Risking Ruin

by Mae Wood

  Chapter Eight

  Marisa stepped out of her condo building and onto the sidewalk. Decked out in a pink Lululemon sports bra with coordinating tank and tight tiny floral shorts, Marisa felt every bit the strong woman she was. She pulled her brown hair onto the top of her head in a messy bun and bent down to tighten and double knot the laces on her silver and pink Nikes. This was her time.

  She settled into an easy pace, as she cruised up Riverside Boulevard, the muddy and wide Mississippi on her left and the sun starting to sink into Arkansas on the far bank. Her thoughts wandered. First to the crap that John had gotten himself in. Seriously, why would he ever have started sleeping with his assistant? She found her pace picking up slightly and she realized she was mad. Mad and disappointed that someone she’d respected for so many years would screw his co-worker. He knew better. A good portion of his time with Marisa was devoted to employee lawsuits and the horrible situations that arose from bosses screwing their subordinates. He was being an idiot and thinking with his other head, mused Marisa as she turned on to Poplar, turning her back on Mud Island.

  If there were two things she’d learned from twelve years of being an employment lawyer, one was that people never stopped surprising her. The second was that sleeping with your boss hardly ever ended well. Someone’s feelings got hurt. Someone got demoted or fired. No fuck was worth screwing up your career. Even if that fuck was with Mister Dreamboat Trip Brannon, thought Marisa. Was he always a flirt like that? I know when a guy is flirting and unless I’ve totally lost touch since Paul, he was definitely flirting with me. Does it mean anything? Marisa chewed on her bottom lip as she kept jogging down Poplar. The street was bumper-to-bumper with downtown workers driving home to Memphis’s east side and suburbs for dinner. She clung to the sidewalk, which was empty except for another occasional runner or a dog walker.

  It had been two years since Paul had moved out. They’d been together for three. She was certain he was The One. When she finally told him it past time they got married, he got nervous. She could see it in his eyes. He was looking for an escape route and he found one.

  Her name was Gillian and she was a bartender at one of the tourist places on Beale Street. She knew her name now. At the time, the only thing she knew was that there was a redhead in her shower when she stopped off at the condo instead of heading directly to the office after a weekend at her parents’ house. She picked up the shoes she’d forgotten to pack, slipped them on, and calmly told Paul she was going to have the locks changed on the condo, her condo, and he was to have all of his things he wanted to keep moved out by two o’clock. She couldn’t bear to talk to him about it. She couldn’t bear to see him and had done her best to avoid him. It just hurt too much. The ache was now dull, but still present.

  Two years and a string of mediocre dates. This is my life. I need to accept it. I should just adopt a few cats and embrace being by myself, thought Marisa resignedly. Causal boyfriends, but no one that really pulled at her heart the way Paul had. No one had gotten her snarky humor. A couple of guys in the two years since she’d cut off ties with Paul didn’t understand why she liked her job so much or why she worked so hard. Why she’d called last minute to cancel plans when a client’s employee had shown up to a processing facility decked out like Rambo stumped Ryan. He’d just left for their planned romantic weekend at the Hotel Monteleon in the French Quarter without her.

  Ryan was tall, dark, and handsome, and his purchasing job at FedEx was stable and predictable. She’d been looking forward to getting slightly drunk on Sazeracs while spinning around the Carousel Bar with him. But he wasn’t interested in rescheduling. He had New Orleans on his mind and was going with or without her. He didn’t have demanding clients to answer to or a law firm to run. His responsibilities ended when he walked out FedEx’s doors at six o’clock every evening. Her clients’ businesses didn’t stop. Their employees didn’t stop getting into interesting situations. Courts set hearings without regard to Marisa’s vacation schedule. Ryan wasn’t interested in sharing her life. She’d decided he was just interested in having some arm candy to accompany him around town and on weekend getaways.

  This was the life she had worked hard to build for herself. She didn’t plan to be single. It just hadn’t happened for her, and at age thirty-four, she wasn’t sure it was ever going to change. Paul seemed to understand how Marisa’s time was not completely her own, but that clearly had been a deal breaker with Ryan. Why can’t I meet someone who understands that I run a business and have responsibilities and are not just at his beck and call? Am I too old? Marisa indulged herself in a good wallow for the final few blocks of her run.

