Luck, Love & Lemon Pie

by Amy E. Reichert

  They’d taken a break from raking and burning leaves in their front yard to play catch. Since Chris had to work, she recruited the kids to help her, with promises of Thai takeout and hot fudge shakes from Le Duc’s, their favorite frozen custard stand. It would be one of the last nice days before the snow began to fly in earnest, so MJ was taking advantage of the weather. A pile of smoldering leaves sent wispy smoke to the sky and hinted at the winter to come.

  MJ caught the ball and threw it to Kate, who interrupted their game of catch.

  “Twenty-nine. So, mice in the mantel? That sounds like a bad picture book,” she said, her hands curling around the ball, then shooting it to Tommy.

  “It was a nightmare. I’m still considering burning the house down.”

  “Please don’t, Mom.” He caught the ball. “Thirty-three. I’d lose my baseball card collection.”

  “Thirty-four. That’s what you’re worried about.” MJ smiled, appreciating that her growing teenage boy still treasured something from his childhood. “So, I’m thinking about entering a poker tournament. The winner gets a trip to Vegas to play in a satellite. What do you think?”

  Both Kate and Tommy looked up at her.

  “What’s a satellite?” Kate asked.

  “It’s a smaller tournament where the winner gets the entry fee paid for a bigger tournament. In this case it would be the Global Poker Finals. And a free poker lesson with Doyle Kane, the reigning champ.”

  Tommy nodded. “Are you going to enter?”

  “I’m considering it. If mousepocalypse taught me anything, it’s that I need to broaden my horizons a bit—get off the hamster wheel.”

  “Forty-seven. When is it?” Kate asked.

  “It’s the second weekend in January.”

  Kate’s face scrunched as she ran the dates in her mind. “That’s the musical weekend.”

  “Forty-nine. And Lego league,” Tommy said.

  The ball flew toward MJ, who reached out her glove and closed it too soon, causing the ball to flop into the leaves. Why was she even discussing this? Of course she wouldn’t choose poker over her kids.

  Kate walked over to her and hugged her from the side.

  “Mom, you should go. We’ll be fine.”

  “Do you think you have a chance at winning?” Tommy asked, scooping up the ball from the ground and tossing it up in the air to play catch with himself.

  “I’ve been doing really well lately, but I don’t expect to win. It’s mostly for the experience. But you never know. I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense, but I really love playing. And I’m pretty good, good enough that I win more than I lose.”

  “What does Dad say?” Kate asked.

  “I haven’t talked to him about it yet. I wanted to touch base with you two first.”

  “What do you like about it?” Tommy stepped back to catch the ball, stepping in dog poop. He didn’t even notice. She made a mental note to pick up the yard before the snow hit—otherwise it would be a mess in the spring—then filed it away to deal with later. Tommy had paused playing catch as he waited for her answer, then continued once she started talking.

  “When I’m sitting at a table with nine people I don’t really know, I only have my wits to keep my chips safe. They don’t know me, I don’t know them, but we both want to take everything from each other. There’s no subtext, and we all have the same goal. Each hand is a new battle and new opportunity. Every game is different and challenging. I learn something new every time I walk into the casino. And this tournament is the next logical step.”

  “We’re fine with it, Ma,” Kate said, nodding her head toward Tommy, who had finally noticed he had doggy doo on his foot and was scraping it off with a stick.

  “I haven’t completely made up my mind. I’m still waffling a little. It’s a lot of money to sign up.”

  Kate rubbed her arm.

  “Ma, it’s like Nike—just do it.”

  MJ laughed and looked at her kids. When did they get so grown-up? They were right, though, and just like that, her mind was made up.

  Chapter Eight

  The Thanksgiving dinner, made with love by a local caterer, reheated in the oven in shiny aluminum pans. MJ would transfer everything to her special Thanksgiving serving platters before they sat down. This twenty-year standing charade was perpetuated by adding a few last-minute touches to further the illusion—a sprinkle of parsley here, a dash of salt there. Alone in the kitchen while everyone else watched the parade on TV, she poured herself another glass of Riesling. If she made it through today without screwing up one of the dishes—her family made bets each year on which course she’d ruin, even though she only needed to reheat them—she would reward herself with a day of poker tomorrow, or maybe even tonight.

