb my low-slung ponytail—I’m ready.
A few minutes later, Hollis walks in with the help of a cane. “Hello, Miss Lanie.”
“Good morning.”
“Carjacker dies rear-ending a patrol car.”
“Where do you find this stuff?” I laugh, then point at the cane. “What’s with this?”
“Bevy. She says I’m a bit shaky. What the hell? I’m nearly eighty years old. I’ve been shaky the last ten years.”
“She’s right. Better safe than sorry.”
“You women always stick together,” he says in defeat. “It’s like a cult.”
A quick glimpse out the door assures me Bevy isn’t with him. My heart sinks. Damn. “Um, Hollis, I’m starting to take this personally. Where’s Mrs. Murphy?”
“My fault. She told me not to make our appointment before noon. I thought the opposite. She already had a facial scheduled. Apparently it takes weeks to get into this place and she couldn’t cancel.” He jabs the carpet with his cane. “I don’t know what you gals do at those spas. All I know is she comes back with a shiny face and it costs me a couple hundred bucks.”
“Ah, but I bet there’s a relaxed smile on her shiny face.”
“See, I told you, a cult.” He laughs. �
��Bevy was impressed with your taste in Chardonnay as well as your evaluation.”
“Good.” I wish she were here today.
“Mr. Murphy.” Evan walks from his office with an extended arm. “How are you?”
“Still kicking.” He shifts his weight. “My wife told me you bought the house on Orchid Lane.”
Evan looks surprised. “I did indeed. You know it?”
Hollis nods. “Sharp place. Bevy wanted to pick it up and flip it. Is that your plan?”
“No. After a small remodel, Lanie and I will move into it.”
Hollis glances at me, then questions Evan. “Before you’re married?”
Evan stammers, stroking his tie, “Well, we—”
“Actually, Hollis”—I scrunch my nose apologetically—“we already live together. In Evan’s condo.”
“Never mind. It’s none of my business. Silly notion I had when I was your age. I insisted on getting married before we moved into our first house. It was important that we cross the new threshold united.” He waves his hand. “Pay no mind to me. Times have changed.”
“It’s sweet.” I squeeze his hand.
“Anyway, let’s get started,” Hollis says. “I’ve got a bocce ball game in an hour and if I’m late, I’ll get stuck with that cheatin’ son of a bitch from Glendale.”
“We don’t want that.” I gesture toward Evan’s office.
Hollis and I sit down beside one another in the barrel chairs.
Evan flips open my report and clasps his hands together. “What we’ve gathered here is exploratory. Our purpose today is to give you an idea of the marketability of your home, discuss promotional opportunities, and provide you with specifics why my firm is your best choice for optimum price point potential. And, of course, the listing documents—”
Evan’s voice is drowned out when Hollis fishes in his top pocket for a candy cane. Fiddling with the crinkly plastic wrap, his hands tremble as he concentrates on the stubborn wrapper between his fingers. Finally, he rips it open and a chunk of peppermint falls on the floor. He glances at me like a toddler wanting direction from his mother.
The Someday Jar Page 16