There was much murmuring of “You’re welcome” and “Glad to do it,” until Martucci said, “Don’t start blubbering all over me, Parker. This is a new shirt.”
“Are you going to give back the list?” Susan asked.
I nodded. “That was always the plan: that I’d return it as soon as I was done. I was starting to fear that it might never happen.”
“It did—and on time,” Sebastian said warmly. “It must be the writer in you…can’t miss a deadline.”
Everyone left except for Martucci, who said he’d stick around to give me a ride home. I found Kitty Jones straightening a balloon bouquet. “Here you are,” I said, handing her the list. “Complete.” I explained about Buddy Fitch.
“He told me that he made the track team at his school because of Marissa,” I said. “So that’s another thing she made happen by herself.”
She squeezed my arm, her voice breaking. “Now don’t make me cry. I’ve managed to hold it together so far. I’m going to take this”—she held up the list—“and have a good, long look at it as soon as I get home.”
I glanced around the crowd, which was starting to thin. “I need to get going, but I wanted to say good-bye to Troy first.”
“He’s over by the food table with his aunt Lorraine. She’s probably grilling him about why he’s not married yet. I’ll bet he’d be eternally grateful if you rescued him.”
She wasn’t kidding. As soon as I approached, Troy said loudly, “It was a pleasure chatting with you, Aunt Lorraine, but I need to talk to June here.”
“Guess what?” I said as he ushered me to a quiet end of the bar. “We found Buddy Fitch. He’s here…and he’s a kid from her Weight Watchers group. So the list’s done.”
“June, that’s incredible.”
“Anyway, I was about to leave, but I wanted to say thanks for everything.”
“I didn’t do much, but you know I was glad to help any way I could.”
“By the way,” I boasted, “I wound up getting the promotion at work.”
“I knew you would.” He rubbed a hand nervously through his hair. “Look…about the other day when I came to your office. You told me that the phone message I left you got cut off. Which is probably for the best. I did a lot of blabbering. But the upshot was—and I know this sounds cliché—but as far as what happened in Vegas, it wasn’t you. It was me.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I snapped at you because you were going to adopt a baby. And did I even understand you right? It sounds now like you aren’t going to do it.”
“I didn’t really want to be a single mom—I got swept up in everything. And as for Vegas, it was no big deal. Honestly. You’ve been through so much; you and Marissa were so close. I can understand that you’d feel conflicted.”
He shook his head and smiled. “I should have seen it coming. I remember the first time I saw you at the funeral, when you came down the line shaking hands. You had that huge black eye, and when you got to where I was, I thought, Wow, she’s hot, and found myself peeking down your blouse to see how far the bruise went. Then I was disgusted that I’d notice something like that at my own sister’s funeral.”
Before I could respond—and really, what could one say to that?—a woman approached and said, “Troy, your grandma wants me to tell you that you’re needed. They’re about to cut the cake.”
“Tell her I’ll be right there.” Then he turned to me. “So you’ll keep in touch?”
“Are you kidding? Now that I have this new job, I’m going to need connections in all the right places.”
“You got it. Anytime.”
I hugged Troy good-bye and then walked back to where Martucci sat, discussing racing strategies with Buddy Fitch. “I’m ready to go when you are,” I said.
As we left, I paused at the doorway to take one last look inside the room. Troy and his family gathered around the cake. Twenty-five candles had been lit, and the firelight danced on their faces as they leaned close. No one sang “Happy Birthday.” I watched—drained and yet never feeling more full—as Kitty took in a deep breath. And then everyone around her helped blow out the candles in one collective whoosh.
Chapter 26
It’s strange not to have anything I have to do,” I said to Martucci as he pulled his car in front of my apartment building. The evening was warm, and he had the moon roof open, exposing a twinkle of city lights.
“You did good.”
“I just don’t want to go back to my old ways.”
He cut the engine. “Then don’t.”
“How?” As I asked it, I had to marvel. Once again, I was turning to Martucci for advice, when only months ago I could hardly stand to be in the same room with him. He’d changed in my perception from repulsive to…well, I wasn’t sure. I liked being around him. Suddenly I was noticing things like how he smelled good…the rumbly growl of his voice…how the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled.