  She opened the oven doors, dodging the blast of heat, and took the turkey’s temperature: 150 degrees. Dammit. The instructions said to reheat to 160 degrees, so she needed another ten before she could pull it from the oven. This would set back the entire day, pushing back dinner, and pushing back the time it would take to get everyone out of the house.

  She walked into the living room. Her mom and Dr. VanderHouse sat on the love seat with a cozy six inches between them. Her mom’s shimmering white hair was pulled back into a curly and casual updo. She looked younger despite all the white. Perhaps it was the unstoppable smile on her face every time she looked at Dr. VanderHouse. He got up and filled a plate with cheese, sausage, and crackers, then handed the plate to her mom. She beamed up at him. Yep. They looked adorable. MJ clenched her teeth.

  The kids and Chris sprawled on the floor playing Monopoly while flames flickered in the fireplace, complete with new mantel. MJ had insisted it be done immediately so she spent three weeks making phone calls and harassing contractors to make sure it was complete by Thanksgiving. She’d only gotten to the casino twice. Blerg.

  “Hey, everyone, the turkey is taking longer than expected. Dinner will be closer to two thirty,” MJ announced.

  “No worries, Margaret June.” Barbara squeezed Dr. VanderHouse’s arm. “We’re enjoying the excellent company.”

  The two smiled at each other. Chris and Tommy were absorbed in the parade on TV, pretending the giant balloons were carrying on a snarky commentary of the chaos below, while Kate gave a haphazard thumbs-up, busy plotting her hostile takeover of Park Avenue. MJ blinked and turned back to the kitchen, taking a long swig from her dwindling wine supply. It was a bit much to see her mom cozy with someone. In MJ’s fifty years, she’d never seen her mom affectionate with anyone other than her. She pulled another bottle from the fridge and had her glass full in a matter of moments.

  “You okay?” Chris leaned against the counter and crunched a cracker, leaving crumbs stuck to his lips. Minus the crumbs, she had to admit he looked good. His long-sleeve T-shirt skimmed his now flatter stomach. He’d probably given up eating fries last week and dropped ten pounds. MJ pulled out her smile.

  “Of course. It’s good to see her happy.” MJ could feel her own lip threaten to crack from the tightness—she should probably drink some water.

  “I know you better than that. It’s bothering you that your mom is dating Mike’s dad. And honestly, it’s a little weird.” And still those little crumbs dangled.

  She didn’t really care about Mike or his dad. The Facebook grapevine had informed her that Mike went to med school, recently got married, and now practiced as a surgeon somewhere in Minnesota. What had her so upset was seeing her mom soft and googly-eyed after years of lectures on how important independence was. This indoctrination was rule number one in their house, well, number two after “no serving underage customers alcohol.” For goodness’ sake, when she’d called to tell her mom she was engaged to Chris, Barbara’s first words were: “Don’t get used to him taking care of you. And make sure you keep your own checking account.” And now she was letting this soft-spoken orthodontist fill her plates of schnibblies. What was next? Rubbing her feet? Doing her taxes? It was like finding out your math
teacher thought algebra was overrated. It didn’t make sense.

  “Don’t be silly. We so rarely have the family all together. I’m only worried they’ll start making out in front of the kids,” MJ fibbed, and squeezed his arm. “You should get back to the game before our darling children start cheating.”

  MJ watched the crumbs on his lips quiver as he breathed. Would they fall? Spray into her face? How could he not notice them? She reached up and brushed them off, her fingers lingering a bit on his lips. She leaned up to kiss them. Instead, Chris kissed her on her nose and took a sip from MJ’s wineglass. MJ closed her eyes in annoyance or possibly disappointment—she wasn’t sure which.

  “Do you want me to bring up a couple more bottles?”

  “No, I can do it. Now go out there and keep everyone entertained so I can get dinner done.”

