Destiny Laughs

by Leslie Pike

  “No. My parents moved here when they retired. Not long after that my mother became ill.”

  “Come on, let’s go inside.”

  “Are you sure they won’t be angry we’re here after hours?”

  “It’s a family business. We all have keys. They’d love it that I’m here.”

  We move under the black canopy edged in red. I unlock the double glass and ornate iron doors and let her in before me. The effect is impressive the first time you see it. I reach for the lights and turn off the alarm.

  Lifting her chin, she closes her eyes. “Oh, the smell!”

  I watch as she takes in the store. On one side are tall shelves of everything from imported vinegars and olive oils, to capers, Italian coffee beans and wines. She looks at it all. There’s baskets of small wedges of artisanal cheeses and huge wheels of Parmigiano- Reggiano. Across from the shelves is a half wall of glass front refrigerators offering an impressive selection of imported cured meats, alongside salami, speck, and bresaola. There’s sausages and fresh mozzarella made in store, plain and stuffed fresh pasta and house made sauces next to trays of lasagna, eggplant Parmesan, and individual cups of Tiramisu. Farrah’s trying to absorb the treasures, like a kid let loose in a candy store.

  At the back half of the deli is a long marble counter with eight black leather barstools. This is where patrons can enjoy a lunch or a pastry. On the wall is the huge blackboard menu that changes weekly. Of course, bold Italian coffee is served all day. We’re St. Helena’s most popular espresso pushers. I switch on the counter lights. Tall, milky white pendants hang from the high ceiling and illuminate the space.

  “What do you think?” I say, already knowing the answer.

  She’s bent over a low shelf, examining the wares. Straightening up, she smiles and nods her head.

  “This may be the most tempting room I’ve ever been in.”

  I chuckle at her review and know I could say the same now that she’s standing here.

  “Take a seat. I’m going to make us something delicious.”

  “Direct me to the lady’s room, please. I refuse to go one more minute looking like I just stepped away from cleaning the barn.”

  “First door to the right,” I say lifting my chin towards the back of the store.

  She must know I’m watching her walk, because when she gets a few steps from the door she looks back. I don’t pretend I’m not looking. I’m thirty-eight and too fucking old to play coy. Not that I could see much through that 9ers jersey. But my imagination is rich.

  I get to work. Dad’s clean apron is hanging right where it’s always been. Putting it on, I begin gathering the ingredients needed to impress. The live streaming music is turned on. It’s all Italian: instrumentals, symphonies, ballads, even operettas. I’ve always loved coming in here and hearing the big voices, and the centuries old classical pieces mixed with a good Dean Martin love song. That, along with my father’s penchant for randomly bursting out in song, has entertained customers for decades. He serenades my mother who’s never grown tired of her husband’s romantic gestures. I catch myself singing along with the song playing, acutely aware I may slowly be turning into my dad.

  I take out the mozzarella and tomatoes, the roasted bell peppers and the basil spread for my sandwich. Not sure what she’s going to choose, but I grab enough for two. The bathroom door opens and I look up to see her walking back.

  Wow.

  She looks beautiful. Her hair is out of the ponytail and it falls softly on her shoulders and frames that great face. She’s wearing a barely there lipstick that’s sort of the color of flushed skin. The football jersey’s unbuttoned and underneath is a black thin-strapped shell. There’s no bra straps. In a fraction of a second I see she’s got surprisingly full breasts for such a small frame. And they peak nicely above the scoop neck. Her waist is so small. I bet my hands could almost encircle it. All this time my dick is begging for attention.

  Holy shit.

  “You look great,” I say, condensing my thoughts into three words.

  She runs a hand over her hair and casts her eyes down for a moment.

  “I couldn’t bear to look like I did for another second. This place deserves better.”

  “Come sit. I’m going to make you something wonderful. Can I suggest one of our specialties, miss?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Figs and Pigs. That’s what I want to make for you.”

  She laughs aloud and it doesn’t suck at all. Not one little bit.

