by Jane Graves
When her phone rang a few minutes later, she had to dig under mounds of paper and a Subway sack before she found it. When she saw Greg’s name on the caller ID, her heart kicked up a notch. Before she picked it up, she took a deep, calming breath through her nose and let it out through her mouth, which was the only thing of value that had stuck with her from the yoga class from hell.
As it turned out, Greg sounded nice. Normal. As if he’d never had even a passing thought about having two women in his bed at once, blowing his nose on a cloth napkin, or coming out of the closet. A few minutes later, they’d made a date for seven on Saturday night at Sonoma Bistro, a trendy wine bar in the West Village. He offered to pick her up. A nice gesture, but a violation of First Date Protocol would have doomed the date from the start. By the time she hung up, her faith in Brandon had risen. Just a little. No sense in getting all girly excited when so much could still go wrong.
“Hey, Alison.”
The voice was so close behind her that Alison nearly jumped out of her chair. She turned to see Lois Wasserman hanging over her like a vulture. Lois was approximately as wide as she was tall, a dead ringer for Rosie O’Donnell. Assuming, of course, that Rosie gained fifty pounds, bleached her hair, and then teased it into a fright wig.
Lois nodded down at the Mallorific bar on the corner of Alison’s desk. “You gonna eat that?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna eat it.”
“You are?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
Alison turned back to her spreadsheets again, which should have been a signal to any member of the civilized world to turn around and walk away. Not Lois. She was clearly raised by those vultures she loved to imitate—a flock of overbearing, overeating creatures that had taught her how to circle unobtrusively, then go in for the kill. Several seconds later when Lois was still standing there, Alison turned back with a frustrated sigh.
“Lois. There are plenty more in the kitchen.”
“Plumbers are in the kitchen. The sink backed up all over the floor.”
“I thought you kept a stash at your desk.”
“I’m on a diet.”
“You’re on a diet, but you want my Mallorific bar?”
“I didn’t say it was a good diet.”
Lois shifted her considerable bulk from one foot to the other, still focused on that Mallorific bar, annoying Alison to no end. In fact, she annoyed just about everybody who worked there. Probably the only reason she still had a job was that, by some freak of nature, she just happened to be an amazing graphic artist. She could wear a wrinkled pea green blouse, a multicolored broomstick skirt, and flip-flops to the office, only to turn around and produce work so beautiful it made the bigwigs weep with joy. It was a mystery nobody had ever been able to figure out.
But right now, Alison had the most unsettling feeling that if she kept saying no about the Mallorific bar, Lois would peck her eyeballs out.
“Take it,” she said finally.
“What?”
“Take the candy bar.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Is it your last one? I don’t want to take your last one.”
“Yes, it’s my last one. On second thought—”
Before Alison even knew what was happening, Lois was on that candy bar like a vulture on a hyena carcass, ripping open the wrapper with a flick of her wrist and then digging her beak—uh, teeth—right into it.
“Sounded like you were making a date earlier,” Lois said as she gnawed through the gooey lump of marshmallow, cashews, and chocolate. “Were you making a date?”
“Yeah. I was making a date. Thanks for eavesdropping. How else would I know you care?”
“Must be nice to have a date. I haven’t had a date in forever. That customer service guy Jonathan asked me out last week, but he stinks.”
“Stinks?”
“Yeah. He stopped wearing deodorant. Said it was killing the planet.”
Alison had news for Lois. If Jonathan thought it was a good idea to ask her out, body odor was the least of his problems.
“So don’t breathe when you’re around him,” Alison said.
“Right,” Lois said, rolling her eyes. “Like I can do that for a whole date?” Chomp, chomp, chomp. “So where’d you meet this guy you’re going out with?”
“He’s a friend of a friend.”
“Blind date?”
“Not exactly.”
Chomp. “Then what exactly?”
“None of your business.”
“Fine. Don’t tell me.” Chomp, chomp. “But I know you got a date because you’re skinny. Guys always like skinny women. What chance do the rest of us have?”
She walked off, stuffing the last bite of the Mallorific bar in her mouth, and Alison felt a surge of contentment. God, she loved working there. Nowhere else on the planet was she seen as the skinny girl who scooped up every man in sight, cherry-picked the good ones, and tossed out the rest for the more undesirable women to fight over.
She looked at her watch. Two forty-nine. If she waited eleven more minutes before checking to see if the plumbers were finished, it counted toward her record. Then again, if she laid off the Mallorific bars and all other sweets between now and this weekend, she might be able to squeeze into that cute little skirt she’d bought at the spring clearance sale at Ann Taylor. But the closer the clock crept to three, the more she got to thinking maybe her little black dress that showed off her cleavage, didn’t cling to her hips, and had room for a sack of Mallorific bars from the inside out was a way better choice for a first date, anyway.
A minute after three, she congratulated herself on her new personal best, then tiptoed across the just‑mopped kitchen floor behind a guy who was putting away his tools and hiking up his Wranglers to cover his butt crack. She snagged a Mallorific bar, then couldn’t resist grabbing a bag of Butterscotch Bits from a box on the counter to round out her afternoon snack.
