by Kate Meader
Thirty seconds later, Jerry has won this hand with a full house, tens high.
“What you got there, Charles?” I ask, jerking a chin at the plate she placed on a sideboard.
“Sully’s dinner. Time for a break, gentlemen.” Her tone brooks no dissent and sends blood shooting straight to my groin.
“We’ve already ordered—” Sully stops mid-sentence at the sight of Charlie’s glare. Meanwhile my erection is showing no sign of minimizing. The woman’s scowl is my personal Viagra.
Taking the hint, Finster stands and stretches. “Time for a leak.” Jerry and the fifth in the group, Kovak, a Russian guy who has barely spoken a word, give Sully sympathetic looks and follow Finster upstairs.
Charlie looks at me. “Don’t you need a potty break, Henderson?”
“Just fine here, Charles.”
A very attractive crimp appears between her eyebrows. I want to kiss it and all her worry away. “Donna made you a nice salad with chicken, Sully.”
“Salad?” Sully looks as if Charlie suggested he eat worms on a bed of rusty nails. “It’s bullshit, Charlie. You know she’s never been the best of cooks and now she’s terrible when she can’t make her staples.”
“And you know what the doctor said,” Charlie says. “You have to overhaul your diet, cut out cigars, start exercising. Even if it’s just walking around the neighborhood.” She picks up the ashtray where the boys had stubbed out their cigars and starts clearing away the worst of the mess.
The woman opens up her bag of tricks. Silverware and a bottle of light vinaigrette are brought out to play. Saran wrap is pulled back to reveal a grayish-pink slab of what I’m charitably calling “meat” on a bed of wilted greens—and not wilted in a haute cuisine kind of way.
“Fuck, no,” I mutter.
Sully jerks a hand my direction. “Right? I can’t live like this.”
Even Charlie looks a little perturbed, but gamely she soldiers on. “Is this why you’re playing cards more often? Getting out of the house to avoid mealtimes?”
“You try eating this junk.”
“You’ve got to eat something. And hot dogs every night are not the answer.”
I stand and stretch. This does not go unnoticed by Charlie whose eyes are drawn to the sliver of skin between the hem of my Cubs tee and the waistband of my jeans.
Father and daughter appear to be at an impasse so it’s up to me to break the stalemate. “How about I make you a sandwich, Sully?”
“A sandwich?” He sounds suspicious.
“Let me see what the good Lady Sullivan has in her larder. Charles, care to join me and make sure this sandwich meets your approval?”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Finally, she manages a testy “Oh, all right!”
I wink at Sully and get a grin of male solidarity in return, then I follow her up the stairs, taking a good look at her rear lovingly hugged by the fabric of her shorts. Ms. Love might be a hardass but there’s nothing hard about that ass I want to cradle and stroke and knead. It had felt pretty goddamn right in my hands a few days ago in Cubs jail, and hell if I didn’t want to experience it again.
The basement stairs lead right into the kitchen, and as I ascend into the light I have no choice but to get really close to Charlie, who’s blocking my exit. My hands cup her hips and she jumps forward.
“Sorry,” she mutters.
“ ’S okay.”
I’ve already met Donna Sullivan over a cup of coffee and two slices of Entenmann’s Cheese Filled Crumb Coffee Cake and now she looks defeated. Short, messy gray hair frames blue eyes and a lined face.
“He wouldn’t eat it, would he?”
“It’s okay—” Charlie starts, but I round her to give Mrs. S a pat on the shoulder. I’ve got this, Charles.
“No worries, Donna,” I soothe. “How about I make him a sandwich? Maybe a nice grilled cheese?”
“Too much dairy,” Charlie says.
“Got any light mayo?” I’m already rummaging in the fridge, which is packed with about eight different types of mustard and more gray chicken. Shuddering, I take out white bread, Dubliner cheddar, and miracle of miracles, light mayonnaise. “We won’t use butter and we’ll slice the cheese really thin.” I grab a knife and start cutting the cheddar.
Charlie has taken up a watchdog position, leaning against the countertop, her gaze narrowed on me in suspicion. “So, care to explain why you’re here, Henderson?”
Donna splits a glance between us. “Charlie, you know Max?”
“Vaguely. I’m planning his brother’s wedding.” Something passes over her face, a shadow I can’t interpret. “But that doesn’t explain why he’s here.”
“Sully called. Had a spot to fill.”
“And you like rolling out to Sauganash to hang with strange men playing poker for peanuts?”
I scan the area and latch onto an apple. “I was hoping for some good stories. All I got was the one about how you painted Snowball, your fluffy white Siamese, with food coloring. Thought I’d at least hear about a fun dating debacle.”
I add a couple of wafer-thin slivers of apple into the cheese sandwich then a barely there layer of mayo on the outside before lighting the gas under the frying pan.
“Charlie scared them all off,” Donna says. “They’re intimidated by her.”
