Sure Shot

by Sarina Bowen

  “David,” Zara chides, powdering my nose to prepare me for my big entrance. “All you have to do is walk your sister down the aisle. Don’t tease, or she’ll think you’re going to check the groom against the boards.”

  “Sorry,” my brother says. “I’m just trying to make jokes so she won’t be nervous.”

  “I’m not nervous,” I say, and it’s 85 percent true. So long as I make it down the short aisle without tripping over anything, I won’t be nervous at all.

  There’s a knock on the door, and Heidi steps in. “Two minutes until faceoff,” she says, her brand new engagement ring flashing in the light from the chandelier.

  “Thank you Heidi,” I say.

  The week after Tank proposed, a sheepish Jason Castro came into my office and asked me how much he could afford to spend on an engagement ring. “Not because Tank shamed me into it,” he’d said. “But because it’s time.”

  Eric had snickered into his coffee while I helped Jason look at his accounts and decide on a budget.

  “You look ridiculously beautiful,” Heidi says. “You’re setting the bar really high, here.”

  “She’s right,” Zara agrees, stepping back to admire her work. “We have to get you into dresses more often.”

  “What for?” I ask. “I think your work here is done.” I take one more glance in the mirror. I look like an honest-to-God princess. It hardly seems real.

  “Show time!” Dave says, putting his wine glass down on the mantel. “Let’s do this. Zara, honey, you’re first, right?”

  “Here, baby.” Zara hands me the bouquet of orange roses that the florist chose for me. “Ready?”

  I nod and take a deep breath, and she slips into place in front of my brother.

  The string quartet begins to play a minuet, and my heart rate doubles. This is really it! Although Dave is blocking my view of the ballroom, so I can’t see Tank yet.

  This mansion we’re renting is owned by an Upper East Side museum. It’s the perfect space for my little wedding—sixty guests, many of whom are hockey players.

  The music changes, and Zara steps out to join Tank’s mother for a short walk up the aisle.

  We’d decided against a formal lineup of bridesmaids and groomsmen, so only our closest family members will take part in the ceremony. I rise on my tiptoes and peek over Dave’s shoulder to get a glimpse at the other reason we’re getting married in a hurry.

  Henry Kassman is easing himself onto a tall director’s chair at the front of the room. His nurse hovers in the first row, but Henry carefully seats himself without assistance and smiles. He’s wearing a pinstripe suit and a red tie.

  He doesn’t show it, but he’s in a lot of pain. That’s why I wanted this wedding location—it’s less than a mile from his apartment building. I was hoping it would be possible for him to come. And here he is. “You were wrong, kid,” he’d told Tank. “You said you wouldn’t get married again. And now I’m holding the invitation in my hand.”

  The music changes again. Here comes the bride. My pulse jumps and the world seems to slow down.

  “That’s us!” my brother says gleefully, offering his arm. “This is fun. I never gave anyone away before.”

  “You will,” I remind him, taking his arm. “Someday Nicole is going to call you up to say that she met a nice hockey player—”

  Dave grunts. “Hush. Everyone is standing up.” He guides me forward. We step out of the library, and I get my first look at the crowd. Smiling faces are turned in our direction as Dave leads me slowly forward. I’ve never seen so many candles and flowers.

  “Bessie—you know I love you, right?” Dave whispers.

  “Yes,” I whisper back.

  “And that I’m really happy for you. Even if he is a hockey player.”

  “Yes,” I repeat, squeezing his arm.

  Dave stops walking as we reach the front, and I get my first up-close look at my groom in his gray tux. He’s perfectly shaved, which is different. But the look on his face is even more unusual. It’s completely disarmed. He tilts his head to the side and smiles at me, his green eyes glittering. Like he can’t quite believe this is real.

  “The man knows he’s lucky,” Dave whispers. “That makes this a little easier for me.” He takes my hands and turns to look at me. “This is where I leave you, Bess. But I’ll never really leave you.”

  “I know,” I choke out. “Now shut up before you make me cry.”

  The people closest to us chuckle. There’s Eric Bayer with Alex. And Rebecca and Nate. And Silas, Delilah, and Castro.