  Marisa stood drenched with sweat outside the entrance to her condo building. Covering a short four miles in Memphis in August during the early evening was miserable. She wasn’t “glowing” or “glistening,” like she’d always heard good Southern girls were supposed to be in the heat and humidity. She was dripping. Her fashionable Lululemon outfit was mottled with sweat. Her bun had begun to fall and large dark wet tendrils clumped around her face and streamed down her neck. Her cheeks were red and her face was flushed. It felt good to exhaust her body after a long day spent exhausting her mind.

  She fished her key out of her back zippered pocket and reached for the door. “You know there are other ways to burn calories.”

  Marisa froze. She knew that deep, refined voice. Crap. She plastered a friendly smile on her face and turned around. “Trip. What are you doing here?”

  Chapter Nine

  “I live close by. I was on my way to find some dinner when I saw you. Are you free to join me?,” asked Trip.

  Marisa had no good excuse and she didn’t exactly want one either. All she wanted right now was to not look like a hot mess in front of Trip Brannon. “Um, well, I’m not exactly dressed,” she stumbled and gestured toward her running togs. Trip’s eyes left Marisa’s face and grazed over her body, taking in her cleavage first and then moving appreciatively to her long legs. She felt naked in front of him. Dear God, thought Marisa. He’s gorgeous. He was wearing blue seersucker shorts, deck shoes, and a short sleeved white Lacoste polo. If he hadn’t approached her, she wasn’t sure she would have recognized him as the same man she’d appreciated in finely tailored suits.

  Before she could gather any words and graciously come up with a reason, any reason, to end this surprise encounter, he decided for her. “I will wait while you get cleaned up.”

  Okay, first lunch, then coffee, and now dinner with Trip Brannon. I can’t entirely brush him off. His family’s company is a client. I’ve got to work with him. Plus, he is much more appetizing than the peanut butter and banana sandwich I’d planned. “Sure. It’s so miserable out here. You can come up to my place while I get ready. I’ll fix you a glass of iced tea.”

  He trailed behind her as they walked through the marble lobby to the elevators. She felt his eyes on the backs of her toned thighs as he followed her. She thanked her lucky stars that it was Thursday and her housekeeper had been by earlier that day. Besides the pair of heels that she’d worn to work being in the middle of the living room, her place was immaculate.

  Watch it, Marisa cautioned herself. He’s charming but he’s a client. She kept forcing herself to focus on that single fact while the elevator rose to the fifth floor in complete silence. “Now, let’s get you some tea and I’ll freshen up,” said Marisa, Southern hospitality coming to her rescue. She ushered him into her living room and gestured toward her beige linen sofa.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” she said. She walked into her white marble and stainless steel kitchen to fetch him the promised ice tea. Marisa intentionally avoided catching her reflection in the gold rimmed hallway mirror. She’d just rather not know how truly awful she looked. She grabbed the pitcher of tea from the built-in KitchenAid, poured two tall glasses, and returned to Trip in the living room.

  Trip was standing in the living room, focused intently on a pastel landscape of a summer’s day that hun
g next to the hallway. His sandy head was slightly tilted and his arms were crossed tightly across his strong chest, emphasizing his muscular back and trim waist. Marisa stood and admired the addition to her celadon, cream, and beige Restoration Hardware inspired living room. Gorgeous plus the Brannon name. I wonder how many different women he’s seeing right now?

  Realizing she was back in the room, Trip turned to face her. He crossed the room, grabbed a glass from her hand and said, “Erica Levitz?”

  “Yes,” said Marisa amazed. “We’ve been friends since seventh grade. I’m kind of surprised you recognize her work.”

  “Well, she is quite gifted in oil pastels. She’s been picked up by a gallery in New York, last I heard.”

  “Yeah. She’s pretty pumped about it,” replied Marisa. How does he know Erica? I mean, Memphis is small and the Brannon family likes art, but either I’ve really have no clue about Erica’s popularity or he really is in to art. “I guess my thirtieth birthday present will be worth millions one day. Give me ten minutes. Be thinking about where you want to go.”

