“We?” I asked. “We are on recon mission?”
“I’ll drive the Rideshare Mobile. There’s plenty of room for the mom and grandma, too.” He sat back triumphantly. “And there you have it, Parker. A party.”
“I’m in,” Brie said. “I’m good with moms and grandmas.”
Susan gave me a pleading look. It said, Don’t make me go, please don’t make me go. Susan hates everything about Vegas—the noise, the buffets, the smoking. She doesn’t understand why people would pump a hundred dollars in a slot machine and get nothing when they could use that money to buy nicer shoes. The shows are tacky. Everyone wanders around drunk. In other words, everything I love about the town. But is she a friend or what? Because even though she’d rather eat the margarita glass she was holding, she’d go if I wanted her to. I did want her help, but nobody likes a wet blanket in Vegas.
“Martucci,” I said, “that sounds fantastic. And Susan, you’re excused—you don’t have to go.”
Her exhale of relief nearly blew me from the table. I picked up the list again. “Las Vegas also takes care of a couple of these others. Number sixteen: Get a massage. Easy enough. And number twenty: Make a big donation to charity. I’ll simply win a fortune at roulette and then give it away.”
Martucci and Brie nodded in agreement, but Susan cried, “You can’t count on that! Do you have any idea the odds of winning?”
“Thirty-five to one on a straight-up bet,” Martucci answered.
She threw up her hands. “Whatever.”
“I guess that’s it,” I announced. “I want to thank you guys for coming and for your—”
Brie grabbed the paper from me. “What about this one? Number nineteen. Says, Show my brother how grateful I am for him.”
“Huh?” I tried to make my face go blank.
“Your brother or her brother?” Martucci asked.
I slumped down in my seat. “My brother.”
“I keep forgetting you have a brother,” Susan said. “Isn’t that terrible?”
“What—is he an asshole or something?” Brie asked.
“He’s fine. It’s only that ‘grateful’ is such a strong word.”
“So what are you going to do?” Susan asked.
“I’ve got that fund-raiser party at my parents’ house in a couple weeks.” I paused to look at Susan. “You and Chase are coming, right?”
“I wouldn’t miss your dad’s shrimp cocktail for the world.”
“My brother and his wife, Charlotte, will be there, too. So my idea was…” I hesitated because it was so weak. “That I’d write a letter and tell him what a good brother he was. Give it to him there. Even if I have to make stuff up.” I braced myself, waiting for the mockery.
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah.”
“I’d love to get a letter like that.”
“You really think so?” I asked.
“You know what’d be good,” Brie added. “Put a picture of the two of you together in it. Maybe from when you were kids. You got a nice picture?”
My mind flashed to a photo my mom kept framed on the mantel. In it, Bob and I are babies—I’m lying on my side on the floor, and he’s making an expression of surprise. My mom said he used to do that to me when I’d first learned how to sit. He’d tip me over and then pretend it was an accident.
“I’m not sure about the picture,” I said.
As I tucked the wet, salsa-stained list in my purse—good thing I hadn’t brought out the original—a baritone voice so deep that it nearly vibrated my chair said behind me, “Pardon me…”
I turned around to see a man the size of a tank and the color of hot coffee who was flashing a smile so striking that it was making other parts of me vibrate…until I realized that the killer grin was aimed at Brie. “There’s been a terrible mistake,” he said smoothly. “I’ll have to talk to the bar owner. Because how could they be so foolish as to hide such a lovely lady away in a corner?”
“Crying shame, ain’t it?” Brie agreed.
He held up a karaoke list book. “Perhaps…a duet?”
She grabbed her purse and slid off her chair. Then she took his hand and walked away without so much as a glance good-bye.
“I’d better get going, too,” Susan said. “You want a ride?”
We left Martucci to cheer Brie on, both of us blinking from the sunlight when we walked outside. It’d been so dark in the bar, it was easy to forget it was only six o’clock.
As we walked to the car, Susan said, “I can’t believe you’re going to Las Vegas with Martucci. He’s so”—she wrinkled her nose—“smarmy. And what’s with that little ponytail?”