  “Don’t even tell me what that is. Just surprise me,” she says hopping onto a barstool.

  I point to her and smile. “I like the way you think. You’re a risk taker. An adventuress.”

  “I’ve never been on an adventure,” she says seriously.

  “Not even a little one?” I ask. I’d like to take her on an adventure.

  “Not really. No.”

  I lift the roasted pork from the refrigerator and begin to slice it.

  “You know something about me. What about you? I take it you’re divorced,” she says.

  “I’m a widower. Seven years.”

  I don’t have to turn to know what the reaction will probably be. Pity, sympathy, then a sort of ghoulish interest in how my wife died. That’s how it usually plays out. Nobody knows what to say. It makes them nervous. I get it. But she surprises me.

  “I’m so sorry. It must have been a mind-numbing experience to live through that kind of grief.”

  “That’s exactly what it was. Numbing and at the same time I was aware of every painful memory every minute of the day. For years.”

  That was the most honest retelling I’ve ever done. Interesting that it was with a stranger. Maybe it’s because of that.

  “You’ve raised a compassionate boy. He’s kind in an unkind world. Any mother would be proud of the job you’ve done.”

  “Thank you.”

  I take out the homemade fig butter and the apricot Stilton and get busy avoiding my emotions.

  “Grab a bottle of wine. Whatever you like,” I say nodding toward the shelves.

  She slips off the stool and makes her way to the bottles.

  “Max liked you too. He’s not used to seeing his dad invite a woman to dinner. I think I threw him with that one.”

  Farrah takes a bottle from the shelf above her head. “Really? Why’s that? How about this?”

  “That would be great.”

  She expertly opens the wine while I finish plating our sandwiches. I place them both on the counter along with two wineglasses. Removing my apron, I come around to her side just as she’s pouring, and take my seat.

  “I wanted Max to know he’s my priority. I’ve seen too many guys trying to juggle their kids and their women. Both relationships suffer in my opinion.”

  “I think you’re both lucky to have each other.”

  “Go ahead now, take a bite. Tell me what you think of my culinary skills.”

  One taste of her Figs and Pigs, and she’s in food ecstasy. Wonder what she’d look like if she was truly satisfied. I’d do my best to make that happen. I watch as she slowly savors each bite. When she swallows, a contented moan escapes her lips. I catch myself biting mine. There’s a smudge of fig butter on the corner of her mouth. My hand reaches up, and with my thumb I slowly wipe it away. Her lips part a bit. She gets this sexy grin, and a tongue peeks out and slides over the spot. Then her hand’s touching my face.

  “I think you’ve got a little something here. Let me get it,” she says brushing her index finger lightly along the edge of my bottom lip. She lingers, her eyes on my mouth.

  “I haven’t taken a bite yet,” I say smiling.

  She looks up and locks eyes with me.

  “I know. Why don’t you take one now?”

  Sliding off my barstool I swivel hers to face me.

  “This is a new game for me,” she says.

  “Let’s rip up the playbook.”

  I lean in and entwine my fingers in her long s
ilky hair. I take the kiss. Maybe I’ve been wanting to feel this way for years, because it has an incredible effect. It’s soft. I’m hard. In the background, Dean Martin sings Non Dimentica. Don’t forget.

  CHAPTER THREE

  FARRAH

  It’s a riot watching my best friend as she listens to my unexpected news. She twirls one of her long blonde braids waiting for more details. A contradiction in terms, she’s the most virginal looking pregnant woman I’ve ever seen. Rosy cheeks, big eyes, no makeup. Her love of the word fuck, and her ability to express herself using it, only works to muddle the picture. I keep up my packing while I tell my story. The kitchen’s almost done, except for the bare necessities. I’ve got to get busy because the house lists next week. But my realtor here isn’t interested in anything but the facts about last night. I’ve purposely left the most provocative ones hang in the air.

  “Then what happened?” she practically shouts.

  I throw the bag of kitchen towels in the box and take a seat across from her at the table.

