Luck, Love & Lemon Pie

by Amy E. Reichert

  “Way to go, dumbass.” Kate shoved her brother.

  “I went grocery shopping this morning, but I didn’t have time to put it all away. The nonperishables are in the laundry room.”

  MJ walked through the door into the back hall, past the messy mudroom into the kitchen, the heart of her home—the home she could have sworn she’d left neat and tidy after breakfast. Now, dishes filled the sink and a stack of Kate’s college brochures peeked out from under the crumbs and used paper towels dotting the island. Cereal skittered across the kitchen floor as she walked. MJ started strategizing the best plan of attack when Chris walked in behind her followed by the kids, crunching some of the cereal as they walked. Nope, not this time. She couldn’t clean the kitchen a second time in one day. Chris disappeared into the laundry room.

  “And now you two can clean up the kitchen,” MJ said, pointing.

  “It’s all him.” Kate glared at Tommy.

  “Do I look like I care?” MJ said. “Tommy, you empty and load the dishwasher. Kate, you win sweeping and mopping. I’ll handle the island counter later.”

  “I can do the counter, too,” Kate said, shoving the brochures into her backpack.

  “Did you have a good lunch?” Tommy smiled as he opened the dishwasher. MJ loved his smile. It was like his father’s, but full of innocence and promise. He never could tell a lie, so you always knew where he stood. She worried that someday some femme fatale would crush her boy’s joie de vivre, but that was far in the future.

  Chris reentered the kitchen carrying the bottle of Hawaiian barbecue sauce MJ had bought that morning. Using a Sharpie, he wrote “Not for MJ” on it, then added it to the shelf containing a handful of similarly marked items—that’s where he put all the food containing pineapple that she accidentally bought. If she ate any of it, her throat would start to swell shut. If she didn’t take Benadryl in time, it could get dangerous. Chris paused to answer Tommy’s question.

  “Your mom did. My morning tournament went long, and now I need to get back for the final table.” He kissed Kate’s forehead and dashed out the door. He moved so quickly, he appeared blurred to MJ’s brandy-fuddled brain.

  MJ kept quiet, but Kate noticed and her eyes flicked to the closed door.

  “Mom?” Tommy asked.

  “I enjoyed dessert.” MJ smiled at him and left the room, the sound of clanking silverware following her up the stairs.

  She slid the new happy-face ring onto her dresser-top elephant ring holder. It settled atop several dusty rings, the bottom one covered in chipped faux-gold plating with a clear-plastic center stone. She brushed at the dust, remembering when Chris had given it to her twenty-six years ago, on a bended knee with shaky hands. He had spent five dollars in quarters trying to get it from the machine; it was the one most similar to an engagement ring. At the time, they hadn’t yet discussed marriage and certainly couldn’t afford it, but that cheap ring had delighted her.

  She picked up Chris’s clothes from the floor in their shared bathroom and shoved them into the laundry basket. How was a man who so precisely lined up his toiletries on the bathroom counter incapable of getting his dirty underwear into the hamper?

  Bending over and standing up had made her more light-headed. The room spun, replacing her fuzzy brain with a nauseous stomach. MJ sat down on the edge of their queen bed, willing the mountain of dirty laundry to shrink. That technique never worked, but she tried it at least twice a week anyway.

  Lunch, complete with surprise anniversary pie, was supposed to bring them closer together, not the opposite. But here she was, alone, with the laundry pile. And her growing terror at the realization she preferred spending time apart from Chris.

  There was a hole in her chest in the space where the caring was supposed to go. She could feel it—just under her breastbone, surrounded by a wall of bricks. When she took a deep breath, the to-be-expected tenderness and wifely warm-fuzzies tried to creep in, but the bricks held them at bay.

  Distantly, she could hear Kate yelling at Tommy to get out of her way. She looked around at her empty bedroom. Other than a looming hangover, nothing was different after her apparently lame stab at romance. In fact, things might be worse. She needed to come up with a new plan.