  “As long as you’re with me, it doesn’t matter,” he said leaning toward her and a sly smile gracing his lips. Marisa once again found herself dumbstruck by his charm. Rather than retorting, she simply turned and walked down the hall toward her bedroom.

  Marisa hopped into her granite tiled shower and quickly rinsed off. She couldn’t resist foregoing her standard Dove bar for her beloved Molton Brown Gingerlily body wash. After all, she was sure she reeked. And it wouldn’t be a terrible thing if she smelled nice. It wouldn’t be a terrible thing, if I looked nice, either, though Marisa as she hopped out of the shower, thanking God for her fine flat hair that didn’t require a lot of work. A little voluminizer and five minutes under the hair dryer, she was ready for makeup. She looked at her watch. Whew. It’s only been ten minutes, but I’d better get a move on. She swiped some concealer, mascara and a little NARS Orgasm blush on her face. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. And this isn’t a date, she reminded herself for the twentieth time since leaving Trip and his iced tea in her living room. She’d settled on a lavender linen shift, gold sandals, and a chunky amethyst and bronze pendant she’d found through Etsy. Marisa examined herself in the full length mirror on the back of her walk-in closet door. Yes. I’m fresh. I’m confident. I look casual. Okay, let’s be casual.

  When Marisa emerged from her bedroom, twenty minutes had passed. “Ready to go?,” she called to Trip.

  “You clean up nice,” stated Trip matter of factly, not a hint of innuendo in his voice. Perhaps she’d imagined his earlier comments to be more than they were. Trip set his empty glass on her mirrored coffee table and walked to the front door to meet her. “Let’s go. I called ahead to Pig and Barley while you were getting ready. I hope you don’t mind,” said Trip.

  Marisa shook her head happily in agreement. “No, I really like their shrimp and grits. It’s totally a treat to have fresh shrimp from the Gulf rather than frozen ones. Pig and Barley has ruined me for life. I should go there more often, but it just hasn’t been in my rotation lately.”

  Marisa thought back to her last time at Pig and Barley – a leisurely wine-soaked weeknight dinner with Ryan a few short days before their ill-fated New Orleans weekend. In fact, the two of them had been regulars until February. The restaurant was about a mile from her condo on the trolley line and had easy parking for Ryan who lived in Midtown and drove to meet her downtown from his office in East Memphis. Marisa had been avoiding Pig and Barley and her memories of Ryan since February.

  “Are you a Pig and Barley fan, too?,” Marisa asked, glad to have the opportunity to learn more about this guy she was going to be sharing a second meal with in as many weeks. She locked her condo door behind them and they began their walk to the trolley stop.

  “Yes, you could say I’m a fan. I own an interest in it. I’m glad to know you like it. Now I just have to get it back on your radar.” Gracious, thought Marisa. I’m glad I really do like it. That could have been totally awkward.

  “I didn’t know that. How did you get into the restaurant business?” She was so relieved to have a legitimate topic of conversation with Trip as they strolled down the darkening city streets toward the restaurant. She was tired of fumbling around him.

  “A few buddies and I were talking about how Memphis really needed a low-country restaurant and downtown seemed like a good fit. High quality ingredients, a skilled chef, and a casual atmosphere. Some place people could come for a very good meal and unwind without pretention. The focus is on the back of the house. The goal is that the front of the house feels like going over to a really good friend’s house for dinner. That, and the bar. I don’t know if you’re into beer or whiskey, but we pride ourselves on only serving the best products we can source. For example, the shrimp you mentioned. We actually buy that directly from a shrimper in Pass Christian, near Biloxi.” Trip was glowing with pride. “Now, don’t get me confused with the brains behind the operation. That’s my buddy Bert. I just helped with the financing and putting the business plan together.”

  Of course he helped with the financing, thought Marisa. I wonder how in the red the place is. I should probably enjoy it more until he gets tired of being in the restaurant business, pulls the Brannon family financial backing, and the place goes under.

  “That is really cool. I had no idea about the place’s back story. I just knew it became one of my favorites when it opened, what, two years ago?”

  “It will be two years this winter. If you don’t mind me asking, did you have a bad experience? How did we fall off your radar?”

