Surrendered

by Jennifer Sienes

  And he takes the bait.

  Crossing his arms, he meanders over to me. The epitome of nonchalance. “You’re really going through with it then? School?”

  “So, it would appear.” I shift the hose again. Water’s running like a river from the bottom of the pots, and my wet, bare feet leave prints on the concrete as I walk. “I went to see Byron Reynolds the other day. You know, to get the tuition money?”

  He nods and a slow grin spreads across his face. It’s obvious he knows what I’m getting at. “Yeah? How’d that go?”

  Jerk. “Seems Mr. Reynolds isn’t the executor of Dad’s trust.”

  He rubs his chin, and the scratch of whiskers harmonizes with the water gurgling from the hose. “No. I don’t suppose he is.” The sun lights his blue eyes, amusement playing around his mouth.

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  He laughs. “How much do you need, Tess?”

  Pride sits like a rock in my throat, and I have to swallow it down before I can respond. “Two thousand for the summer session.” Groveling again in another twelve weeks is just too much to face. “And another three thousand for next semester.”

  “Made out to Sac State?”

  “Made out to me.”

  He hesitates as if he’s going to deny me. Is Dad’s trust so strict that I’m not allowed money without proof of need? “Fine. I’ll leave it on the washer.” That was a rude reminder. He turns to leave.

  “Oh, and Jake?”

  As he turns back, I flick the hose, as if aiming for the planter next to him. But instead, the spray smacks him in the middle of his chest, drenching him in cold water. “Oh my gosh!” I fumble long enough to be sure he’s thoroughly doused. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You know, Tess, you might want to curb that vindictive streak of yours. Could get you into trouble.”

  “I swear, it was an accident.” I turn my back on him with a smirk. Not much he can do about it.

  Hose in hand, I move toward the faucet, my feel splashing in the puddles, when a strong arm snakes around me from behind. Adrenaline steals my breath, and I can’t break away from Jake’s hold. He’s got my back pinned against his chest as he grabs for the hose with his free hand. As we battle for control, cold water spurts up, whipping across my face, burning my nose and eyes.

  “Not on your life,” I scream. But my attempt at sternness is defeated by an irrepressible giggle. The fight for control quickly dwindles as he pries the hose from my weakening grip.

  With a deft move on Jake’s part, I’m suddenly released, facing him and the gushing hose, although it’s not pointed in my direction. Water’s dripping from my hair and face and a chill skitters up my bare arms. And yet, he doesn’t douse me. What in the world is he waiting for?

  He turns the hose at an angle and drops his face near the spray to drink from it. A stream of water runs off his running shorts and tank, which are completely drenched.

  “Okay, Jake.” I spread my arms wide. “Get it over with. You know you want to.”

  He shakes his head and smiles. “What would be the fun in that?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “You mean you’re just going to let me get away with soaking you?”

  “Didn’t say that.” He takes another slurp of water and lays the hose down.

  I back up to the faucet, watching him like dangerous prey, and shut off the valve.

  He grabs the hem of his tank and twists until the stream of water dies down to a drip. “Half the fun of payback is anticipation.”

  Chapter 11

  Tess

  With the mad rush to prepare for my first day back at school, there’s been no time for panic to take hold. Every moment’s been taken up with planning and evading—Jake that is. At first, it was because of my shameful behavior toward him last week—and over a load of laundry, no less. Of course, you don’t have to be a psychologist to know it had nothing at all to do with laundry. I’m just not completely sure what the true catalyst was. Either way, when I imagine Dad in the midst of that nasty argument, my stomach revolts. How would the generous and kind Sean O’Shay react if he’d seen his daughter sniping about sharing a washing machine? How petty. But put me in Jake’s presence, and I’m a spoiled ten-year-old.

  Or a mischievous ten-year-old. Whatever came over me the other day when I doused him with the hose? It was as if…I’d forgotten what a colossal irritation he is. One minute I was pointing the hose at him with vindictiveness at the helm, and the next thing I knew…it was fun. How long has it been since I just wanted to have some fun? I don’t know whether to be embarrassed over my childish act or fearful of payback.

