“Sorry. Sorry,” she mumbled, sliding the now empty rack under her chair.
I can survive anything for one night. It helped that she wore her usual uniform of blue jeans and a dark top—tonight was a black peasant shirt with silver stitching that glinted when the light hit it. Her hair bounced around her shoulders. Still flushed with embarrassment, she wished she had a rubber band to slip her hair back. She pulled out her bartender face from so many years ago, letting ice run through her to freeze out the discomfort.
Next to her sat an older gentleman. With his right hand, he flipped a chip over his knuckles as if it were a Slinky going down the stairs. In his other hand, he rubbed the belly of a small Buddha statue. He smiled at her when he noticed her watching.
“First time?” he said.
MJ half nodded. “First time with people I don’t know.”
“Nothing to worry about. Nobody bites, and they’ll all happily take your money.” His smile reminded her of Bruce, the friendly shark from Finding Nemo—he’d be your friend until he smelled blood; then you better run for your life. Tonight, MJ was the fresh meat. She took a deep breath, tasting the faint chemical smell of cleaning solutions and air freshener covering the funk of so many warm bodies in one room. She could do this. The worst thing these people could do to her was win her money.
Stomach swirling as her first cards slid across the table to her, she tried to remember all the casino rules Chris had drilled into her mind. She waited until the dealer dealt both cards, cupped her hands, and peeked at the corner, the cards stiff and reluctant to bend. A seven of diamonds and an eight of hearts. Two people bet two dollars and two people folded by the time it was her turn. All eyes looked at her. She peeked at her cards again.
“It’s only two dollars. That’s a cheap flop,” one of the hoodied young men said.
MJ flushed again, but took two chips and tossed them into the center. The dealer laid down the flop: six of clubs, eight of diamonds, ten of clubs. Her heart beat a little. She had a pair of eights. Another round of two-dollar bets went around the table and MJ added hers. The dealer set down the turn: the eight of spades. She had three of a kind! Her heart beat a little faster. She could win this hand, her first hand at a real table. The betting went around again. This time everyone who was still in added four dollars to the pot, and one person folded. Now it was just her and two men.
The dealer laid down the last card: a nine of spades. That didn’t do anything for her, but it was okay: she still had three of a kind and the other player—she had named him Slump for his poor posture—had to bet first. He bet four dollars. She raised the bet to eight dollars. Slump countered with twelve dollars. MJ called. They both flipped their cards over at the same time. He had a pair of tens, giving him three tens when combined with the shared cards, a higher hand than her three eights. MJ’s heart dropped as she looked at the mini-mountain of chips in the center of the table and realized how many were hers.
“Damn,” she said. Every man—including the dealer—looked at MJ as if she had morphed into a gelatinous slug.
“Ahem, you won,” the man sitting on her left said.
“But he had tens; I only had eights.”
Very gently, as if he were telling a little girl her bunny just died, he explained, “You had a straight, six through ten.”
“Jesus Christ, they should have training wheels on this table.” Slump scowled. The dealer started pushing the chips in her direction.
MJ burned with shame. How could she miss that? “Sorry. I didn’t see it.”
“That’s okay, honey. We’ve all made mistakes. And if people can’t handle playing with new players, then they should pony up the cash to play at the higher-stakes tables.”
“Thanks.” MJ nodded at the nice man.
MJ stacked the chips carefully, avoiding eye contact with the other guys at the table.
Her new friend leaned in and whispered, “Don’t forget to tip the dealer. A buck or two is good for this table.”
“Thanks,” MJ whispered back, and tossed a chip at the dealer, who nodded his gratitude—another helpful hint Chris neglected to tell her. Another thing she had to figure out for herself.
She folded the next few hands, barely looking at her cards. Her disappointment at not sitting with Chris had formed the first layer of dread in her stomach. Her mortification at making such a dumb mistake comprised the second. She didn’t want to play any more. She should leave.