Yep. The little black dress it was.
* * *
The next morning, Brandon sat at his desk, going through files, wondering for the umpteenth time if he had a chance of making this business work. His only successful match so far was for Jack Warren, the guy he’d signed as a client a few days ago. He’d introduced him to a thirty‑eight‑year‑old attorney named Melanie Davis. Neither one had ever been married except to their jobs, and both were allergic to children. She liked his wine expertise and his West Plano McMansion. He liked her biting wit and her cosmetically enhanced breasts. They made plans to see each other again before the first date was even over. With luck, Alison’s first date with Greg would be equally successful.
Now, if only he could generate more new business that brought in new money.
Just then his grandmother’s land line rang. He looked at the caller ID. Unknown caller. Could it be the new business he was looking for?
With a surge of hope, he picked up the phone. “Matchmaking by Rochelle.”
A long pause. “Brandon? Is that you?”
At the sound of that voice, Brandon’s blood turned to ice. “Yeah. It’s me.”
“Hey, Brandon! How’s it going, kid?”
Tension instantly filled him, decades of anger and resentment swirling around inside his head. “What do you want, Darryl?”
“Wow. That’s a pretty frosty way to greet your old man, isn’t it?
A dozen different emotions washed over Brandon, and not one of them was welcome. After what had happened all those years ago, the word “Dad” no longer crossed his lips, and frosty was a really good way to describe the way he felt every time he heard his father’s voice.
“I didn’t know if I’d find you there or not,” Darryl said. “I don’t have your cell number anymore.”
Damned right you don’t. “You missed the funeral.”
“Oh. Yeah. About that. I was tied up. Couldn’t make it.”
Brandon knew what that meant. E
ither he was up to no good and lying low, or running from some guy he’d hustled and shouldn’t have.
“You couldn’t make it to your own mother’s funeral?” Brandon said.
“I told you,” he said, anger creeping into his voice. “I was tied up.”
You’re a damned liar. “Why are you calling?”
“Because I thought maybe I’d like to see you.”
No. No way. If he saw his father, it would be just like the last time in New Orleans when they’d barely gotten through one drink before the fight started all over again. Darryl had stalked out of the bar, leaving Brandon with the tab and the sick feeling that nothing had changed. That nothing would ever change.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Brandon said.
“You know, you might think about letting go of that grudge one of these days. Family’s family after all, isn’t it?”
That made Brandon’s blood boil. Family. The man didn’t know the meaning of the word. And when it came to holding a grudge, no one on this earth was better at it than his father.
No one.
“Just tell me what you want,” Brandon said.
“Okay. Fine. It appears my mother made a small mistake in her will. Seems she left everything to you.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you think that’s fair?”
“Wasn’t my decision to make.”
“It is now. The house—”
“She left it to her church.”
“Her church? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Are you really surprised about that?”
Darryl let out a humorless, derisive laugh. “Now that you mention it, no. In fact, I’m surprised she didn’t leave every dime to some Bible-beating televangelist.”
Brandon bristled at that. As a teenager, he’d hated like hell when his grandmother had dragged him to church. As an adult, he hated like hell to hear his father mock it.
“So if she left her house to the church,” Darryl said, “why are you there?”
“It’s mine as long as I want to stay here. But I won’t be staying long.”
“What’s still in the house?”
“Nothing that’s worth much.”
“Maybe I should come take a look.”
Brandon imagined what that would be like. His father wanted to sift through the house to see if there was anything worth pawning. He’d open cabinets, pick through closets, and turn over sofa cushions. And when he was satisfied there was nothing to add to his bottom line, he’d be gone. But suddenly the last thing Brandon wanted was his father touching a single thing in this house. And he sure as hell didn’t want him in the middle of the business he was trying to get off the ground.
“I told you there’s nothing here you’d want,” Brandon said.
“The Brunswick. That’s bound to be worth something.”
“No. It’s in bad condition. Maybe I’ll restore it someday, but for now it’s pretty worthless.”
“There has to be something else. China? Jewelry?”
“She was buried with her wedding rings, so don’t even go there.”
“Hey, it’s only fair, don’t you think?” Darryl said, his voice escalating. “What kind of mother cuts her own son out of her will?”
“One who made a decision that was hers alone to make.”
There was a long silence. Brandon’s heart was beating like mad, the way it always did whenever he was forced to confront his father. But no matter how it made him feel, he wasn’t giving in.
“Okay, I hear you,” Darryl said finally, and Brandon heard that edge to his voice, the one that said he was trying to get his temper under control. How many times had he heard that as a kid?
“But those are just material things, right?” Darryl went on. “What about the important stuff? Photo albums. My mother’s recipes. The family Bible. You’d actually deny me those things? This is my mother we’re talking about.”
As if he expected Brandon to believe that? “I told you there’s nothing here you’d be interested in.”