“I wonder why,” I mutter, but not low enough to escape Donna’s notice.
“Too bossy,” she exclaims, a complaint I’ve no doubt is not new to Charlie. I feel a smidge of guilt for fanning the flames. “I tell her men don’t want a woman who’s always giving orders.”
To temper the criticism, I wink at Charlie, whose cheeks are flagged with color. “I dunno, Donna. Some guys love being told what to do.”
This makes Donna snort. “Not Frank.” She assesses me more closely now. “No ring on your finger, Max.” Lady Sullivan is not dicking around.
Charlie makes a sound of disgust, and after I defended her, too. “Oh, Max doesn’t believe in all that nonsense, Donna. He’s anti-marriage.”
“Never said that.”
“Right, you need all those marriages for cannon fodder so you can tear them asunder in the guise of ‘helping people.’ ” Air quotes with that.
“Exactly.” I smile at Donna, turning it up a notch to piss off Charlie. “I’m a divorce attorney. A very successful divorce attorney.”
“Oh, I see,” Donna says.
And I see the appreciation in her eyes. She’s already lining me up for her daughter to the slaughter, which I suspect might be Frank’s end game as well. Not a problem as Charlie Love and I know exactly where we stand with each other.
I flip the sandwich, pleased with the golden crust and the sizzle I hear as the mayo-kissed bread hits the heat.
Donna blinks at me. “So you probably see some awful stuff? Really bad behavior?”
“Yeah, the breakdown of a marriage tends to bring out the worst in humanity. People usually start out thinking a divorce is the ultimate failure. No one wants to be associated with failure so no one wants to admit that they might be responsible for something that stinks to high heaven. My job is to try to give clients my most objective take, an emotion-free perspective. It’s pretty rare for a marriage’s failures to be the entire fault of a single person, so I try to navigate the blame game on my clients’ behalf.”
“Pretty sure Frank’ll be one hundred percent responsible when I divorce his ass,” Donna mutters, making me laugh.
Charlie’s not amused. Instead she’s staring at me, as if trying to puzzle me out. I like to keep her on her toes with a few utterances that shake up her preconceptions.
I pop the grilled cheese on a plate, slice up the rest of the apple, halve the sandwich, and arrange Frank’s meal. “Dinner is served.”
/> “That looks really good,” Donna says with feeling. I don’t mean to show her up but man, that chicken was a fright. “Right, Charlie?”
“Yeah, but will he eat it?”
He eats it. In fact, he asks me for another one but I tell him that’s his limit. Charlie Love is not pleased.
Chapter 12
“A divorce lawyer is a chameleon with a law book.”
—Marvin Mitchelson
Charlie
I am not pleased.
Of course I’m glad to see Sully eating something that’s not deep-fried. I wouldn’t wish Donna’s cooking on my worst enemy—well, maybe on a certain blue-eyed, cocksure, too sexy lawyer who is a serious threat to the calm façade I’ve cultivated after years of practice.
I’m supposed to be at home binge-watching Netflix and kicking back with my third glass of vino (don’t judge me!). Instead, I’m frozen in horror as my parents are charmed beyond recognition by the devil himself. The card game broke up thirty minutes ago, and everyone went home. Everyone, that is, but him.
Max stayed to help clean up. I told him there was no need but he’d already loaded the dishwasher, insisted Donna put her feet up, and helped himself to more Entenmann’s. That stuff is not much better than sugar-dipped shredded cardboard, but Mr. I-Once-Had-a-Trust-Fund is humming appreciative noises as if the most perfect morsel from a five-star pastry chef has slipped through his full, firm lips.
Now Donna shoves us all into the good room, the parlor no one ever uses. Max stands at the mantel, one narrow hip leaning casually, that ass-grabbing hand I intimately know the texture of wrapped around a coffee mug. He puts the mug down and picks up a photo of me, Donna, and Sully at my graduation from the University of Illinois.
“Happy day for the Sullivans, I bet,” he says. “Your hair is darker here.”
“She dyes it,” Donna says. So not the honey to catch the fly.
I find myself holding my breath as Max moves along the mantel, this record of my life post-disaster—through my prom with Billy Foster, past one of the many times Sully took me to work at Wrigley. He stops at the photo of me with my biological mom, when I was about nine. I’ve always loved that Donna insisted it take pride of place.
“This is where you get those eyes from.” He looks at me, then checks back with the photo. “The smile, too.”
I assume so. I never knew my father and losing my mom in a car crash when I was thirteen seems like both another age and the life-changing event that happened yesterday.
As if reminded that a car wreck is the reason I came to live with the Sullivans, Frank cuts in.
“Charlie, did you get the tune-up for your car like I told you?” Not waiting for my answer, Sully speaks to Max. “She doesn’t get her oil changed enough.”
Max catches my eye, the glint of the devil in it. “That can be a major problem.”
“Oh, shut up,” I mutter, but there’s little heat in it.