  Marisa averted her eyes and focused on the folks they passed from the trolley, avoiding looking at Trip’s handsome face. She let out a little breath of air she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “It was nothing to do with the food or service. An old boyfriend and I used to go there almost every Thursday night. After that ended, I just haven’t been back.”

  “Ah, I see. So when was the last time you were in?,” said Trip. So she wasn’t wrong. He is interested in me, realized Marisa. “Early February. A few weeks before Mardi Gras.”

  “Well, I hope it’s still as good as you remember.”

  Trip pulled open the roughhewn wooden door for Marisa to enter. The restaurant was as warm and welcoming as she’d remembered. The building’s original tin ceiling was in place, painted a rich cream. The walls were exposed brick, most looked slightly uneven and handmade, which made sense because the building was well over a hundred years old. She recalled the menu’s description of the building being the home to the first Piggly Wiggly grocery store in Memphis, which had inspired the restaurant’s name.

  “Trip!,” welcomed the mustachioed and heavily tattooed man from behind the wide polished plank bar. “Good to see you, man!”

  “You, too, Bert! Let me introduce Marisa Tanner. Apparently she used to be a regular and I’m trying to bring her back into the fold.”

  “Marisa, nice to see you,” said Bert with a sincere smile and a hand extended across the bar. “Shrimp and grits with a pale ale, right?”

  Marisa’s eyes widened and her jaw popped open. “That’s amazing! It’s been like six months since I’ve been in.”

  “Well, we are in the hospitality industry. I also never forget a pretty face.”

  Marisa blushed. “It’s nice to be introduced. Trip told me Pig and Barley is your brainchild.”

  “He gives me too much credit. Without his expertise in the business world, this would have just been a dream. He’s a great guy to have on your team, but I take it you already know that,” said Bert with a wink. “As for your pale ale, I’ve got a great new one from Yazoo on tap.”

  “Sounds perfect. Thanks!”

  “Well, now that introductions are out of the way, how about feeding us?,” ventured Trip.

  “You know it. You’ve got table twenty-six, and Marcie is going to be taking care of you tonight. I’ll bring Marisa’s beer over in a jiffy.
You want a bourbon?”

  “Indubitably,” said Trip, chortling. Bert’s face lit up and he snickered. Clearly, she had just been party to some inside joke between the two. Trip spun around and headed to the back of the restaurant. He led Marisa to a corner back booth that was just big enough for two. A wrought iron chandelier made from small pressed glass jars hung above the table, lit not with electric bulbs but with candles. He held out his arm, gesturing for Marisa to slide in ahead of him. Marisa slid across the vegetable tanned leather bench, backed with pillows sewn from worn hand-stitched vintage quilts. She knew from experience that this was the best table in the house. It was usually booked. She’d only gotten lucky enough to be seated at this comfortable and intimate table a few times.

  This definitely feels like a date, thought Marisa. But it is not a date. It cannot be a date. I am his family’s company’s lawyer and there is no way that Trip Brannon, who could date any woman in the country, would be on a date with me. Sure, I’m not repellant, but I’m not one of the socialites that I’ve seen swanning on Trip’s arms in magazines.

  Bert dropped off two glasses on the table and returned to the bar without a word. Marisa took a quick sip of her straw colored beer, trusting in alcohol’s known social lubricant properties to make dinner go smoothly.

  “So you’re a beer drinker, eh?,” asked Trip.

  “I’m not really into liquor, but I enjoy a glass of wine or beer after work.”

  “Tell me what you like. I’ve got to know how to make our guests happy.” He looked at her with a kindly smile that was betrayed by a lifted brow and a glint in his azure eyes.

  Yup, this is a date.

  “Well, for beer, I really don’t like super-hoppy IPAs and I’m not crazy about porters and stouts. A true cask ale is probably my favorite, but they are a little hard to come by. When it’s hot like this, just something crisp is perfect. As for wine though, I’m at the other end of the spectrum. I do not like sweet wines like Gewürztraminers or Rieslings. I like lighter-bodied reds and virtually all dry whites. To be honest, though, I’m not that picky. I’ve never gotten into understanding terroir or evaluating wine for its legs. If I like it, I drink it. ”