Mischief and Mayhem

by L. E. Rico

  “Hey, you…” I call out a little too loudly, I’m sure. “I was just thinking about you. Are you okay? Is Jackson all right?”

  “Yeah,” she begins a little distractedly. “Um, yes, he’s fine. We’re all fine. Thanks for everything yesterday…”

  “Oh, no need. I love…the little guy.”

  “He loves you, too. Ummm, Scott…”

  “I mean, I was frantic, you know? But the minute he was back in your arms, I knew everything was going to be okay.”

  “Well, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that, but Scott—”

  “No. I know what you’re going to say. And you’re right. I’ve lived away from my family for too long. Now that I’m home, I want to—no, I need to be a part of all the insanity. The good, the bad, and the ugly. You know what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, I think so…” she says hesitantly.

  I use the towel to buff the wetness from my back while I’m talking.

  “So, I’m going to get dressed here in a sec and head over to see my father at the hospital. It’s like I can’t get there fast enough, you know? We have so much to talk about. So much time to make up for.”

  “Scott…”

  “I know, I know. We spent all these years apart and suddenly, it’s as if I can’t manage without him—”

  “Scott!” she hollers so loud that I’m forced to stop babbling and listen to her. “For God’s sake! Stop. Bending. Over!”

  “What? Oh geez… I’m sorry—” I stop short, feeling my blood turn icy in my veins. How did she know I was bending over?

  I straighten myself slowly and turn my head so that I can see the phone over my shoulder. Where I’ve left it, sitting upright on the toothbrush holder, facing me. While I bend over. With no clothes on. When my eyes finally land on it, a small image of Jameson fills the screen. She’s waving at me.

  Holy. Crap.

  I scramble to get the towel up and around my waist. Unfortunately, I turn around in the process, giving Jameson O’Halloran Clarke a full frontal view.

  “Okay,” she calls out from her end of the line. “Closing my eyes now…”

  “Oh! Oh, jeez! I’m sorry, Jameson…” I blabber as I throw on a pair of jeans and yank the fly up—trying not to catch anything in the process. “All right. It’s okay. You can open them now.” She does, and I feel a blush of crimson creeping up from my chest to my face. It reminds me of the time in the kitchen when I made her blush. “So, I, uh, suppose this is FaceTime, huh?”

  A big, beautiful grin alights on her face as she throws her head back and laughs that beautiful laugh of hers.

  “Yeah, well, I did warn you about that.”

  “I suppose I should’ve listened.”

  “Well, I’m not sorry you didn’t.”

  She says this last sentence quickly but unapologetically. Before either of us can clarify, she waves her hands at me. “Listen, finish getting dressed and go see Big Win. I’ll be over there a little later, myself. And you and I, well…we should maybe take a little time to talk today.”

  “Okay. Call me later then?”

  “Absolutely. But do me a favor.”

  “Of course, anything,” I say a little too quickly.

  She smiles but doesn’t comment.

  “When you hang up, go look at the paper. I think there’s something there you’ll appreciate.”

  “Yeah…okay…”

  Before I can say anything else, her grinning face is gone, leaving me with nothing but a blank black screen to taunt me. Following her suggestion, I open the front door—fully clothed—and pick up the Sunday paper that’s there on the welcome mat. The image on the front page makes me stop, one foot out, one foot in.

  There, in bright color, is a picture of Maddie Jenilecki, seated on her throne atop the Midwestern Brew parade float, soaking wet, tiara dangling from a tangle of hair to the side of her head. Her dress, which apparently became see-through once it got wet, shows the clear presence of several female figure enhancements. I have no idea what they’re called, but one looks a whole lot like the girdle my grandmother used to wear. Oh. And there would appear to be a good amount of…er…padding…poking out from her bra in soggy, white tufts.

  I snort loudly at the picture of the girl who looks not so much like a princess as a drowned rat. But it’s the headline that really grabs my attention:

  “Princess Drew Dethroned After Assaulting Driver with Giant Beer Bottle.”

  I’m still laughing when I hear the phone ring. It’s probably Jameson teasing me about my butt. Or, God forbid, one of her sisters. She wouldn’t tell them, would she? Oh, who am I kidding? Walker O’Halloran is going to be calling it “ButtTime” from now on—in my honor. Upon closer inspection, I see that the screen says “Private caller.”

  “Hello?” I ask tentatively.

  “Hello…I’m trying to reach Scott Clarke. Is this Scott?”

  “Uhhh, yes…” I acknowledge, wondering how this person got my father’s cell phone number.

  “Scott, my name is Miriam Wentworth. I’m the Director of South and Central American Operations for Project Peace. I hope you don’t mind—I made a few calls and managed to track down this contact information for you…”

  Ah, so that’s how. I left the number with regional HQ. Jeez. This lady is pretty high up on the food chain. So why has she been looking for me?

  “Uh…No, that’s okay,” I assure her. “What can I do for you, Ms. Wentworth?”

  “Well, before I get to that, may I ask how your father is doing?”

  “Much better, thank you. He’s out of the woods without too much permanent damage.”