  Turning off of J Street, I pull into the same Sac State parking lot of my last visit, only this time the choices are limited. Summer school is more popular than I imagined. I glance at the clock before turning off the car engine and sitting in the silence. Just a moment to gather my thoughts. How is it possible that less than two weeks ago, I was determined to not go this route? And now here I am. My stomach flips, and I pray this morning’s quick breakfast stays down.

  With a deep breath, I gather up my backpack, hesitating when my eyes catch the yellow Curious George lunchbox lying on the passenger seat. Despite my irritation with Jake, my lips twitch at the memory of finding it this morning on the kitchen nook table, a note scribbled in Jake’s cat-scratch taped to the handle. Have a good day and play nice with the other kids. He’s only half kidding, I’m sure, given my recent behavior toward him.

  As thoughtful as the lunch box was, it’s what’s inside that threatened to melt the frost I’ve grown around my heart since Dad died—PB&J on white bread, an apple cored and cut into eight equal slices and a half-pint of milk—just like I used to get in grade school. I could be suspicious of his motives—okay, I am suspicious of his motives—but for the moment, at least, I’m willing to accept the gift at face value for the simple fact that the innocence and simplicity of it brings me some semblance of comfort, no matter how contrived it may have been on Jake’s part.

  I choose to lay suspicion aside. Well, once I take a cautious bite of the sandwich, I’ll lay it aside. Could be this is the payback he threatened.

  I stuff the apple and sandwich in my backpack on the off chance I’ll be able to stomach food later. More students are milling around today, which is expected from the congestion in the parking lot. I retrieve the handy-dandy map from my backpack and remind myself where my class is being held.

  I can do this.

  As long as I don’t have to enter Draper Hall, I can do this.

  Two six-week courses, and I’ll have earned a second bachelor’s degree. The thought of it doesn’t alleviate my cold, clammy palms, but it does prod my feet to keep moving toward Tahoe Hall and Part 1 of English 220—Writing in Your Discipline. Doesn’t sound very exciting, but just battling the past is enough excitement for the next twelve weeks.

  I find Tahoe Hall, climb the stairs, and search the numbers above the doors until I find room 235. Hard to miss with chatting students milling around the door. They look so…young. I readjust my backpack, push a strand of hair from my eyes, and swallow. Dare I enter the fray? I don’t want to be the first person inside, but I don’t want to stand around alone, either. So awkward.

  “You look lost.”

  I glance up from studying the toe of my clogs to find an amused pair of gray eyes bracketed with laugh lines, and a warm smile. The bottle-blonde woman is slightly heavy, but attractively dressed in khaki pants. Comfortable in her own skin, Dad would say. And a good ten years older than me. The teacher, perhaps? “It’s been a long road here,” I say. Where in the world did that come from? I don’t even know this woman, and here I am, blurting out some pseudo-poetic gibberish.

  She nods, eyes catching mine. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “You do?” The surprised question pops out before I filter it.

  “Carol Harper.” She extends her hand.

  “Tess O’Shay.” I take the proffered hand.
“Are you the teacher?”

  She laughs. “Far from it. Just a middle-aged student righting regrets.” She twists to glance at the growing crowd of co-eds. “Is it me, or are they getting younger every year?”

  “I haven’t stepped into a classroom for ten years, so I wouldn’t know.” My eyes are drawn to a young woman: gold-streaked hair piled on top of her head, clingy tee topping snug bejeweled jeans. Head thrown back, she laughs unselfconsciously at something her male companion said, hand resting on his arm. When was the last time I was that comfortable with myself? That trusting and carefree? I tasted it briefly in the midst of my water fight with Jake.

  “Well, this looks like a rowdy group.”

  My heart hitches, and I hold my breath until I can spot the speaker. An elderly man—must be close to seventy—with a wispy comb-over and dark-rimmed glasses maneuvers his way through the crowd of students. A leather bag slung over one shoulder seems to weigh him down, as if he’s been carrying that bag his entire career.