  I’d come to New York to get a life, and make a five-year plan. Five months later, I have a life that looks nothing like I’d planned—it’s more amazing by every measure.

  Dave leans in and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Go marry your boy.”

  Henry Kassman’s face splits into a big grin. He gives me a slow nod.

  So I do it. I step forward, where Tank is waiting to take my hand. He lifts it to his mouth and kisses my palm, gazing at me as his lips brush my skin. There’s a look in his eyes I’ve never seen before. He’s humbled by this.

  And so am I.

  Somehow my bouquet gets handed to Zara. Dave takes his place beside his wife, and the minister begins to speak. I miss most of what he says, because I’m too lost in the moment. I’m holding Tank’s hands as he stares into my eyes. His thumb makes a gentle swish across my wrist, the same way it did when I got flustered and introduced myself to him in Nate and Becca’s backyard.

  We didn’t bother with a rehearsal, so when it’s time for the vows, it’s the first time I’ve ever heard Tank say the words. “I, Mark, take you, Bess, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward…”

  Just wow.

  “…To love and to cherish until death do us part.”

  Then it’s my turn. I clear my throat and do my best. It’s all so humbling that my voice shakes. I must do okay, though, because the minister pronounces us to be man and wife. And then Tank kisses me while the whole room cheers.

  Cinderella has nothing on me.

  Thirty-Six

  Everybody Likes Sweet Potatoes

  Tank

  One Year Later

  “If he finished the peas, try the sweet potatoes again,” Bess calls from the bedroom. “Everyone likes sweet potatoes.”

  I look down into the soulful brown eyes of our foster child Roberto, who is six months old. “¿Escuchas eso?” I ask him. “A todos les gustan las batatas.” Everybody likes sweet potatoes.

  Roberto kicks his fat little feet and bounces in his chair.

  I dip the tiny spoon into the pureed sweet potato and lift it to his lips. Roberto takes the food into his cherubic mouth. And one second later he blows a raspberry, spraying sweet potatoes all over my Bruisers T-shirt.

  “Aw, baby. Really?” I sputter, while Roberto giggles. “Honey!” I call. “Not everyone likes sweet potatoes.”

  “My bad!” Bess says in the distance.

  “Necesitamos un Zamboni,” I tell the small person in the highchair. I grab a paper towel and dampen it. Then I use it to wipe bits of pureed sweet potato off every surface of the room, starting with Roberto’s round little face.

  “Oh boy,” Dave Beringer says, walking into my kitchen, his own seven-month-old son on his hip. “Looks like someone detonated a small anti-sweet-potato device in here.”

  “That happened,” I say, pulling the baby out of the chair and detaching his bib.

  “I can hold two at once,” Dave says. “You need a fresh shirt.”

  “I’ll take a baby!” Zara says, popping into the kitchen. She snatches Roberto from me and starts kissing his chubby cheeks.

  Is Bess still in the bedroom? It’s taking her a long time to get ready for the team Christmas Eve party. At least fifteen minutes. I guess I’m spoiled by her quick turnarounds. “Anyone need more coffee?” I ask our guests.

  “I’ll take one,” Dave says. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”
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br />   “Really? That hotel is pretty great. Did you try the croissants?”

  “It’s not the hotel’s fault, and those croissants are killer,” he says. “But this guy has forgotten how to sleep through the night.” He pats his son on the butt.

  “Ouch. Bess and I have been lucky, I guess.” Roberto has only been with us for about ten days, but he’s a good sleeper. “If only he liked sweet potatoes.” I’m still wearing this wreck of a shirt.

  “How do you do it?” Zara asks me as I pour her husband a cup of coffee. She gazes into Roberto’s eyes.

  “It takes a few days to learn their quirks,” I say. Roberto is foster baby number three.

  “No,” Zara says, smoothing down Roberto’s curls. “How will you hand him back?” She looks up at me. “Isn’t it awful?”