“It’s easy,” he said, grinning—and see? There went the crinkles. “Think about what you would have done before, which would have been nothing. Then do something.”
“Very funny.” I added, “The old me would leave to go inside right now.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “And the new you…?”
I shifted in my seat so I faced him, then I placed one hand behind his head and pulled him close in a kiss. And it was nice—warm and soft and sweet—and I kissed him again, and again, and soon I was gulping him in, and he was tugging me close, tangling his hands in my hair, and it was crazy…Dominic Martucci of all people! Yet for once I wasn’t second-guessing myself or letting myself get lost in doubt. I knew for certain that—wherever it might go or whatever might happen—sprawled across Martucci’s front seat with my tongue greedily seeking his was exactly where I wanted to be right now.
He gazed at me, brushing my hair away from my face. “For the record, Parker,” he said, “this definitely qualifies as something.”
“Glad you approve. I have to play it by ear now that I don’t have a list.”
“Mmm. I’ve been working on one of my own, you know.”
“You have?”
“Sure. Ever since I got a preview of your goodies in Vegas, I’ve spent a helluva lot of hours thinking exactly what I’d like to do to you.” Laying kisses along my neck, trailing them softly down to my throat, he murmured, “It’s probably best you don’t have a list right now. Mine’s going to keep you mighty busy.”
STARING AT THE BLANK PAPER before me, I chewed on the tip of my pen. This was harder than I’d thought it would be.
All I’d written so far was, June’s To-Do List.
I supposed I didn’t need a list. My life was already so different from what it used to be, plus Martucci’s list was proving to be quite satisfying. Still, a few goals that involved my clothes on couldn’t hurt.
The first thing I’d done the Saturday after Marissa’s party was pack up the gifts I’d gotten from the baby shower at work and drive to Deedee’s house. Even though I knew she had the childbirth class, I figured it couldn’t take the entire day. She might have wanted to cut me from her life, but it was going to take a machete to do it.
Deedee answered the door dressed in a tank top over an enormous swell of stomach, and I gaped at her. “Cripes, you swallow the Olson twins since the last time I saw you?”
“I know. I’m a big old cow, huh?”
“Nah. You’re cute as ever. But that’s a heck of a belly.”
She furrowed her brows. “How come you’re here? I thought for sure you hated me.”
“Not a chance. I’ll admit I was disappointed, but how could I be mad? You made the smart choice. Now are you going to make me stand out here, or will you let me in so I can give you these gifts?”
She called Maria over, and I didn’t need a translator for the oohs and aahs, especially when I rolled in that Cadillac of a stroller. I’d had no qualms keeping the gifts from my co-workers. I could have put a down payment on a home
with all the cash I’ve laid out for other people over the years. I simply let everyone know it was going to a poor blind grandma, and that was that. There was no need to mention she was twenty-nine.
As Deedee chattered on about running into her archnemesis, Theresa, the other day, I smiled to myself. I’d almost adopted a baby because I was so smitten with the idea of a little girl needing me.
Well, there was still a little girl who needed me.
Sure, she had a tendency to swear and wear too much eyeliner, but she needed me.
IT WAS A FEW DAYS after that that my brother called to tell me to check my e-mail. “I sent you a file of a page to be posted by our adoption agency. You’re a writer—I wanted to see if you had any suggestions.”
“You’re adopting—that’s great! How did that happen?”
“Hold on,” he said, “I’ll let the boss explain.” And he put Charlotte on the line.
She told me how she and Bob had talked on their way home from Deedee’s that day and how she had realized that if she could get that excited about a baby she’d known about for less than a day, there’d be no problem bonding with another. The adoption process could take a year or more, she told me, but that was nothing compared with how long they’d already waited.
“And you’re not upset that you didn’t get Deedee’s baby?”
“I was for a bit. Then for the first time I realized that this is going to happen. Bob and I will be parents. The right one will come along. Sad as I was, I had to accept it—that wasn’t our baby.”
MAYBE I’D PUT Swimming with the dolphins.