  When he left, she took another gulp of wine. The sound of the TV from the other room nearly drowned out the buzz of Chris’s phone on the kitchen island. Automatically, she picked it up and started walking it to the living room, but then . . . the screen said the call was from T. Just T. She looked at Chris through the doorway, but he still didn’t notice the phone. She clicked the top button to ignore the call, set the phone back down where it had been, and started chopping parsley into infinitesimal bits.

  It had been a busy night for a Tuesday. Bucky’s A-Team Drinking Bingo was more popular than expected. Scattered on every surface were laminated bingo sheets with squares describing events like “Face kisses a girl” and “Someone calls Murdoch crazy.” When a customer had the action on his card, he marked it with a peanut and took a drink. Five in a row, he won a pitcher of beer. MJ had thought the game up a few weeks ago to improve her tips on Tuesday nights and it had finally paid off. Word had spread and the bar was full of people glued to the six TVs scattered around the large room. Not only was she busy, but the patrons were mostly quiet, with scattered cheers when they peanutted a square.

  At the end of the bar sat Mike VanderHouse, former prom date and sole friend from back home. After the dance, their tepid romance had cooled to a comfortable friendship. Turns out MJ wasn’t his type; in fact, all women weren’t his type. Neither of them made friends easily, so at a big university like Madison, it was nice to see a familiar face, someone she didn’t have to make small talk with.

  Tammie Shezwyski appeared on the empty bar stool next to Mike. Even though MJ and she didn’t work the same shifts anymore, she often came in when MJ was working—throwing her I’m-the-owner’s-daughter weight around and irritating the heck out of MJ by her very presence. She delighted in it the way a younger brother would torture an older sister just to see her crack.

  She worked her way down the bar, collecting empty glasses and refilling pitchers. She plopped a fresh beer onto the smudged wood in front of Mike, jolting the two’s attention to her.

  “Hey,” MJ said. Mike gave her his please-help face, then eased it into a smile.

  “Hey,” he said. “MJ, you know Tammie, right?”

  Tammie giggled and put her hand on his arm.

  “You’re so silly. Of course she knows me. My daddy owns this bar, so she kind of works for me.” Her falsely high voice scratched at MJ’s ears. “You two used to date, right?”

  MJ set a cranberry and Absolut in front of Tammie, a wedge of lime perched on the rim, just the way she liked it.

  “Barely. Turns out I wasn’t his type.”

  Tammie pressed her perky boobs into Mike’s arm. Mike rolled his eyes and scooted to the far end of his stool, trying to put some distance between them, but she followed.

  “Well, I imagine you’re an . . . acquired taste. Some of us are more universally appealing.” Tammie sipped her drink, then pushed it toward MJ. “You didn’t use the good stuff.”

  Without a word, MJ grabbed the drink, dumped it, then made her a new one, this time using the rail vodka. Tammie sipped it and closed her eyes like she was tasting the best chocolate.

  “And maybe some of us are more oblivious than others,” MJ said, winking at Mike.

  “Bingo!” A guest at the back of the bar yelled. MJ looked at Mike and he handed her the master bingo sheet that marked all the possible phrases. She didn’t have time to make sure people didn’t cheat, so Mike kept track for her in exchange for free beer. She confirmed it was a valid bingo and poured the winner a pitcher of Augsburger beer. As she topped off the pitcher, Mike went to the bathroom, mouthing the word “help” as he passed her. MJ glanced to her left, where Tammie was shaking her empty glass.

  MJ made another just like the last and set it in front of her.

  “I’m taking Mike home with me tonight,” Tammie said.

  MJ contained her smile.

  “Good luck with that,” she snorted. “Word of advice, Tammie. Don’t waste your time on him. He isn’t for you.”

  Tammie narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, clearly working up her next nasty thing to say, assuming MJ was jealous. MJ almost felt sorry for her. When Mike returned, her scowl smoothed into a too-bright smile, and she twirled her hair around a finger. MJ went back to filling beers and washing glasses as Tammie batted her eyelashes at Mike. It was like watching a cow bumping into a barn door; she wasn’t going to get anywhere. The more Mike seemed unaffected by her wiles, the harder Tammie pushed—literally: her free-range boobs squashed against his arm.