“Playing like a drum after that straight, eh?” one of the hoodie-clad young men said derisively. She named him Unabomber.
Rattled, she bet the next five hands in a row and lost all of them, forfeiting all of the winnings from that first hand, and then some. At this rate, she’d be done in a few more hands, and she’d be done with this failed experiment.
MJ was furious at herself for wanting to crawl away—she was stronger than this. She gritted her teeth and searched for her “date.”
She found Chris’s head between two older men a few tables over. His rumpled hair stood out from all the baseball hats and hooded sweatshirts. Many covered their eyes with sunglasses, too, hoping to hide any tells their eyes might give away. Why would anyone go to such lengths to pretend to be something else? She was pleased to see Chris looking like his normal, open, and friendly self. He didn’t look like a guy who would bluff. Maybe that was how he got away with it.
He glanced up, saw MJ looking, and gave her a thumbs-up and gleaming smile. MJ sighed. He looked so happy. Maybe this wasn’t an absolute failure. She could manage a few more hands, maybe do something to make the table like her more. It was time for a little B-DIO. MJ signaled a waitress, who sauntered over to the table.
“What can I getcha?” the waitress said.
“I’ll take a coffee with four creams and I’d like to buy the table a round of drinks from the bar. Whatever they want. They’ve been patient with me during my first time.” MJ eyed Slump at the end of the table. He shrugged his shoulders and looked sheepish. The rest of the table murmured their thanks and named their drinks. The man on her left leaned in again.
“Well played. I’m James, by the way.” He held out his hand.
“MJ.” She shook it. Now that she really looked at him, his watery, smiling eyes reminded her of the Gents. His gray hair curled tightly to his head, and his wrinkles hinted at abundant laughter. She pointed to the tiny Buddha. “For luck?”
“Partially, but I also set him on my cards if I’m staying in a hand so they don’t accidentally get swept up by the dealer. He’s my card protector.” MJ nodded. “A word of advice: Fold for a few rounds but still pay attention. Watch everyone as they play. Look for tells. You’ll be surprised what you pick up.”
“Thanks, James. But I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”
“If you know how someone acts when their hand is crap—which is most hands, statistically—you’ll notice when something changes. For example, our young man over there.” He pointed to Slump. “He slouches back in his chair all the time. It’s driving me nuts. But when he gets a good hand, he sits up straighter. If he bluffs, he hunches forward over his cards. Just watch.”
MJ nodded again. Peeked at her cards and folded. She watched as Unabomber and a few others folded. Slump straightened and called. James peeked at his cards and matched the bet. MJ couldn’t discern anything different in his play. After the flop, Slump hunched and bet. He must not like his cards anymore. James winked at her and bet. The turn. Slump curved even more, but bet. James raised. Slump grumbled, but called. The last card. Slump checked. James bet as much as he could. Slump chewed his lip, eyed James. MJ could feel James’s left foot vibrating under the table. Slump folded. James showed his two cards. He didn’t have a hand at all. He had bluffed Slump because he knew he hadn’t had a good hand. And now MJ knew both their tells.
Perhaps poker was more interesting than she remembered. It wasn’t much different from guessing which customers at a bar would cause trouble if she kept serving them shots o
f Jack Daniel’s, or the exact moment when a five-year-old Kate would lose it in the grocery store—always near the yogurt because MJ wouldn’t buy the ones with candy mix-ins. She didn’t have to wait for the right cards; she just had to assess the table and work it to her advantage. It was the ultimate B-DIO situation. She was back in the game.
MJ watched the players for ten more hands, then joined back in, this time feeling much more equipped. She used her newfound information to win a few hands. After she called James’s bluff—his leg had been vibrating like a jackhammer—he leaned in.
“I’m thinking you didn’t need any advice. You’ve been playing us.”
“Yes. That’s my shtick—I pretend to be clueless, make an ass of myself, make everyone think I’m stupid, then take all your money.”