“Maybe I’d like to see that for myself. And maybe you’d like to see your old man.”
No, no, no! “I already told you. I’m leaving soon. I have…I have a deal brewing in Houston.”
“Real estate?”
“Yes.”
“Thought that industry was in the toilet right now.”
“Not when you know what you’re doing.”
“So you’re still making money?”
Hell, no, he wasn’t. But the last thing he wanted was for the old man to know just how down and out he really was.
“Yeah, Darryl. I’m still making money.”
“Then cutting your old man in for a little bit of your grandmother’s estate really shouldn’t hurt much, should it? Surely she had at least a little cash. Or maybe—”
“I told you there’s nothing.”
“Hey! I’m your father! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Look, Darryl. I can’t help it if you’re broke. But if you think you’re coming to me for money—”
“Is that what you think? That I need the money? For your information, I’ve got some action myself here in Atlanta. Tournament in two days. I should be able to walk away with the whole thing. So I really don’t need a damned thing from my mother’s estate, now do I?”
Knowing what he knew about his father, that was unlikely. He was a stellar pool player, assuming he kept his head down and his emotions under control. But that never happened.
Never.
“No,” Brandon said. “I guess you don’t.”
“That’s right. I don’t. So you just keep that pittance your grandmother left you. Apparently you need it way more than I do.”
And then he heard a click, and the line went dead.
Brandon hung up the phone and sat back in his chair, anger eating away at him. He hated this. He hated the way his stomach churned and his brain grew foggy after just one lousy five-minute conversation. It reminded him of how he’d felt as a kid, when his father had jerked him from one town to another, working just long enough to put food in their mouths before moving on again. Or worse, he’d piss somebody off and be forced to leave town. Every time they moved, it meant Brandon had to start at a new school. When he was nine or ten, he’d been the quiet kid nobody even knew was in the room. What was the point of getting to know anybody when he wasn’t going to be there for long? But by the time he was a teenager, he was entering every classroom with the kind of screw-you attitude that made most teachers want to give up the profession just from looking at his scowling face.
It’s the nine to five that keeps a man down, Brandon. Remember that. You let yourself get caught up in that, and you’ll die a slow death.
When he was a kid, he’d hung on his father’s every word. It wasn’t until he was older that he began to realize there was nothing to back up the old man’s words. The truth was that he didn’t move around to avoid the nine to five. He just didn’t want to work, so he’d screw off, or show up drunk, or do something else that got him fired. Then the hustling would start again. And by the time Brandon was fifteen, his father had taught him to follow in his footsteps. Once the man realized just how good his son was and that he had a gold mine on his hands, he stepped up the hustling like a man possessed.
That had been the beginning of the end.
Sometimes, when he hadn’t been around his father for a while, Brandon got to thinking maybe it could happen. They really could bury the hatchet, forget the past, let bygones be bygones. Then he’d talk to him again, and all that wishful thinking would go straight to hell.
The truth was that if he never saw his father again in this lifetime, it would be too soon.
Chapter 9
Alison detested first dates, so by the time Saturday night came, she’d already worked herself into a wad of tangled nerves. First dates were like minefields. No matter which direction you stepped, something could blow up right in your face.
&
nbsp; She drove to the West Village and managed to wedge her car into a parking space in a tiny lot three blocks away from the restaurant. As she got out, she tugged on the hem of her dress to make sure it was hanging straight so she wouldn’t look half drunk before the night even began.
She took a yoga breath and walked toward the restaurant. Whenever she’d gone on dates with men she met on match.com or Yahoo! Personals, they always turned out to be shorter than their profile said they were, ten years older than the photos they put online, and “physically fit” meant they had a highly developed right bicep from opening and closing their refrigerator door.
And every one of them had issues of some kind. In her early twenties, it had been a lack of focus. Okay, so that was generous. What she really meant to say was that they still lived with two other guys in a one-bedroom apartment decorated with pizza boxes and dirty laundry and spent all day playing World of Warcraft. Her mid-twenties led her to guys who lied a lot about their jobs and the four other women they were seeing besides her. Now that she was thirty, suddenly every guy she met had already been through divorce court.
Supposedly Greg was none of those things. But Alison had been burned so many times that a better outfit for the evening might have been a little black asbestos jumpsuit.
She strode up the crowded sidewalk, sidestepping two hand-holding men and their Yorkshire terrier, then a couple of granola heads wearing tie-dyed T‑shirts and looking for a tree to hug. An eclectic crowd hung out in the West Village, but the indigenous population was mostly young, upscale, and rich, and judging from the reviews online, they loved Sonoma Bistro.
She reached the restaurant and went inside, not the least bit surprised to see dark wood, wine casks, and brick walls. How original. She’d never been to a wine bar decorated like a wine cellar. What would they think of next?
“Excuse me. Are you Alison Carter?”
She turned quickly to see a man standing behind her. Greg? No. It couldn’t be. He looked just like his photo. Didn’t that violate dating law?