She closed the calendar and the laptop and went back to the lettuce, holding the knife with white knuckles. He was meeting with Tammie—she knew it. Or she was pretty sure she knew it. She let go of the knife and banged her fist onto the wooden cutting board. Kate looked up at the loud sound.
“Ma, you okay?”
MJ looked up at Kate’s concerned face and instantly felt snapped back to reality. She smiled. Perhaps she was overreacting and reading into Tammie’s comments. That’s what Tammie wanted her to do. She had wanted to throw her off at the table, cause strife between MJ and Chris. She always had been a troublemaker and that’s all that was happening here.
“Totally fine,” she lied. “The lettuce was acting up. It needed to know who was boss.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “No one else has a weird mom.”
“Consider yourself lucky, then.”
Tommy laughed. “I don’t think you’re weird, Mom.” She heard Chris’s laughter in their son—saw his floppy dark hair. MJ took a calming breath. She was being ridiculous. Chris would never cheat. Why risk all this? But still, she picked up her phone and in a few swipes had made a new calendar that synced with his. Insecurity made her twitchy, and the only thing that helped lately was the solitude of the poker table. She needed to get back, and soon.
MJ stepped out of the shower, the steam fogging the mirrors and clouding the air like an evening in London. With the holidays behind them and the tournament almost here, she’d settled into a daily routine finely balanced between family and felt. She filled the fridge with sandwich meat on paper plates every week so they didn’t need to dirty dishes. The entire family was living out of their laundry baskets in their rooms, but at least the clothes were clean. In the mornings, she’d see the kids off to school, go back to bed for a few hours, then arrive at the casino around three in the afternoon to play until one or two in the morning. When MJ got home, she’d take a quick shower, then slip into bed with as little movement as possible to not wake up Chris. She hadn’t seen him awake in nearly a week.
But tonight she wasn’t alone in the bathroom. Chris leaned against the door frame, hair rumpled to match his T-shirt and Captain America pajama bottoms, eyes half-open against the sleep as the steamy air swirled around him.
“Was I being loud? I didn’t mean to wake you.” MJ wrapped a towel around her body, then retrieved a second from the bathroom linen cabinet.
“No. I haven’t seen you in a few days, so I set my alarm to wake up.”
“That’s sweet. You woke up just to see me?” She rubbed the towel down her legs, careful to keep the other securely wrapped around her. The foggy air thinned and disappeared through the open door.
“And talk.”
MJ’s stomach dropped. Of course his seemingly romantic gesture was not. There was a time when he would have set an alarm just to see her. But then, this was the first time he’d ever needed to. Guilt bubbled up in her throat. She’d gotten so far away from her goal of bringing them closer together. She finished drying off and wrapped the towel around her hair.
“About what?” She rubbed lotion onto her exposed arms and legs.
“How about the fact that I need to set my alarm to see you in the middle of the night? That doesn’t bother you?”
“Of course it does, but that’s what happens when two people are pursuing their passions.” Chris crossed his arms.
“Poker is your passion now? You just started playing a couple months ago.”
MJ put her lotion away and slipped her nightshirt on over her towel-covered body, letting the towel fall once her shirt covered her hips.
“So I can’t be passionate about something I just started? Or is it because I’m doing something you wish you could be doing?” As soon as the words came out, MJ wanted them back. “That didn’t come out right.” But it was too late; she’d dropped the bomb and now she had to deal with the wreckage. She braced for what was coming.
In a tight voice, Chris said, “We have responsibilities, a family, a life, MJ. You seem to have dropped it all for a card game.”
“So what you really have a problem with is that I’m not waiting at home every night when you finish work with a freshly poured cocktail and a warm meal.”
MJ walked past him into the bedroom. She knew she’d been a less attentive wife and mother since she had started playing poker. But why couldn’t he be supportive of her? She didn’t give him grief when he wanted to play or when he had a late night for work. She smiled and took care of the family in his absence. Why did he have to make her feel bad when all she wanted was for him to give her the same courtesy? Besides, it was just until the tournament. Then everything would go back to normal.
“You know that’s not what I’m saying.”
“For the first time since we met, I’m doing something just for me. Why can’t you be supportive of that?”
“I want to be, but does it need to come at the cost of our family?”
“Are you saying it is? Is there something you aren’t telling me?” MJ recalled the mysterious appointments with T. Chris opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.
“I guess not.” His shoulders slumped. “I support you.” He turned and crawled back into bed. MJ watched him, hands shaking. He couldn’t tell her the whole truth but still expected her to sacrifice her interests for him.
Not anymore.
Chris: Can we go out for dinner tonight?
After last night’s contentious conversation, she didn’t expect a date to be Chris’s next approach. Maybe he was sorry about not being more supportive. Maybe he realized she needed this right now. Or maybe he wanted to talk more.
MJ: Of course. Where and when? I’ll meet you there.
Chris: A Simple Twist. Reservations at 7. See you then.