MJ smiled, and James raised his eyebrow.
“That’s actually a pretty good plan, isn’t it?”
James nodded. “We all have our reasons for being here and most of them have little to do with money.”
Her brow scrunched. She turned to find Chris. He wasn’t in his spot but heading her way with empty hands. He stopped behind her chair.
“You ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“I’m out. Are you ready to leave?”
MJ blinked and her shoulders slumped a bit. Well, there went her earlier hopes to capitalize on his good mood. She really wasn’t ready to leave but knew that taking a stand would only result in an argument, and that’s not how she had envisioned the night ending.
“I guess.” She racked her chips, tossed another one at the dealer, and gave James a squeeze on his shoulder. “Thanks for your help.”
“I hope to see you again soon.” He smiled.
“Me, too.”
And MJ meant it. She liked winning the game, the camaraderie with James, gaining her footing. Perhaps she’d be back soon.
She cashed in her chips and had only lost fifty dollars—not bad for a first time. On the way home, Chris relayed why he had none: a bad beat. She’d heard it before. But, like James said, maybe it wasn’t about the money. Why did Chris like to play? It’s true, they didn’t spend frivolously, so they had some fun money, and he did win almost as much as he lost. So what was her husband searching for on the felt?
Chapter Six
I can never go to the Piggly Wiggly again,” MJ said, swinging her damp black fleece jacket onto the back of a coffee-shop chair.
“This should be good.” Lisa was already sitting at the table with Ariana.
“Let me guess: Tammie?” Ariana said, her wavy hair pulled into a polished ponytail that swooshed elegantly with her every movement. MJ nodded. “I’m starting to look forward to these stories.”
“Okay, I went in for groceries and saw her by the butternut squash. Then, of course, I bumped my cart into a mountain of apples, which toppled all over the floor. So I did the only thing I could do: I grabbed my purse and ran.” Lisa and Ariana didn’t even try to not laugh at her, and she didn’t blame them. She was acting like an idiot. “And the worst part is that I still need to go grocery shopping because I abandoned my almost-full cart amid the apple wreckage.”
Ariana wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I need a better understanding of why this happens. This isn’t like you at all.”
MJ paused to collect her thoughts, trying to explain the temporary insanity brought on by the mere sight of Tammie Shezwyski.
“Imagine a young me, leaving her tiny town in northern Wisconsin, where she didn’t have a lot of friends and spent all her time in a bar with her mom and a few kind, but much older, men. College was my big start in the world. My chance to leave all of the isolation and reinvent myself as someone else. Someone else who didn’t have the town drunk for a dad.
“I needed to work, so I played to my strengths and got a job working at one of the busiest bars on State Street. Tips were exceptional, especially for a college bar. The owner was excited he wouldn’t need to train me at all and immediately paired me with his daughter, who also would be working there. Tammie.
“Tammie is everything I am not. She’s pretty—” Both Ariana and Lisa moved to protest. MJ held up her hand to pause them. “I was eighteen-year-old MJ, not the paragon of self-confidence I am now.” MJ waved a hand at herself and took a deep breath before continuing. “So, she was pretty, and perky, and knew everyone. People, specifically boys, seemed to fight over who could do something for her first. She had everything, yet she treated everyone around her like subjects who were there to make her life easier. She couldn’t do anything for herself. Every night we worked together, I would have to close all alone because she would make one of her doting followers take her home right at bar time. No one ever walked me home.”
“That’s because you carried a switchblade in your pocket,” Lisa said.
“It’s the one useful thing my dad ever gave me.” MJ shrugged.
“Your dad gave you a switchblade?” Ariana asked.
“And showed me how to use it. Father of the Year.” MJ took a sip of her rapidly cooling coffee. “Anyway, back to Tammie. We never got along very well, but we tolerated each other. And then she started treating Chris like one of her subjects. I didn’t like it and things escalated.”