  MJ couldn’t let this go on. As much fun as it was to watch Tammie fail, it wasn’t fair to let her friend suffer for her enjoyment. She set a glass on the rail in front of Tammie and filled it with Sprite, but when she went to put the soda gun back in its holster, she let it keep spraying, soaking Tammie with the cold, sticky liquid. Her squeal of protest turned every head in the bar.

  “Sorry. The button got stuck.” MJ shrugged and threw her a dry bar towel.

  “My daddy is so gonna fire you.” She rushed out of the bar, probably to call her daddy.

  MJ watched her go, then got a rag to clean up the mess. Mike smiled like an idiot. Problem solved.

  MJ glanced back at the phone on the far side of the island. Who was this mysterious T? She didn’t want to play the jealous, suspicious wife, but she needed to know. Was it Tammie? How could she find out without Chris knowing how insecure she was? His phone whistled. The caller had left a message. She could listen. She glanced into the living room, where Chris was still on the floor with Kate and Tommy, and looked at his phone again. One new voice mail. Her hand floated toward the device. She had to know. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, but she was going crazy.

  “Did I hear my phone?” Chris said from behind her. MJ picked up the phone and turned to him.

  “Yeah, I was going to bring it to you. I couldn’t get to it while it was ringing because I was parsleyed up.”

  “Good call. You never want to mix parsley and phones. That’s like crossing the streams.” Chris picked up his phone and took it to his office. A few minutes later he stepped out, grabbing his keys and coat off the rack.

  “I have to run out. I’ll be back before dinner.”

  MJ’s stomach clenched like she’d slammed a glass of cheap malt liquor.

  “What happened that you need to leave the house on Thanksgiving?”

  Chris’s eyes flicked to the parsley she had been hacking to pieces.

  “A client has to get me some paperwork. They’re visiting family in Pewaukee so they brought it along rather than send it overnight. I won’t be gone long.” He opened the garage door and left her with the family and a lukewarm turkey. MJ stared at the door, willing him to come right back and say it wasn’t important enough to leave on a holiday. He hadn’t even given her a chance to say anything. She wanted to say something, though she wasn’t sure what. Instead, her mom entered the kitchen.

  “Are you sure I can’t help?” she asked.

  MJ blinked and pulled herself back to the tasks at hand.

  “No, Ma. I can handle this.”

  “Can you?” She looked meaningfully at the door Chris h
ad gone through.

  Lips tight, MJ tapped her tattoo silently and started cleaning up to make room for the turkey, which she prayed would be warm enough soon. “It’s an unexpected work thing. He’ll be right back,” she said, faking her nonchalance. God, she really needed to get out of here. Her mom watched every motion she made. Nerve-racking.

  “I believe that, but do you?” Barbara’s laser gaze, the one that would send underage customers scurrying for the door, cut through MJ’s bluff. MJ kept her lips closed. “He’s a good one, MJ. I know I spent a lot of time telling you not to rely on anyone, especially men, but I was young, too. You’re smarter than me. Don’t make the same mistakes I did.”

  MJ nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  After yesterday’s uncertainty, MJ woke with a start. The day after Thanksgiving had always been the first day of the Christmas season in the Boudreaux household. MJ would normally pull out all the boxes, unpack the ornaments, set up the prelit tree, and work all day until the house looked like Santa’s elves had gotten punch-drunk with holiday cheer. But this year, after the stress of the day before and the mysterious phone call, MJ was inspired—or desperate.

  She was doubling down on poker strategy.

  She waited in the kitchen, making her favorite post-Thanksgiving breakfast of leftover stuffing and gravy on toast. As she finished off her second piece, Chris shuffled in, running his hands through his hair until it looked like it was trying to escape his head.

  “Morning,” she said. He nodded and poured himself some coffee. As he sipped from a chipped Tigger mug, MJ decided it was now or never. “So, since you don’t have to work today, I thought it might be fun if we play some poker. At the casino. It’s been a while since you’ve gone.”

  MJ stood and put her empty plate in the dishwasher while Chris waited until the coffee jolted his brain awake. He started nodding. This was a good sign.