  Chapter Two

  The line of cars in the drop-off line stretched behind her and around the corner, the same as every day. A group of moms gathered in the nearby parking lot, chatting, with their perfect hair and tasteful makeup. This was their social time, but MJ couldn’t understand the allure of standing in a high school lot. She looked at the license plate on the car in front of her—HOT MAMA. MJ had left the house early to avoid congestion, but this stupid white Escalade still beat her.

  “Out of the car, you two,” she said to Kate and Tommy. “Take the bus home today, okay? Love you!”

  “Got it, Ma,” Tommy said before slamming the door shut and joining a few of his teammates who stood near the school doors. Kate paused before leaving the car, just long enough that MJ thought she was going to say what was on her mind, but she mumbled, “Bye,” instead. MJ would have to discreetly interrogate her later.

  She checked her mirrors and prepared to zoom out of the drop-off lane but was confronted with the white wall of the SUV still in front of her. What the hell? This was a two-minute zone.

  MJ gripped the steering wheel as a bleached-blonde mom—HOT MAMA herself, she supposed—got out and waved at MJ as she walked in between their cars to hand off a forgotten bag to the teenager who had jumped out moments before. It couldn’t be. MJ squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again, expecting to see someone else. Anyone else. No, that was definitely Tammie. Tammie Shezwyski, her college nemesis, had come to town and was holding her up in the drop-off lane.

  MJ mustered a nod and resisted the finger. Tammie handed off the bag and sauntered back to the driver’s seat, oblivious to the cars lined up behind her, just as a Nickelback song—the one about a rock star—started playing on the radio.

  “I have died and am stuck in the eighth circle of hell.”

  MJ let her head fall onto the wheel, searching for an explanation to Tammie’s sudden appearance in her world. She hadn’t thought about her only rival in almost thirty years. Kate really needed to pass her driver’s test so she could drive Tommy and herself to school. Or maybe they would need to start taking the bus, even if it meant everyone getting up earlier.

  She flicked off the radio and resumed her glaring with renewed vigor. Her hand hovered over the horn as Tammie finally climbed back into her monstrosity of a vehicle. Honestly, if a teenager wasn’t capable of getting into school, backpack included, without parental assistance, there were bigger issues at play.

  “Don’t use the effing drop-off lane if you’re going to get out,” MJ growled despite her lack of audience, finally able to drive forward.

  The white Escalade turned off on a side street. Thirty years. But apparently the instant dislike born so long ago was just as strong today. Why did she have to pick MJ’s town to live in? Or—here’s hoping—maybe it was just temporary.

  MJ coasted into a parking spot in front of This Great Coffee Place and hopped out—eager to dish.

  “You’ll never guess who moved to town,” MJ said as Lisa sat down at her table. MJ gave her a moment to respond but couldn’t keep it in long enough. “Tammie Shezwyski!”

  Across the table, Lisa dropped her jaw in exaggerated horror. MJ looked around at the bustling coffee shop as she blew on her coffee, letting the news sink in.

  This Great Coffee Place always lived up to its name. MJ and her coffee klatch had been meeting there once a week since their kids were in diapers. Sometimes, but not often, she missed seeing her kids mixing up plastic brownies and serving invisible coffee at the pretend kitchen in the corner—until one of the current little ones started whining or crying. MJ preferred her teenagers, even if they would soon leave her behind as they blazed their own paths to adulthood.

  Photos and paintings by local artists hung on th
e terra-cotta walls, flyers for upcoming events filled a bulletin board near the cash register, and books by local authors sat next to the coffee urns. Even if the scones weren’t the best in town—which they were—MJ would still choose here over the nearest chain. It also helped that one of her dearest and oldest friends, Lisa, owned the place.

  Lisa’s straight blonde-brown hair curved chicly around her chin, and her wrinkle-free, fair cheeks emphasized the highlights she spent so much on. Even during the day, she wore full makeup and bold jewelry. Everything about her sparkled from the inside out, and it always had. Lisa and she had met in college at Madison, where they’d become roommates and had shared late-night secrets over cheap pizza and cheaper wine. Thankfully, they had settled a few miles apart once husbands and children arrived.

  “Ugh, I thought we were done with her,” Lisa said.