  “Professor McNeal,” Carol says for my benefit. “He’s one of the good ones.”

  I hang back with her as the other students enter the now open classroom door, some greeting the teacher with familiarity. Repeat students. That’s a good sign.

  Stepping in last, I hesitate at the threshold and wait for the expected nausea to hit. Instead of student desks, there are tables, four chairs to each. The blackboard is white and the walls as welcoming as a Barnes & Noble, with posters of well-known novels greeting me from all sides. Only the smell reminds me of the past, but it’s one I’ve grown accustomed to—the musty, yellowed books that line library shelves and used bookstores. The scent that has infiltrated every school I’ve entered since kindergarten.

  Carol waves me over—one row over, two rows down—and it’s the catalyst I need to step inside. This is it. I’ve enrolled for fall semester, paid my tuition, and made the commitment. If I back down now, Katie will never speak to me and Jake wins.

  God help me.

  * * *

  Jake

  I check my watch for the umpteenth time. File folders and receipts cover Sean’s desk. What a mess. Can’t seem to focus long enough to make sense of them. Has Tess’s class started yet? And why do I care?

  I’ll never get out of this prison sentence of a life unless she finishes school, that’s why. Last thing I want is a restaurant I can’t run. And guardianship of teenage girl I have no control over.

  No. The last thing I want is to get tangled up with the complicated Tess O’Shay.

  One minute she’s about as warm as a glacier and the next…what was that the other day? An aberration, or did I get a glimpse of the real Tess? Could there really be a mischievous, fun-loving woman shackled beneath the ice princess façade? No matter. Even if she were a bundle of unbridled joy, my life is not my own. May never be.

  “Yo, boss man.” Anthony’s head pokes through the open door. “Got the message you want to see me.”

  “Come on in.” It’d be good to accomplish something today.

  “Can we make it quick? I need to get out of here in a couple hours. Got some—”

  “Have a seat.” Best to wrestle control right from the start. That’s how my dad handled this type of situation. “I’d like to talk to you about Katie.”

  Anthony grabs the back of the metal chair tucked in the corner, whips it around, and sits on it backwards, folding his arms on the seat back. “That’s one of the reasons I need to get done early. I’m picking her up from school. They’re on half days this week.”

  “Katie tells me you guys are dating. That true?”

  He lets out a snort. “Dating? Sounds kind of old-fashioned. Like courting or something.”

  I pin him with a hard glare. “Are you?”

  He shrugs. “We hang out together.”

  “Don’t you think she’s a little young for you?”

  “What?” His eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “I’ve known Katie for years. She’s like a sister to me.”

  “Guys don’t generally date their sisters.”

  “Look, man, it’s not like that.”

  “Then maybe Katie’s confused.” Something sure doesn’t add up. Just like the restaurant books.

  “Maybe.” But he doesn’t make eye contact.

  “I can’t stop you from hanging out, but keep in mind she’s just a kid. When she’s with you, you’re responsible for her safety. Capiche?”

  “Capiche. Can I go now?”

  “I think—”

  The door opens farther, and Marty stands there with a grin. “Am I interrupting anything?”

  Anthony pops up. “Nah. We’re done.” He looks at me. “Right, boss?”

  I wave him off. “Yeah. Whatever. Just remember what I said.”

  Marty steps back to let Anthony pass, then watches him a moment before turning back to me. “Look at you. All authoritative.”

  Slumping back in my chair, I blow out a self-deprecating laugh. “Not so you’d notice.”

  “Problems?”

  I flick a hand toward the direction of Anthony’s retreat. “Seems that kid’s dating Katie.”

  He steps in and takes the empty seat. “So?”

  “So, he’s four years older. Twenty to her sixteen.”

  “Like you’ve never crossed the line.”

  “He can cross the line as long as it’s not one I’m responsible for.”

  “Speaking of the sisters, you put in a good word for me with Tess yet?”