As soon as MJ slid into her seat at the table, her nerves eased. She clicked her phone to silent, still puzzling over Chris’s invitation, and her whole body melted into the chair. As she set out her chips with precision, she enjoyed the smooth arced edges, cool to the touch and with a satisfying heft. Without even counting, she separated her stacks into towers of twenty. Before she could turn to look, a waitress had brought her a glass of ice water and a coffee with four creams. She gave the woman a dollar chip and set the drinks on a small side table to her right. Now everything was ready. She nearly moaned with pleasure as she trailed her fingertips over the worn green of the tabletop, waiting for her first hand of the day.
This was the distraction she needed. If she had stayed at home, she’d be a nervous mess waiting for their reservation time. Now she could while away the hours honing her play, then take the shorter drive directly to A Simple Twist for dinner. Noticing her own spirits lifting, MJ remembered she’d been meaning to try the new restaurant out for a while, and began to look forward to a delicious, romantic dinner. Maybe she and Chris could even come back to the casino afterward for a nightcap and an hour or two of cards. She could pull a few strings to make sure they were seated at the same table. Yes, this could be a great evening.
She lost herself in the rhythm of the game, the quick shuffle of cards in the machine, the precise dealing, each dealer’s signature toss. Her body settled into a zone, muffling the ambient sounds to a low hum. She matched her play to the even and controlled breaths she took. If she were a yogi, she might wonder if she’d achieved nirvana. This was bliss.
Time suspended itself. She guessed a few hours had passed since she’d started, when the first dealer she’d had returned to her table. MJ looked at the number of tables in play and did a quick calculation, knowing they rotated every half hour. Could she have been here six hours? She pulled out her phone: seven thirty. She missed her dinner with Chris and he hadn’t called or texted.
She sent a quick message.
Just saw the time. So sorry. I’ll be there in 20.
Cashing out her chips and hustling to her car, she tore through the casino parking lot and almost crashed into a slow-moving Cadillac. All the earlier tension ha
d rushed back in spades. Chris was going to kill her. She should have set an alarm. Or he could have texted—never mind, she wouldn’t have gotten it. He wouldn’t forgive her for this, and why should he? But then again, she had no problem forgiving him when he missed their anniversary lunch, so he sort of owed her one.
She zoomed through the Milwaukee streets, running only one red light, and managed to find parking only two blocks from the restaurant. As she jogged down the street, she girded herself to face Chris’s upcoming anger. She yanked open the door and was greeted by a bustling restaurant decorated in black, white, and a fresh kelly green. It smelled amazing, reminding MJ that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
She found the hostess, who appeared startled at MJ’s whirlwind entrance and heavy breathing, and asked for the Boudreaux table.
“I’m sorry, but that table left thirty minutes ago. He said his date couldn’t make it.”
MJ’s shoulders slouched and she shook her head, peering past the hostess stand into the dining room.
“Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like Chris.”
“Yes. He was quite apologetic. I’m sorry.”
The hostess turned her attention to a ringing phone, leaving MJ to digest what had just happened. She’d never blatantly let Chris down like this before. Why hadn’t he called her? She checked to make sure her phone worked, but there were no new messages from him. She stumbled outside the restaurant and leaned against the giant front window, her breath coming in shallow bursts. She had lost track of time—surely Chris could understand that, if anyone could. He’d spent plenty of evenings at the table. He’d have to understand once she explained.
She held the phone to her ear, listening to the rings. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Voice mail. MJ never got his voice mail. This was the first time she heard his outgoing message.
Now he was just being petty. If he wasn’t going to allow her to apologize, then screw him. She wouldn’t. If poker had taught her one thing, it was that you needed to adjust your play to the players. If he didn’t want to talk, she could do silence with the best of them.
Chapter Eleven
MJ pulled her car into the garage, disappointed that Chris’s wasn’t already there. The empty spot echoed the feeling in her stomach. Her anger had ebbed as she drove the thirty minutes home from downtown, replaced by an ache she didn’t want to acknowledge. She hung her keys on the hook where they belonged, ignoring the bare one beside it.
She looked in on both the kids, who were hunkered down in their rooms, gave them kisses, and went to the master bedroom. She paused in the doorway, taking in the vacant room. She pulled on her pajamas and crawled onto the center of their bed. Determined to wait up for Chris, she sat and crossed her legs.
MJ woke the next morning curled in the middle of the mattress with a blanket on top of her. The kids—most likely the noise that woke her—opened doors and poured cereal in the kitchen. With five hours until the tournament began, she needed to shower. She needed coffee. She needed to talk to her husband. She flew through a shower, tossed on a bathrobe, and went downstairs before the kids left for the bus.
“Hey, Ma,” Kate said. She stood at the island, buttering toast. Her long hair shimmered in the morning light. Kate shoved her toast in her mouth, sending crumbs onto her shirt. Tommy walked in the kitchen, wearing track pants and a Brewers T-shirt.
“Mom, you’re up early.” Ouch. He was right. She hadn’t been getting up that early recently. Or grocery shopping. Or cleaning. Or doing laundry.
“I know, sweetie. But I wanted to see you both before you left. I have the big tournament today that I’m hoping to do well in, remember? If I do, I won’t be home until late.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. Dad’s got this,” Kate said.