  Why yes, it is. But this is what we signed up for. “Roberto has a mom who loves him. That’s why it’s okay.” We’re doing a very special kind of foster care. We take in immigrant babies who are temporarily separated from their parents. In Roberto’s case, his mother was injured on her journey from South America. She required surgery in a facility that can’t accommodate infants.

  So for a few weeks—we don’t know how long—he needs a temporary home. That’s us.

  Our involvement was Bess’s idea. I’d been skeptical, but she’d wanted to help. And it’s so damn brave of her that I couldn’t say no. She impresses me every single day.

  It turns out that taking care of these babies is easily the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done—rocking a child who misses his mother. Feeding him. Holding him as he falls asleep. It’s humbling.

  Bess will cry a little on the day we have to hand him back to the social worker who will return him to his mother. But only because she wishes him the best. If they’re lucky, his mom will win her asylum case and stay in the US. If they’re less lucky, they’ll be deported to Venezuela.

  Either way, they’ll be together. Roberto won’t remember this time when Bess and I stepped in to care for him for a few short weeks. But we’ll never forget it.

  Dave takes the cup of coffee, and then holds it out of his red-headed son’s reach. “This party starts soon, right?”

  “Yup. Let me change my shirt and see if Bess is ready.” I hold out my hands to Zara. “Shall I take him back?”

  “Not a chance,” she says. “Let me make sure Nicole hasn’t spilled her milk all over your living room.” She carries Roberto out of the room.

  “It doesn’t matter what Nicole spills,” I say as she leaves.

  “You say that now,” Dave says. “But it’s hard to get the smell of sour milk out of some things. Like, for example, a Honda Pilot. It’s crazy the stunts these kids pull. But I hope…” He puts his hand on his baby son’s hair as the sentence trails off. “Someday I hope you get that chance. To take care of a baby who calls you daddy. Because you guys deserve it. And the kid will be so lucky to have you.”

  “Thank you,” I say gruffly. “Our chance will come.”

  And here’s one surprising thing about my marriage—Dave Beringer has been solid gold. It was nice of him and Zara to haul their growing family down to New York for the brief holiday break in my game schedule. Bess loves having her family around her. As a bonus, Dave gets to see all his old friends.

  “Go change,” he says now. “So we can drink eggnog and play ping pong.”

  “On it.” I leave the kitchen and head for the bedroom. “Bess? How goes it?” I ask when I find her in the bathroom.

  Startled, she slams a drawer and then stands up, turning around quickly. “Fine! Great. Where’s the baby?”

  “Zara is making goo-goo eyes at him in the living room.” I study Bess for a second. She looks a little pale and also vaguely guilty.

  “Ready to go?” she asks, tucking fidgety hands into her back pockets.

  “Almost,” I say slowly. “Give me a minute to wash the sweet potatoes off my face. A Roberto no le gustan.”

  “Sorry.” Bess winks. “You look sexy like that, though.”

  “You liar.”

  She stops on her way out of the bathroom, her hand on my arm, her clear blue eyes smiling up at me. “It’s the truth, though. It would take a hell of a lot more than some baby food to dull your shine.”

  After she leaves, I catch myself grinning at my reflection. She kills me. I’m so lucky to have had this second chance with her. I’m glad I wasn’t too stupid to take it.

  I shuck off my T-shirt and toss it into the hamper. Then I grab a clean button-down from our closet and wander back into the bathroom to comb my hair. Our commute to this party will be easy enough—an elevator ride up to the penthouse level of our building. And since we all chipped in to cater the party, we don’t even have to bring a dish.

  My team is having a hell of a season so far. But everyone’s so busy. We need this three-day break.

  One of Bess’s bathroom drawers is slightly ajar. It’s the one she’d slammed. I nudge it with my knee, but it won’t close. Something is stuck. I open it, finding the culprit immediately. It’s a vitamin bottle that’s standing upright instead of lying down. Just as I’m tucking it back into place, I catch the label. Folic acid.

  Goosebumps rise on my arms. As far as I know, there’s only one use for folic acid. It’s something pregnant women take. My ex took it for years, just in case.

  I actually have chills right now.

  But, hang on. When I freaked out at Bess last fall, she took some steps toward considering a solo pregnancy. Buying a bottle of folic acid would have been one of them. This bottle is probably just old.