  “Oh, that is good news! How wonderful. Please send him our best wishes for a speedy recovery.”

  “I will, thank you.”

  “So, Scott, the reason I’m calling is because something’s come up rather suddenly, and I need to fill a post as soon as possible. Your name has been put forward a number of times from multiple people, and the consensus is that you’re the man for the job.”

  I stiffen. Normally this kind of news would have me hanging on every word this woman is speaking. So why do I have the sudden impulse to hang up now before she can tempt me with whatever it is she’s got up her sleeve?

  “And, uh, what job is that?”

  “Central Coordinator for South America. Essentially, you’d be traveling from country to country, assessing our outposts, training staff, and making recommendations on the best use of manpower and resources. You’d have a chance to really make a difference, Scott. And, just so you’re aware, this is very much a stepping stone to coordinator positions in other parts of the world. If you live up to expectations, you could be writing your own ticket in a few years.”

  Holy. Crap. This is my dream job…and it doesn’t even involve digging ditches.

  “Well, that’s all very flattering, Ms. Wentworth. And very enticing. When would you want to do an interview?”

  “Well, here’s the thing, the person who was in the position left us high and dry with several projects unfinished and dozens of people waiting for their placements. I’m proposing we bring you in on an interim basis and see if it’s a good fit. So…I really must have your answer by the end of the week. And, if you’re interested, I’d need you to meet me at the Project Peace national headquarters in Washington, D.C., by Monday morning.”

  Oh my God. I open my mouth to decline—to tell Miriam Wentworth that I’ve just reconnected with my long-estranged father, that I want to be here to see my nephew grow up. That I think I might be just a tiny bit in love with my brother’s ex-wife—but I don’t say any of those things. I just can’t bring myself to rule out this opportunity.

  “All right then. Let me give it some thought, and I’ll call you with a decision as soon as possible.”

  “Excellent! I do hope you’ll be joining my team, Scott.”

  Thirty minutes ago, I was as happy as I’ve ever been, but now, in the time it would’ve taken me to shave, I’m overwh
elmed by the weight of my options…and what they mean for my future. And my heart.

  This axis-tilting thing is starting to get old.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Jameson

  I’m sitting on the front steps, reading a book when he pulls up in his father’s truck. As he gets out, the sun catches his hair, making the threads of gold glow against his tanned face. My heart starts to beat a little faster which, in turn, makes me feel a little foolish which, in turn, makes me blush.

  Stop it, Jameson! You’re a grown woman with a child, not a teenager!

  But if Scott notices my rosy cheeks or my internal angst, he doesn’t comment—just strides up casually and offers me an easy smile.

  “Hi,” I offer, when he’s standing in front of me, his tall, lean body causing a temporary eclipse between me and the sun.

  “Hi. Mind if I join you?”

  I raise my brows and tilt my head to the left, indicating he should have a seat next to me on the wide-plank steps. He does. Right next to me. His outer thigh is pressed up against my outer thigh. We sit like that in companionable silence for several seconds, enjoying the wash of sunlight and the warm breeze that’s rustling the leaves in the trees all around us. I can smell the lilac bushes from here, too, and it’s like I’ve stepped into some kind of super-sensory dream.

  “So…” I begin at last.

  “So…” he counters.

  “How’re you? It’s been a couple of days. I thought maybe you were lying low after the FaceTime incident.”

  He snorts and shakes his head. “Yeah…that was pretty…mortifying,” he says, looking to his side so that I can see his face. “But, no, I’ve just had some work-type stuff to deal with.”

  “Oh.” It’s all I can manage to say. If he’s thinking about work…

  “Yeah,” he continues, “I’ve decided to take some time. I’d like to stay here for a while, sort some things out, help my father when he comes home. That kinda stuff.”

  “Oh!” This one sounds totally different from the last one. “That’s…that’s great, Scott!”

  “You think so?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I reply with an enthusiastic nod. “I do. I think it’s a wonderful plan.”

  His face breaks into a radiant smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Yeah? That’s good. That’s really, really good.”

  “I suppose—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

  “What? Oh…sorry. I guess I’m feeling a little…you know…” He throws up his hands in a gesture of frustration, but he’s still smiling—chuckling even. “Oh, jeez. I can’t… Why is it that when I’m around you, I feel like some bumbling teenager trying to ask a girl out?”

  I sit up straighter and shift on the step so that I can face him fully. “I know! Right?” I agree enthusiastically. “It’s like the spring dance at the middle school all over again! Tommy Tomassini tried to ask me to dance like three times—at least I think that’s what he was trying to do—he never made it all the way over to where I was sitting. And I just sat there, waiting and waiting.”

  “Did you ever get to dance?”

  “With my girlfriends, in a group. But I liked Tommy; he was a nice guy. I’d have danced with him.”

  Scott seems to consider this for a few seconds.

  “No,” he says flatly.

  “No? No, what?”

  “No. I’m glad you didn’t dance with him.”

  “What? What are talking about?” I chuckle. “You were about to graduate high school then. You had no idea I was even alive!”