“Rattail.”
“It looks like a caterpillar crawling up his neck.”
“Aw, Martucci’s not so bad once you get to know him,” I said. “He’s just rough around the edges.”
Chapter 17
Martucci twisted, hands on his waist, warming up for the run. The morning of the 5K race was cool, with a gray, heavy sky that we at the beach call haze but anywhere else they’d call drizzle. “Here we are. Together again. Can’t get enough of me, can you, Parker.”
“You consume my every waking thought,” I replied, pulling my leg behind me to stretch my thigh muscle.
“Damn. Not in the dreams yet. It’ll happen…only a matter of time.”
I’d worn a tank top, stretchy shorts, and a sports bra so industrial that it could hold the lid on a boiling pot. Martucci was in a similar outfit—only minus the bra and with a terrycloth band around his head. Later, when the sun peeked through the gloom I’d be glad not to be overdressed, but for now I had shivers and goose bumps all over. Or maybe that was the thought of Martucci showing up in my dreams.
Hundreds of people stretched and jogged in place around us. The race was due to start in fifteen minutes. It would begin at the pier in Manhattan Beach and then proceed through town—a town, I noticed on the drive over, that was much hillier than I’d remembered. I hadn’t encountered anyone from my cheering section yet, but they’d promised to be there, standing near the finish line so we could go to breakfast after the race. Not only was Susan bringing her family, but Kip and Sebastian were coming, stopping to pick up Deedee on the way.
“By the way, we’re set for Vegas,” Martucci said. “I scored rooms at the Flamingo.”
“Oh, good!”
“Last weekend in June. Friday and Saturday night. My contact there coughed up three rooms. I figure that’s a room for me, one for you and Brie to share, and one for Mom and Grandma.”
“Perfect.”
“Damn shame I couldn’t swing getting you your own room—you about to be a mother and all. You need to find a stud and have a last fling.”
“Forget it. There will be no flinging.”
“I don’t know…from what I hear, babies suck up a lot of your energy. It could be a long time before you get any action. Maybe months.”
Months? Ha! “I once went three years without sex,” I said.
I might as well have slapped him. His eyes welled up. “My God. How did you stand it?” His hand grasped my shoulder as he said earnestly, “We’re friends, and I want you to understand that I’m here for you. And that I’m not above a mercy fuck.”
“Thanks. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the offer. But I’m going to Vegas for one reason and one reason only: to get things done on the list. Anything else is—”
Before I could finish, a kid bumped into Martucci and sent him stumbling into me. “Watch it, buddy!” he snapped.
“Dude, it was an accident.” The kid appeared to be about ten years old, with red hair, wiry limbs, and wall-to-wall freckles on his face. “You okay?”
“He’s fine,” I said. “He didn’t mean to yell.”
“Yes, I did,” Martucci snarled. “Crap. My ankle’s twisted.” He sat on the ground to examine his ankle, and the boy bent over him. Above the race number he wore on his back he’d written in thick marker “Flash.”
/> “Flash?” I asked. “What’s with that?”
He turned to me with a smile. “That’s what my dad calls me. ’Cause I’m so fast.”
Martucci motioned to the boy to help him up. “I saw a guy selling sodas by the pier. I’m going to see if he has ice.”
“I’ll go,” the boy said, and he was off, as they say, in a flash. Minutes later, he returned with cupfuls of ice and paper towels. We wrapped Martucci’s ankle.
“Is it a sprain?” I asked. “Should we hop you to a medic?”
“It’ll be fine, but I’ll need to keep off it,” he said to me. “Afraid you’re on your own for the race.”
“On my own?” Hands on hips, I gazed bleakly up at the hills. “Boy, I wished we’d trained on hills.”
“You never ran hills?” Flash asked.
“Not a one. Not so much as an incline. Plus, I’m used to this guy barking orders at me,” I said, tipping my head toward Martucci.
“What’s your time?” the boy asked.
“I’m running a nine-minute mile.”
He nodded, considering it. “Be right back.”