Then again, maybe not. My mom might want to frolic among Flipper’s little friends, but it wouldn’t make my list.
Truth was, I’d ambled through most of my life, not putting much thought into what I’d wanted. Even for the past year, when I’d worked so hard to complete the list, it had been a list of someone else’s dreams. It was time to put my own in motion.
Yet when I wrote down my first task, I surprised even myself.
After all, there were so many places to visit. So many things to do. Maybe marriage or babies. Taking up tap dancing. Reading the classics. Buying a sportier car. There were a million things I could put on my list.
But what I wrote was, #1. Go skydiving.
What was up with that?
I’d never had the slightest urge to skydive. In fact, I’d always thought it was about the silliest thing a person could do.
Yet suddenly the idea of making a wild leap—hurtling through the air, yet trusting that I’d know when to open my parachute so I’d have a soft landing—well, it sounded like something I might like to try.
Acknowledgments
I’D LIKE TO MAKE a little list of my own, people in my life to whom I’m indebted for all they’ve done to make this book possible.
A big thanks goes to Sally Kim—if there’s an editor’s hall of fame, she deserves to be in it—and everyone at Shaye Areheart; and to Kirsten Manges, for being a wonderful agent (and for lighting that fire under me), and Jenny Meyer for helping June to see more of the world.
My thanks also go out to the “Javiers,” Candy Deemer, Kate Holt, and Sandra O’Briant, for keeping me on track; readers Kate McMains, Rose Morales, Mary Jo Reutter, and Shelly Smolinski for advice and input; Monique Raphel High, a great coach and friend; the rideshare agencies and all my rideshare pals, especially Cheryl Collier, Harlan West, Carolyn Hart, and “free gas” survivors Al Rangel, Donna Blanchard, Norma Elston-Adams, Aileen Landau, Brenda Stevenson, Robert Lew, Sarah Zadok, and Teresa Milliken (it’s a miracle any of you speak to me); Lisa Kemp Jones and Susan Smolinski for Vegas inspiration; the book club “chicks” for always asking how the writing’s going; Scott Strohmaier who was there for the whining; Marcy Brown, Jerri Simpson, and families for keeping me sane through the editing process; my brothers Bob and Jim for (hopefully) being good sports (and I can think of a million reasons I’m grateful for them); and my son, Danny, who’d always pause a video game if I really, really needed to bounce something off him.
Last, I want to thank my parents, who not only didn’t try to stop me from being a writer, but who actually encouraged it.
About the Author
JILL SMOLINSKI is the author of Flip-Flopped. She currently lives in southern California with her son. Visit her at www.jillsmolinski.com.
Also by
Jill Smolinski
Flip-Flopped
FOOTNOTES
*Alison Freeman: former co-worker, single, living in a crappy apartment, with no romantic prospects on the horizon. Then she hit age thirty-five and said to hell with waiting for Prince Charming. She bankrolled her life savings into a tiny but cute two-bedroom house and signed up at the local sperm bank. While having her new kitchen remodeled, she and her cabinet guy fell in love. Bucking conventional wisdom to play it cool lest you scare a man off, she notified him, “I intend to get pregnant within six months. It can be yours. Or it can be Anonymous Donor #433’s. You choose.” They married within three months and now have two adorable girls.
Return to text.
*Alison Freeman: former co-worker, single, living in a crappy apartment, with no romantic prospects on the horizon. Then she hit age thirty-five and said to hell with waiting for Prince Charming. She bankrolled her life savings into a tiny but cute two-bedroom house and signed up at the local sperm bank. While having her new kitchen remodeled, she and her cabinet guy fell in love. Bucking conventional wisdom to play it cool lest you scare a man off, she notified him, “I intend to get pregnant within six months. It can be yours. Or it can be Anonymous Donor #433’s. You choose.” They married within three months and now have two adorable girls.
Return to text.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Jill Smolinski
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Shaye Areheart Books, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
Shaye Areheart Books and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Smolinski, Jill.
The next thing on my list : a novel / Jill Smolinski.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Overweight women—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.M65N48 2006
813'.6—dc22
2006021120
eISBN: 978-0-307-38154-5
v3.0_r1
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