“Is that when you dumped the ice on her?”
MJ chuckled as she remembered the shocked expression on Tammie’s face as the icy water found its way down her spine. That had been very satisfying.
“I thought I was going to get fired, but her dad told me I was too good of an employee to lose and he stopped scheduling us together.” Her eyes flicked to Lisa. “After that, we mostly kept our distance.”
Lisa cleared her throat, obviously picking up MJ’s topic change. She didn’t really want to get into the rest of the story right now.
“So, how did poker date night go?” Lisa asked.
“It sucked. Mostly.” Maybe the girls could help her sort out the next step. “I made an ass of myself half a dozen different times, but then I found my groove. A nice man sat next to me and I ended up having a little fun. But Chris and I didn’t sit anywhere near each other, so it didn’t really count as a date night.”
“What are you going to try now?” asked Lisa.
“I don’t know. I kind of want to keep with the poker.”
“But if you’re not even near each other . . . that’s not going to solve your reconnection issue,” Ariana said.
MJ clucked her tongue as she searched for the words to express her curiosity at finding a hobby that was just for her. Playing poker, when it was going well at least, was like putting herself behind titanium—nothing could get to her.
“Last night, sitting at the table with strangers, once I got past the nerves and over the assholes, I liked it. It made sense. It was me against the table. I used parts of my brain that had been dormant for years. I felt more like me than I have in a long time. Besides, maybe the problem isn’t the lack of time with Chris. Maybe I need to do something for myself. I can’t rely on him to make me happy. I need to make me happy.” MJ noticed the concerned looks on her friends’ faces. Perhaps they didn’t understand. “And if I get good enough, Chris and I can play at the same table—then it would be more like a date night. Plus, there are some nice restaurants there. It could work.” But that last part wasn’t it at all. MJ wanted to explore the thrill of discovering the other players’ tells. The thrill of playing the people, not the cards. The thrill of leaving her repetitive days behind. The thrill of relying on only herself.
“So, you’re going to keep playing poker?” Ariana asked in her usual slow, measured cadence. She formed her words carefully. When she would get flustered, her r’s would start to roll, which MJ found endearing but Ariana avoided.
“I think so. I was thinking about going down again this week for a few hours while the experience is fresh. I’m worried if I wait too long, I’ll get intimidated again.” Plus, she wanted to feel the rush.
“Kind of an expensive way to spend t
he afternoon, isn’t it?”
“Not really. We played for three hours last night, and I only lost fifty dollars. And that was my first time. We spend more than that on a Friday fish fry. But enough about my boring marriage.” She waved her hands in front of her. “Have we seen our hunky counselor yet today?”
She noticed a red flush cover her friend’s face.
“What is this?” MJ pointed at Ariana, who turned even more red.
“What is what?” Ariana said.
“Oh. You look like a radish,” Lisa said. “Why are you blushing at the mention of Hunky Kyle?”
“I’m not red.” She trilled her r, hiding something.
“You’re blushing like a Victorian virgin in a whorehouse,” Lisa said.
“Is that even a thing?” MJ said.
“I’m sure it happened sometime. But don’t get distracted.” Lisa turned back to Ariana. “Why are you blushing?”
Ariana was rotating her coffee cup between her hands when the door jingled and the women turned. In walked Chris, cheeks flushed from the cold air, and big flakes of snow from the early-October flurry clinging to his windblown hair, making him look ten years younger. MJ’s chest thumped like a sledgehammer against a wall. She attempted to still it through force of will.
“Hey, honey!” she said.
Chris looked over at her table, then scanned the room. He smiled, walked to their table, and leaned over to kiss MJ on the cheek. Her pulse switched gears and it felt great. Maybe she was making progress after all.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here this morning,” he said.
“It was a last-minute plan. Ariana is stalking Hunky Kyle, and we know he comes in most mornings.”
Luck, Love & Lemon Pie Page 6