  “I hope you’re not talking about me.”

  Ariana, the third member of their klatch, set down her mug and eased into her chair—her wavy, dark brown hair brushing against the lapels of her teal suit. Ariana had joined the group when their kids started four-year-old kindergarten together. She had moved to the area after divorce number two, and the three women had bonded in the back row of school events. When Ariana discreetly flashed her flask of Jack Daniel’s during a showing of The Muppet Movie in the school gym, MJ and Lisa knew they’d found a kindred spirit. She shared their ambivalence for the PTA, but every fall, she bought coffee and scones for the entire school staff (from This Great Coffee Place, of course). Brilliantly, she had avoided being recruited for Room Mom duty all through elementary school. She often snuck out of her nearby office to join MJ and Lisa for coffee, a nice break from the drama of family law.

  “MJ’s college nemesis has moved to town.”

  “Ooooo. Tell me more. I can’t imagine our MJ with a nemesis.”

  MJ flared her nostrils.

  “She is that person. From day one, I couldn’t stand her. Everything from her too-high-pitched voice to her fake blonde hair makes me want to punch her. She drives me crazy.”

  Ariana laughed, then paused when she noticed Lisa nodding along.

  “No, it’s true. She gets a little wacko around Tammie.”

  MJ took a big gulp of coffee.

  “What did she do?” Ariana asked.

  “Existed,” MJ said. “We worked together at Bucky’s, that bar in Madison. She’s the worst. She’d spend the night in one tiny section behind the bar while I worked the remaining eighty percent, then split the tips fifty-fifty. Ugh, let’s talk about something else.”

  “How was the anniversary?” Lisa asked.

  Not exactly the topic I was hoping for. MJ slumped back in her chair.

  “Chris spent the entire day at the casino.” MJ’s face melted into defeat. “I spent lunch drinking old-fashioneds and getting too much sun. And I ate our entire anniversary pie by myself.”

  Both her girlfriends were stunned, but Lisa found her words first. “He didn’t.” She set her elbows on the table and placed her chin in her hands, giving MJ her full attention. “I’m listening.”

  How could she explain—without sounding like a terrible person—the real problem: that she really hadn’t minded Chris’s absence? Being alone was just easier than being disappointed and angry. What bothered her most was the lack of bother.

  MJ sipped her coffee, which didn’t help the twisting in her stomach. She hated admitting things weren’t perfect. Chris and she had everything—beautiful kids, a home in a quiet wooded neighborhood, and some retirement savings. They rarely fought about anything serious, and she did love him. She did. But the butterflies had disappeared somewhere between kids and now. Most days they seemed more like highly compatible roommates than husband and wife. But she wanted more than a roommate.

  “Chris ditching me wasn’t the worst part, though. The worst part was I didn’t mind.” Two pairs of eyebrows rose at MJ’s unexpected confession.

  “What are you saying?” Lisa asked.

  “She’s saying she doesn’t want to spend time with him.” Ariana reached over and squeezed MJ’s pale hand with her tan one, her unpolished nails buffed to a shine. “Do you want to come back to the office with me? We can talk options.”

  MJ yanked her hand back. “No!” A few heads turned to look at her outburst, and MJ gave Ariana a reassuring smile. “No, thank you. I don’t want to divorce him. I want to fix it.”

  She wanted the relationship she projected to the world, the vision of partnership they used to have, his earnest attempts to make her smile, and the thoughtful acts—like vacuuming the house before a romantic evening. She missed the wooing. But who got wooed twenty years in?

  “So what are you going to do?” Ariana asked. The door jingled and she glanced toward it, then pulled her soft waves of hair away from her face. A youngish man in his late twenties looked toward their table and nodded. He had the lanky, athletic build of a swimmer, topped with short blond hair and startling pale blue eyes. He wore a college sweatshirt and running pants, like he was stopping in on his way to work out. Keys dangled from one finger; his other hand clutched a battered wallet.

  “I don’t remember guys looking like that when we were that age,” said Lisa, letting her eyes roam freely.

  “That’s someone’s son.” Ariana gently shoved Lisa.