  His face turns very serious. “If you’d danced with—what’s his name? Tommy Toma-whats-his-face—you might be happily married to him right now with four kids and a big house up on the hill, and we wouldn’t be here, having this conversation.”

  I realize, to my astonishment, that he’s serious.

  “Okay, first of all, Tommy Tomassini and I stayed good friends through high school and college—until he got married and moved away. His husband works for some big tech company out in Silicon Valley. Though they do have four kids they’ve adopted, and we exchange Christmas cards every year.”

  “Oh,” is all he can offer for a response.

  “Second of all,” I continue, “I had the house up on the hill. With Win. And it wasn’t all that, trust me. So, you see, none of that came to pass—nor would it have, even if poor Tommy had gotten up the nerve to ask me to dance—and here we are, having this conversation about things that didn’t happen.”

  We’re both distracted momentarily when a tiny chipmunk flies across the lawn and somersaults its way up a big oak tree.

  “Anyway,” I’m saying as I turn back to face him, but before I can finish that thought, his hands are on either side of my face and he’s pulling me toward him.

  He doesn’t have to pull very hard because I’m on his lap almost immediately, running my fingers through his thick, golden brown hair and staring into those caramel-colored eyes. And then they’re closed. And so are mine. And then we’re kissing. Right there on the steps in front of God and everybody.

  We consume one another with a hunger you might find in reunited lovers who have been separated by time and distance—touching one another’s faces and hair and arms for fear they aren’t real—that this is a dream that will end with a heartbreaking return to the reality of loneliness.

  When our lips finally separate, Scott rests his forehead against mine. “Wow,” he whispers. “Just…wow.”

  “I concur,” I murmur, raising my hand to run it along the smooth, hard line of his jaw. “So…are we doing this, then?”

  He pulls back a little so we can look at one another without seeing a one-eyed Cyclops. “That’s what I’m thinking. But…you know Win won’t be happy about it.”

  I nod. “I know. He’ll throw a temper tantrum, I’m sure. But I don’t care, Scott. I just don’t care.”

  And I realize, as I say the words out loud, that I don’t. Oh, no doubt my ex-husband will scream and yell and threaten God only knows what, but he can’t touch me. With Win, it was always almost right. And I guess I just started to believe that almost is as close as you can get sometimes. But now I know.

  I take a deep breath and savor his soapy scent as it mixes with the lilacs and the smell of freshly mown grass. I will never forget this moment with the sound of a lawnmower and children playing somewhere in the distance. The moment that everything finally felt right.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Scott

  This time, when I walk into the kitchen, my brother is alone. No baby. No jam. And yet, as scared as I was for those few brief moments that I thought Jackson was hurt, the dread I feel now is worse. Oh, I’m not afraid of Win or what he might do to me. I’m more afraid of what I might do to him if we start talking about the adoption thing again. Or about Jameson. It’s been a few days since our front stoop summit, and I’d be surprised if word hadn’t gotten back to Win by now.

  “You haven’t been picking up your phone, so I figured I’d just come over so we can have a little chat in person,” he informs me from where he’s seated at the kitchen table.

  I lean up against the counter across from him, arms folded across my chest.

  “What do you want, Win?”

  He clears his throat and takes a deep breath as if he’s about to launch into closing arguments in a court case. “I’m sorry about what I said—about the adoption thing. I should’ve told you.”

  “You think?” I snark.

  “I was jealous, okay?” he confesses loudly, throwing his hands up. “I found all the paperwork in Dad’s office one day. Oh, it took me a while to piece it all together. But I figured it out. I finally knew the truth…that you were their ‘real’ kid. I was the ‘pity’ kid. And when I realized what you thought, it felt good—you know, to pretend. To pretend that you were the one who was adopted…and I was the one who was real.”

  Something in the room shifts with his confession. I drop into the chair next to his so I
can get a good look at his face. So I can gauge his sincerity.

  “But that makes no sense,” I say at last. “They treated us exactly the same. Same toys, same rules, same chores, same allowance. We were so close in age they raised us like we were twins. What the hell did you have to be jealous about?”

  “I don’t know, okay?” Win says defensively. “You don’t think I go through it in my head all the time? Jesus Christ! Of course I wanted to tell you…but by then it was too late. What was I going to do? Call you five years later and say, ‘Guess what? You’re not the one who’s adopted, I am!’ You’d have hated me forever. And I…I didn’t want that.”

  “Yeah, well, you haven’t exactly endeared yourself to me by letting me find out this way either,” I point out.

  Win looks down at his hands on the table.

  “I need you to do something for me, Scott. As my brother.”

  I scoff. “Yeah? What makes you think I even consider you a brother anymore?”

  “Because you’re not like me. You’re not petty. You don’t hold a grudge.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that right now.”

  The kitchen is silent for nearly a full minute, save for the whir of the refrigerator and the ticking of mom’s old teakettle clock on the wall.

  “What is it?” I ask at last. “What do you want from me?”

  He looks me square in the eye when he tells me. “I want you to leave Mayhem.”

  “Excuse me? I just got here! Dad and I have finally reconciled. Why on earth would I leave now?”

  “Because I don’t want you seeing Jameson.”