  I shake my head. “You don’t want to go there, man. It’s not worth the complication.”

  “I like complicated.”

  Sitting up, I slide the mess on my desk toward him. “Really? Then have I got a project for you.”

  He reaches out and shuffles through a couple piles. “What is this?”

  “Thought you were an accountant.”

  “Dude, you better hope the IRS doesn’t get wind of this.”

  “Sean didn’t keep good records. And I think maybe he was too trusting.”

  “Of?”

  I push out of my chair, round the desk, and close the door. “You remember telling me that you saw Maris at Tahoe?”

  “Gambling like she had it to spend. Is that what this is all about?” He flicks a pile of receipts.

  Once I say it, I can’t take it back. It could be an overactive imagination, but it feels like more. A nudge from God, maybe? Wouldn’t be the first time. I lower my voice. “It’s possible there’s been some…creative spending here.”

  He scowls at the desk. “Like you can find anything tangible in this dumpsite.”

  “Maris has access to the credit card.”

  His eyebrows arch. “Hello.”

  “And…” I open a folder and slide the contents to him. “She’s been making purchases on her own credit card and turning in the receipts for reimbursement.”

  “How long?”

  “Long enough.”

  “No one’s caught on until now? What are they, blind?”

  “Trusting.” How ironic is that? Tess is loyal to the one person who might be ripping her off.

  Marty stands and bends over the desk, gathering the receipts into a pile. “Let me take home everything you have and then give me a couple weeks.”

  “This stays between us, right?”

  “Who am I gonna tell?”

  “Just keep it that way.” I grab a file box sitting behind my chair and set it on the desk. “If, by some chance, you happen to run into Tess, don’t say anything about this.”

  “You don’t think she has a right to know?”

  “Not until I make my case.”

  Marty steps back, hands on hips, and stares at me. “For someone who doesn’t want to get involved…might want to rethink your strategy in that department.”

  “Maybe, but I made a promise to watch over the O’Shay women, and I intend to keep it.”

  “Yeah? That working for you?”

  “Not so you’d notice.”

 
; Chapter 12

  Tess

  There’s a sense of comfort, relief even, when I’m at the restaurant—one I hadn’t been aware of when I had no choice. But I ponder this as I pull into Bella’s parking lot, mid-way through the dinner crowd. I have a love/hate relationship with school. I’d forgotten how invigorating it is to have intellectual conversations with like-minded contemporaries. Or to debate with those who aren’t like-minded. To be challenged by expectations of academia and apply that learning to real life. Early summer on the Sac State campus is pleasant—like a world cocooned from the traffic and busyness of city craziness. And the inevitable panic attacks are manageable.

  But the flip side is the long, arduous commute. Twenty minutes from Placerville to Sacramento and another half hour slow-crawling through the city streets and waiting at traffic lights to reach the college. Then there’s the requisite homework assignments. Ugh. It’s not that I don’t like to write, but I don’t know what to write about. Research and bibliographies. MLA or Chicago Manual of Style? And this is only summer school. Training ground for the real deal.

  And even though I told Katie I wouldn’t be able to work at the restaurant, I can’t seem to stay away. Jake needs someone to hold him accountable. Just because he’s taken to packing me a lunch every day doesn’t mean I trust him to run the business. Or anything else, for that matter. A PB&J tucked away in a Curious George lunchbox is one thing. But Katie’s and my life are another.

  After the last patron leaves, I collect a pile of clean table cloths and go through the nightly routine of collecting the soiled covers and replacing them with fresh ones. Candles are replaced, and salt and pepper shakers refilled. The lights and music are low, inducing a half coma-like state. Frank Sinatra’s crooning Amore, while I hum along. The only thing worse than my culinary attempts is my singing voice.

  “You should head home.”

  Jake’s voice from behind startles me, and I fumble a candle. Hand on chest, willing my heart to slow, I face him. The response I’m a big girl is on the tip of my tongue. Why is it he always brings out the worst in me? Instead I offer, “You go ahead. I’ll lock up.”