The race organizers started lining people up to start, so I did my final stretches. Martucci coached me from the curb. “Keep your pace. When you get to a hill, you’re naturally going to slow down. Don’t let it intimidate you. And nothing flashy, Parker. You just want to make it to the finish line.”
“Got it.”
He held out a fist to me. When I stared at him, perplexed, he said, “You’re supposed to tap my hand with yours. Like ‘rock’ in rock-paper-scissors. It’s a jock thing.”
Jeez, what happened to plain, old-fashioned high-fives? I did it, then left to line up in my spot. People jockeyed for position around me, even though this was a community event and not a hard-core race. Trying to ignore everyone, I jogged in place, waiting for the pop gun to signal “go,” when the boy came up next to me.
“Hey, Flash,” I greeted him. “What’s up?”
“Don’t jog so hard right now. Move back and forth a little bit or you’ll wear yourself out.” I did what he suggested, and he said, “My dad said it’s all right if I run with you.”
“Thanks, but you don’t have to do that. I don’t want to slow you down or—”
“I injured your trainer. It’s only fair.”
With that, the gun sounded and we were off. Instantly, it was as if everyone were running through a sieve. The fast ones slipped through to the front, and the rest of us found our places slogging along at our own paces.
We started along the Strand, the boardwalk that runs adjacent to the sand, with the ocean to our left and multimillion-dollar homes to our right. A light breeze blew off the water, and my body kicked effortlessly into gear. My training was paying off. I tried to make conversation with Flash, but he put a stop to that, saying, “Lady, if you can talk, you’re not running hard enough.”
I’ll be darned—he was a mini Martucci.
A mile later, we turned up a street to run past shops and restaurants and—yum! I smelled pancakes! One more turn and, “Oh no, look at that hill—it’s a wall!”
“You can do it,” Flash assured me. “Go like this—” He showed me how to lean forward a bit. “And then follow my pace.”
“Isn’t there supposed to be special equipment for mountain climbing?” I huffed irritably. Ow. Ugh. Arrrrgh. Errrrgh. “Don’t you get—”
“Don’t talk,” he admonished. “Run.”
Muscles arguing and protesting all the way, I made it to the top. Flash high-fived me without breaking stride. “I knew you had it in you!”
That was the steepest hill, and after that the run was cake. The route wound us around so we ended not far from where we began. Yards from the finish line, I heard my name being screamed, along with catcalls and various inspirations such as “Work it, honey!” and “You go, girl!” I gave a victory wave to my pep squad and then, heart pumping, crossed the finish line. Twenty-nine minutes. Not bad, considering the hills.
There were plenty of runners doing their postrun stretch—for all I knew, a few were already home eating bon-bons. But I’d made it, and not even in last place. Not even close to last. It was especially sweet since I’d never successfully done anything athletic before in my life. My sports history was tragic. Like in fourth grade when my brother talked me into signing up for softball, where it turned out that the only skill I learned was the art of the deal. I’d negotiate with the pitcher, the shortstop, and the third baseman as I ran out to left field, briefing them on the ways they were to cover for me should the ball come my way. But nobody had to cover for me today. I was officially a jock.
My cheering squad came over as I ruffled Flash’s hair. “Thanks for the help, Coach. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Yes, you could,” he said, his freckled face serious. “You can do anything. I believe in you. Remember that.”
“Okay, then,” I said, not knowing quite what to make of him. I had to marvel as I watched him jog back to his dad. How did these children come into my life all of a sudden? Where had they been? Were they always there and just hiding?
A towel hit me in the head. “Nice job, champ,” Martucci said.
“Why, thank you.”
After that, Susan, Chase, and the twins, Martucci, Kip, Sebastian, Deedee, and I all went to breakfast at Uncle Bill’s, the pancake house I’d passed during the race. Sitting at the table, I couldn’t help but smile at the ragtag crew I’d assembled over the past few months. C.J. spilled the syrup onto Joey’s lap. Kip kept eating off Sebastian’s plate. Susan started absently cutting her husband’s pancakes before Martucci pointed out what she was doing, and we spent the next ten minutes making fun of her.