  “He’s not my son, so I’ll look all I like.”

  This was why their weekly coffees were so crucial. Even in the midst of discussing her stalled marriage, levity never left the building. Lisa continued her blatant ogling until the young man left with his coffee, flashing them a quick smile as he passed.

  “Whew,” Lisa said, fanning herself with a napkin. “I wonder if he does yard work or clears pipes. I have something he can—”

  Ariana chided, “Lisa. You are a married woman.”

  “Eh. Harvey probably wouldn’t notice unless it interrupted his golf swing. Hey, MJ, maybe we can employ that young man while our husbands are off playing their respective games.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the solution I’m looking for, but I’ll keep it as a backup plan,” MJ said.

  “How are you supposed to spend more time with him?” Ariana leaned in and whispered, “If he’s always at the casino, he doesn’t have a problem, does he?”

  MJ squeezed Ariana’s hand, her sweet concerned friend, so well acquainted with how many ways a marriage can go off track.

  “No, at least not the way you mean. We aren’t in debt to some shady loan shark. But we do have a problem in that he’d rather play poker than be with me and that I’m finding it hard to muster up the strength to care.”

  “Why don’t you just tell him not to play?” Lisa asked. “Seems pretty simple.”

  “You should talk. Once the snow is off the ground, does Harvey ever let go of a golf club?”

  “That works for me. You don’t hear me saying I want to spend more time with him. You, on the other hand, need to tell Chris.”

  “It’s easier if I just fix it myself. I just need a plan of attack.”

  “You need to confront him,” Lisa said. MJ opened her mouth. “I know you don’t like talking about your feelings, but do it.”

  MJ frowned. “It’s never that easy. Conversations come loaded with twenty years of land mines just waiting to explode with the wrong word choice.”

  “After two divorces and too many clients to count, trust me . . . you need to tell him, no games,” said Ariana.

  In the silence that followed, MJ tapped her mug with her short fingernails, a red so dark it was nearly black. The sound reminded her of casino chips clinking together, the plink of clay on clay. She sat up a little straighter.

  “That’s it, ladies. Playing games is exactly what I need to do.” MJ smiled, relief flooding through her tense muscles. She had the perfect solution.

  Tonight she’d share her idea with Chris over a rare family meal. In preparation, she was making scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, one of the few meals she could cook witho
ut setting off the fire alarms. She hated having to come up with meals day after day after day. Chris was the one who could cook—her talent was eating. But it didn’t make sense for him to work full time and then cook dinner every night, so she did her best, mastering a few simple dishes like tacos and barbecue pork sandwiches. If it involved more than one pot, forget it. Too many ingredients? No way. Scrambled eggs with cheese and herbs was her specialty. The family called them “Katie eggs” because when Kate was four, it was all she would eat for six months, ergo MJ’s mastery of them.

  The—as always—important first step was cleaning the kitchen. She put all the dishes into the dishwasher, swept the floor, and wiped the counters, but left Tommy’s and Kate’s bags where they had dropped them. Everything else unnecessary disappeared into cabinets. Now she could get out all the ingredients, cracking eggs and dumping spices into the mix.

  Despite the routine, her hands fluttered with a nervous energy as she fretted about how Chris would respond. She didn’t want him to think she was interfering in his man time, but she wanted to share something with him, like how they used to watch Friends and ER when the kids were little, or Saturday-morning sex before the kids were born. She may know he liked to get his hair trimmed every twenty-three days, but that didn’t mean the magic had to be gone—they just needed to dig around to find it. And she might have found the right tool for digging.

  Tommy and Kate thundered into the kitchen, stepping over their book bags and opening pantry doors.

  “Hey, Ma,” Tommy mumbled through an apple he crunched.

  “Since when do you guys leave your bags on the floor? Move ’em,” MJ said. Tommy scooped up his bag, then rumbled up the steps to his room.

  “What’s for dinner?” Kate asked, kicking her bag into the dining room. MJ groaned at her least favorite question and the only one she was asked multiple times every afternoon.

  “Katie eggs, bacon, and toast.”