  And then there are the condoms that we use. Bess pulls them out at certain times of the month, and I go along with it. She said we shouldn’t waste time thinking about conception. And it works. I never think about it.

  Until right this second.

  Alone in the bathroom, I let out a strangled laugh. It’s Christmas Eve, her family is here, and we’re on the way to a party. I obviously have to keep on not thinking about this.

  I carefully close the drawer and finish buttoning my shirt.

  Three hours later, the party is winding down. The sky is darkening outside the big windows. The kids are starting to yawn, including the one I’m holding.

  I’ve had a fine afternoon. I’m full of roast chicken and cheddar grits and wilted greens and cheesecake. And beer.

  “Ante up,” Leo Trevi says, shuffling the deck.

  I put two chips on the table and rock the baby while I wait for him to deal.

  Earlier, I lost gallantly at ping pong to Heidi Jo Castro. As one does. Now there’s a warm, sleepy baby in a carrier on my chest. He’s zonked from crawling around on the rug and watching my niece Nicole bounce around the party, stealing cookies off the dessert table. She’s three and a half now, with cinnamon hair in two pigtails on either side of her round little face.

  That’s what Bess’s daughter would look like.

  Oh, boy. Most days my brain doesn’t do that. And I really wish it would stop now.

  Roberto presses his cheek against my chest and makes a sleepy little complaint. I pat him on the back. “Duerme ahora.” Sleep now.

  Castro shakes his head beside me. “Nunca me dijiste que podías hablar español.” You never told me you could speak Spanish.

  “No preguntaste.” You didn’t ask. And, in truth, my Spanish is pretty rusty. “When I was a little boy, my dad was a ranch hand in Washington state. There were some Spanish speakers who worked there, and I liked talking to them. Then I took Spanish in high school and college. I hadn’t spoken a word for years until we needed to convince the social services agency that we should be eligible for the temporary foster care program.”

  “Ustedes dos son santos.” You two are saints.

  “We’re not,” I insist. “It’s a small thing. Look at this place.” I wave in the general direction of the sumptuous party room, the food and drink. “We live in paradise. I’m only sharing it for a few weeks.”

  “Unti
l the little guy rips your heart out on the way out the door.” Castro clicks his tongue. “How do people give them back?”

  “Well, he has a mother—”

  “I know you said that. But still.”

  “We’ll get our chance. It’s an adoption agency that manages this temporary foster program. When they finish our home study at the end of next year, they won’t forget what we’ve done.”

  “Ah,” Castro says. “Okay. So you could have a baby in a year?”

  “A year and a half, minimum. Probably more like two. But that’s all right with us. We got time.”

  A soft hand lands on the back of my neck. “Oh, you have a pair of aces!” Bess says.

  Everyone else looks up in shock.

  “Kidding!” Bess says with a laugh.

  “But now they know I don’t have a pair of aces,” I complain.

  “Who draws a pair of aces, anyway?” She kneels down to peek at Roberto. “Hi, sleepy. Can I take him?”

  “He’s pretty comfortable right now,” I point out. “If you pick him up, he’ll get the sleepy screamies.” It’s wild to realize that I already know this. Ten days is long enough to fall into a rhythm with a baby.

  “All right.” She puts her hand over mine. “But when he wakes up, it’s my turn.”

  “You’ll get yours, I promise.” I’m leaving on a trip the day after tomorrow. Bess will be a single (foster) mom for a few days. But she has help from her new office assistant and a babysitter we hired for a few hours a day so that Bess can run across the street to make calls in her office.

  “Don’t bet too much against Heidi,” Bess says, stroking my hair.

  “Like I’d be so stupid.”

  “You’re already a hundred bucks down to her,” Castro points out.

  “True, but I lost it very slowly and carefully.”

  Laughing, Bess kisses me on the top of the head and then wanders off to talk to Zara and Georgia, who seem to be mixing up a batch of frozen margaritas. The whirr of the blender startles Roberto in his sleep a minute later, and I have to pat his back until he settles again.