But it was Deedee who brought down the house when she blurted, “Shhh, hold on,” and then grabbed my hand to place it on her belly.
And there it was. The baby kicking.
It was as if the room and its noises and people disappeared and the only thing that I could see or hear or smell or taste buzzed up through my fingertips.
This wasn’t a business deal anymore.
This was a child.
And I’d never before been so close to holding her.
Chapter 18
You sound like a jealous wife,” Phyllis teased. “Are you going to start checking his collars for lipstick?”
I’d spotted Lou Bigwood getting into the elevator with a woman. A beautiful woman. She was the third I’d seen him with that week. Naturally, I sprinted to Phyllis’s office to get the story. Why I bothered I didn’t know. All she’d tell me was the woman’s name and company. I could’ve gotten that reading the sign-in sheet at the reception desk—which I’d already done.
“Is he interviewing people for Lizbeth’s job?” I asked.
“No.”
I narrowed my eyes at her suspiciously. That had been too easy. “Now let me put it another way: Could one of these women possibly be given Lizbeth’s job?”
“Yes.”
I flailed my arms. “So he is interviewing, then!”
“No. Lou doesn’t interview.”
Talking to Phyllis was like going down the rabbit hole. Nothing quite made sense, yet everything was clear. I needed to make my move soon.
Whatever it might be. I still hadn’t a clue what might impress the boss into giving me the promotion I so richly deserved. “How long do you figure I have?” I asked, bracing myself for another of Phyllis’s noncommittal answers.
“Hard to say.”
“Suppose there’s a gun to your head. Then what would you guess?”
“Three weeks.”
“Really? That fast?”
“No, but there’s a gun to my head. I’ll say anything.”
I had Phyllis schedule me for a meeting with Bigwood a few weeks away—a Friday afternoon before he was due to go out of town for a conference. It was vital that I get to him before he left. He’d met Lizbeth at a conference. I couldn’t risk a repeat performance. Even thou
gh I had plenty on my plate already, I’d never forgive myself if I let him hire another little lovely—someone with that mix of aggression and beauty that seemed to draw him—while I sat by and did nothing.
My phone was ringing when I got back to my cubicle. I picked it up, and it was Troy. As soon as I heard him say hello, I felt my lips turn up and my IQ involuntarily drop. Yes, the crush was in full effect. Getting worse, in fact. Troy had been acting as go-between to help me work out a plan for Vegas with his mom and grandma. We’d exchanged brief, polite phone messages rather than actual calls so far, but they were enough to send my blood pulsing.
The trip to Las Vegas was set for the last weekend in June, and he’d said his mom and grandma were looking forward to it. In fact, everything seemed so tied together, I was surprised to hear from him now.
Unless something was wrong. Maybe they’d changed their minds.
I gnawed on a fingernail. “What’s up?”
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, sounding surprised. “I expected your voice mail.”
“I can take a message for me if you’d prefer.”
“The real thing’s much better.” We exchanged the usual how are yous; then he said, “I’m calling to offer my services if you think you might need me in Vegas.”
Services? “What—escort?”
“Actually, yes. If you need help with Mom and Gran, I’d be glad to do what I can.” Then he added hurriedly, “Of course, I’d get myself up there…book my own room.”
I found myself saying, Of course, come on up. The more the merrier. But concerned by what might be underlying his offer, I added, “Are you sure your mom and grandma are comfortable with this trip? Because it’s not worth doing it for the list if it’s going to make them—”
“They’re excited, I promise, although I’d be lying if I said there won’t be sad moments for them. That’s why I thought it might be good if I was there. Just in case.”
In case what? Susan’s comment about how losing a child was the worst possible thing she could imagine floated back to me. Was this too much to ask of a grieving mom? I had no way of knowing if he was being honest about their being up for the trip, but I decided to trust him. “Okay,” I said. “But you don’t have to go up on your own. You can ride with us. We’re leaving Friday at three.”
The Next Thing on My List Page 18