  “Then we ate the sandwiches and drank two bottles of wine. We talked for hours and it was . . .”

  “What? Was what?” Becky says.

  “Not nearly enough.” My grin says it all.

  She lets loose with a ,“Who the fuck are you?!” that would wake the dead.

  “I know a little about Dr. Santini. Our boys are in the same class. He’s living at his parent’s place,” she says.

  “Ah huh.”

  “You knew that?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m hoping to get his business when he looks for a house. He’s a widower you know?”

  “Do you know how the wife died? I didn’t want to ask too many questions.”

  “Injuries from a car accident. Apparently, it was a drunk driver that hit them. Max was a toddler. That’s where he lost the finger and got the scars.” Her face shows the sympathy I feel hearing the story.

  “Oh God. That’s awful,” I say.

  “I know.”

  “Max is remarkably well adjusted. Nash has done a great job.”

  “Can you imagine how the women here are gonna be gunning for him? They’ll all want to comfort the sexy doctor who loves puppies.”

  “Whatever. He and I are just friends,” I say more dismissively than I feel.

  “Yeah, future fuck buddies of America.”

  “Maybe. I used to like sex. Hope I didn’t forget what goes where.”

  “Okay, you’re throwing me right now. I can’t even get you to go on social media, and you’re getting horny for a guy you just met? I love this new you.”

  “Apparently, I can be a bit of a slut,” I tease.

  “Did you have sex?” she says hopefully.

  “No! Of course I didn’t.”

  “I would have. Laid him down right there on a bed of tiramisu, and had him slip me the big salami.”

  She attempts a degenerate pumping move in her chair, but her eight-month pregnant belly stunts the effect. It looks nothing like sex. She can make me laugh like nobody else.

  “Shit. I can’t even do that anymore. What does this all mean for your move?” she says getting back to the story.

  “Absolutely nothing. You think I’m going to change my life plans because someone kissed me? I need to be careful and not mistake being horny for falling for someone. I don’t have that luxury.”

  “I wish you’d think about it, Farrah. Not that I want to lose the listing, but I’d be willing to give up my commission if I could keep you here.”

  “I have no choice. I can’t afford Napa County, or this house. We had to take a reverse mortgage to pay for my parents’ care. That’s how I kept them in their home. Just the cost of medicines and night caretakers the last few years. I don’t want to think about it anymore.”

  “I hear ya.”

  “Maybe I’ll get a hundred thousand out of the sale. Tops.”

  “But do you think you’ll be happy in Seattle?”

  “I liked it as a kid. My friend got me a good job where she works, and I can rent a room in her house. When I’m sure I want to stay there I’ll be able to afford an apartment. It’s cheaper there.”

  “Quit being so logical. We could find you a room to rent here.”

  “I need an adventure, to explore something unknown. Every single day for the last seven years I’ve followed a routine. At thirty I don’t even know what I want out of life. I just know I want to finally have one.”

  “Are you gonna see him again?” she says, ignoring everything I just said.

  “He’s picking me up in an hour.”

  “What?! My God, he’s so into you.”

  I wave her off. “Don’t make more of this than it is. He feels sorry for me because I don’t have family. We’re going to his parents’ place for the day.”

  “No. Uh uh. You’re making too little of it. No man takes a woman to his mother’s house unless he’s falling hard. You should know that from all your romance books.”

  “It’s where he’s living. And I’m not going to base my life on what idealized fictional men do.”

  “Why the fuck not? Isn’t that the kind of love you’d want?” Her expression says she knows she’s right.

  Okay, she’s got a point.

  An hour and a shower later I’m waiting on the porch swing when a black Ford SUV pulls up to the curb.

  “Hi!” Max waves and jumps out of the car. “Wow. Cool house,” he says taking in my white two-story Victorian. I’ve planted a colorful garden to entice buyers and make the most of the curb appeal. My parents’ American flag celebrating the upcoming holiday waves softly in the breeze.

  “Come join me,” I call.