The words slapped at MJ’s already wounded pride as she recalled Kate’s musical she would be missing.
She just needed to get through the tournament today; then she could get her focus back on Chris and the kids. Then she’d find a balance. For the first time MJ had purpose when approaching the table. Before, it had always been about escape. Now she wanted to win, to get the trip, to reconnect with Chris. Today was for him, not her. Show him that she still wanted him in her life, that he was more important than poker.
This was it. Hope and focus filled her as she smiled and took her seat at the table, nodding to Joe the dealer. It was a good sign, starting off with a dealer she knew well. She checked her phone—five minutes until shuffle up and deal.
Chips already sat in front of each chair—five thousand chips to be exact. Five thousand chances to beat the other players, five thousand chances to win. Players around her queued up playlists, stretched their backs, and tucked sunglasses onto collars to pull on during important hands.
MJ smoothed her ponytail and swiped on some lip gloss. She had dressed for comfort today, her favorite jeans and a simple black T-shirt. She wore no other jewelry besides her wedding band and the smiley-face ring Chris had given her on their anniversary. It was her luck today.
The tournament host announced, “Shuffle up and deal.” A bell rang and the room’s energy became palpable, building on itself like a snowball rolling down a hill. MJ struggled not to get swept up in it; she needed to keep her focus. The first two cards arrived in front of her before she could settle in. A few weeks ago, she may have looked at them immediately. Instead, she took some calming breaths and simply watched as everyone around the table assessed his or her hand. As each player looked, she gauged their reactions. Slump—her old friend from day one—sat to her right and bet, tripling the pot. MJ waited until the bet came around to her and she finally peeled back the corner of her cards: pocket queens. She called. Everyone else fell away, too early to gamble so many chips. MJ would have done the same if she hadn’t already played with him. She knew his tell and his slouch was screaming “Bluff.” The flop came—queen, ten, three. MJ focused on breathing in and out, not moving. Slump hunched farther over his chips and echoed his first large bet. She could call, fold, or raise. She knew she had him now, but he could catch a lucky break on the turn or the river. Could he beat me? MJ wondered. He could have a possible straight if he had a king/jack or jack/nine. The suits were a jumble, so a flush was unlikely, but any two pairs could lead to a full house. Anything else she had beat. He wasn’t acting like he had any leads. He was acting like he was bluffing, and she had the cards to beat a bluff.
MJ called.
Slump stared her down. Would he back off, or would he remain committed?
The turn came—a six.
That wasn’t going to help him. If he backed down, he would know that she would think he had nothing. He wasn’t going to admit this early that he’d been shooting blanks. He was slumped so far over the table, his chin practically touched the padded edge. MJ knew before he said it what he would do. And she knew her reaction and she knew the outcome like it was fated.
He went all in. She called. She won with her three queens.
In the first hand MJ had already knocked someone out and doubled up. As she stacked her new chips, the happy smiley ring grinned at her, almost as if Chris were there cheering her on himself.
As players dropped out, the remaining ones were moved to open spots in an effort to keep each table as full as possible. She had survived three table reshufflings and several hours of play to make it to the final table. MJ studied each of the players sitting with her. She had played with at least half of them during her regular games, so she knew a little about their play. Her butt and back hurt from hours of sitting, her shoulders twitched from holding the same position, and her brain dulled to the flashing numbers and suits on the table. Hands started to blur together. This was how she consciously chose to spend a weekend?
As players became more aggressive and chip stacks either multiplied or dwindled, bluffing became the tactic of choice. She was getting sick of faking it, of pretending to have stronger cards than she had, of keeping all the emotions hidden from the other players. She could
feel the cracks in her facade starting to give way, but she was so close now. The discomfort of her cramping back muscles cleared her mind to focus on what really mattered. Looking back over the past few months, she saw that her mistakes were so obvious, like someone had taken a neon yellow highlighter and circled them. This place was never going to fix her marriage. She had used it as an excuse to break out of her daily routine, but now she was risking her entire family’s happiness. No prize was worth that risk.
Players busted out, while MJ stayed. With two lone survivors in the tournament, MJ began to get excited, focus returning. On the other hand, she thought, the trip to Vegas would be an opportunity to really focus on me and Chris. She could even give the prize to him, letting him have the private lesson and the tournament entry. She was in too deep to give up now—the final hands of the final table.
She’d watched her opponent as she and he took turns knocking out the other players; he liked to take risks, so she called him Kenny Rogers. They parried back and forth, feeling each other out. Playing heads-up was an entirely different game. You could win a pot with a pair of twos or an ace. They took turns exchanging the escalating blinds preflop. At last, they both had hands they liked enough to pay for more cards. MJ had pocket eights—a pair of snowmen. The flop: ace, jack, eight. She had triple eights. Kenny Rogers could have a lot of hands that could beat hers. She couldn’t read him, so she had to test him. MJ had to bet first; she would normally triple the pot—a sign that she had a decent hand. But would he have something better?
Luck, Love & Lemon Pie Page 10