  He runs up the walk and takes the front steps two at a time. Plopping down next to me, he pushes off with his feet and we swing. I don’t tell him to stop or slow down. I like to take it to the limit too.

  “Wheeee!” I say. “How was your night? Did you like the game your friend showed you?”

  “It was good. Do you have an X-Box?”

  “No. And I’ve never used one before.”

  He looks at me like I’ve been living under a rock and slows the swing to a stop.

  “You’re scared of dogs and you’ve never played a game on an X-Box. I need to teach you a few things.”

  “How old are you, Max? Thirty?”

  I can tell he gets me because he’s smiling.

  “How’s the old boy doing this morning?” I say.

  “You mean my dad?”

  I start laughing uncontrollably and Max joins me, even though I know he’s not sure why.

  “No! The Labrador.”

  Now he knows his mistake. We try to stifle our laughter because Nash is only a few yards away. When I turn toward the approaching figure carrying a bouquet of mixed flowers, it’s obvious he’s enjoying watching the show on the porch.

  “What’s so funny?” he says.

  “Just a private joke between friends.” I’m not going to tell him his son thinks he’s an old fart. Max doesn’t offer further clarification and now we have a secret.

  Nash wears light jeans, a wine-colored soft shirt and a devilish smile. He looks delicious. I get a clearer idea of what his body looks like without the baggy scrubs. This does nothing to calm me down.

  “Hi,” he says offering his cheek.

  He smells . . . tempting. If that’s a thing.

  “Hi.” I kiss him lightly.

  “Like the dress,” he says taking in my pink and white gingham sundress.

  He hands me the loose arrangement of dahlias, lilies, and roses. I don’t think words are our thing today. Last night we never ran out of them. Less than twenty-four hours later we’re way beyond conversation. I’m more into the I want you and I’m tongue-tied phase of the program, and I don’t think I’m alone.

  “I picked those from Grandma’s garden. Dad said you liked pink and orange,” Max offers.

  Nash remembered a snippet of our conversation last night. He’s
paying attention.

  “Well, thank you both. I love them. Come in. Let me put these in water.”

  They follow me into the house and, like most who see it for the first time, they approve. It’s warm and comfortable and only a few short blocks from Main Street. Dark hardwood floors contrast vanilla walls and shutters. A period fireplace is the focal point in the living room. Crown mounding and leaded windows accent the open space. I’ve been a kind of prisoner of these rooms for years, but it wasn’t the house that wore my spirit down. I’m sorry to have to leave it. Love lived here.

  “This is a great house, Farrah. Beautiful,” Nash says.

  He’s looking at the pencil rendering of this house that hangs prominently in the living room. I see him read the artist’s name.

  “Did you do this?”

  “Yeah. That was my profession in another lifetime.”

  “You’ve got quite a talent.”

  I see him nod towards the raggedy stuffed bear sitting on my bookshelf.

  “Who’s your friend?” he asks.

  “That’s Bear. My closest advisor. He was my father’s toy when he was a child and then he became mine. I could never put him away.”

  “Can I slide down that banister?” Max says eyeing the wooden masterpiece leading to the second floor.

  “Absolutely not.”

  I secretly give Max a thumbs up and mouth the word ‘later’.

  “Come in the kitchen, I’ll get a vase.”

  They follow me down the narrow hallway and into my modern kitchen.

  “Whoa, I didn’t expect this.”

  “They updated the year they moved here. My mother liked everything Victorian about the home except for the kitchen and bathrooms. Now my realtor says their decisions are going to pay off.”

  “We’re going to be looking for a new house,” Max says.

  I grab a tall glass from the cupboard and fill it with water.

  “Are you? If you need a referral for a great realtor, I’ve got one,” I say turning to Nash.

  “That would be great. Give me his number. We’re ready to start looking.”

  “It’s a she.” I raise an eyebrow and shake my finger in play. “False assumptions.”

  Walking to the refrigerator, I remove Becky’s business card. God knows I don’t need it, her number’s burned in my brain.