I catch exchanged knowing looks between Sully and Donna, that unfathomable language married couples speak to each other. Even though this silent conversation has a matchmaking sheen to it that I abhor, I love that they seem to be on the same wavelength. I’ve been worried about my dad, especially as he seems so desperate to spend time out of the house.
Donna and Sully’s marriage has always been #RelationshipGoals for me. He buys her flowers once a week—cheerful yellow tulips tower above the photo frames on the sideboard. She gives him silly socks every now and then, his latest the Blackhawks ones he’s wearing tonight. It’s the little things, isn’t it? I’m not so naïve that I think marriage is a cake-walk, but I need to know the love is still there, maybe because my job only gives me access to the start of something good.
“More photos, Max?” Donna makes a grab for the door to the sideboard where I know every awkward facet of my teen life has been meticulously recorded in photographic form.
I shoot up so fast I’m momentarily dizzy. “I have an early appointment in the suburbs tomorrow, so I should head out.”
Photos forgotten, Donna is on her feet, heading toward the kitchen to wrap up a couple slices of Entenmann’s. For Max, of course. “How are you getting home?”
“Uber,” I say and immediately want to bite it back. I had already downed a glass of wine before I came over, so driving was out of the question.
“Max, can you take care of my girl?” Sully asks.
I practically screech, “No need!”
“Not a problem.”
“I’m sure you have better things to do.”
He holds my gaze unerringly. “Not at all. Especially now you’ve denied me a good photo-viewing sesh.”
Two minutes later we’re in his car, an Audi which, while nice, isn’t quite as baller as I expected. Not to say that if I’d spotted it parked outside earlier I wouldn’t have bribed one of the neighborhood kids to key it.
I shake my head, annoyed that Max Henderson brings out such nastiness in me. I’m not like this, not at all. I have a temper but I work hard to control it, to present a cool and collected image to my clients and friends, and especially to the men I date. Spending time with Max unnerves me. Something about him feeds my inner rage monster, that girl who’s all id.
“What’s going on?” he asks as he turns off my parents’ street, heading east toward where we both live.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sensing a lot of hostility.”
“Want to tell me what all that was about?” I wave behind me at the house where I lived from age fourteen to nineteen.
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Why are you here, Max? In my parents’ basement? In their kitchen and parlor, yukking it up like you’re all old pals?”
He waits a beat, a tactic I suspect he uses in court. “Sully called me and asked, Charlie. I could have made an excuse but he’s an interesting guy, and I thought he’d have a few fun stories about hanging with the Cubbies. Not everything is about you.”
Is that what I’m fishing for? An admission that Max showed up at my childhood home because he’s interested in me?
Of course not. It’s just incongruous to see this Mr. Entitled skimming his eight-hundred-dollar loafers over the will-never-be-clean-again kitchen floor, scarfing down store-bought coffee cake, and chatting easily with Sully and Donna.
Not only that, it’s a little too close to when I brought Jeremy home to dinner. My ex’s eyes flew wide at the working class quality of it all. I’d told him about them but the reality reframed his mindset in a way my stories couldn’t. How could he use it to prop up his image?
Girlfriend/fiancée/wife with a compelling backstory: Chicago salt-of-the-earth types for foster parents, Cubs connection, adopted daughter made good in one of those “jobs for chicks” she can easily give up once we marry. Now to make sure there’s nothing about Charlie that will throw off a run for Congress…
I want to protect my family and I’ll scratch out the eyes of anyone who belittles them. Seeing Max hanging out at Chez Sullivan sent creepy crawlies over my skin.
At first.
Even more disturbing is how that incongruity quickly faded. How there was no awkwardness as he spoke with these people who mean so much to me and are clearly in a different stratum of society to him. There was no condescension.
Max Henderson continues to buck my worldview.
I haven’t responded verbally to his defense of his presence in Sauganash, too busy thinking on what to say that won’t make me sound petty and small-minded.
He speaks first. “My dad had pneumonia last year, a real nasty bout of it. Drove my mom crazy when he refused to take his recovery seriously. I know you must be worried about Sully’s health, and Christ they don’t make it easy.”
“Well, Sully is so damn st
ubborn,” I say, glad to be talking about something else. Complaining about one’s parents and their foibles is good, innocuous car talk.
But then his next words damn that notion to hell. “What happened to your biological mom?”
Blinking, I speak to the passenger-side window. “A car crash when I was thirteen. She was a nurse coming home from a shift when she got T-boned in an intersection. It—it crushed me. All my life it was just me and her, the Two Musketeers she used to call us. No dad in the picture.” I try to smile, as if showing bravery will make my situation more palatable. No man likes a Debbie Downer, not that I need to impress Max. “There were no other close relatives, so I went into care for over a year. A few different group homes, a couple of nightmare foster situations where I was the nightmare.”
“You? A nightmare?”
It’s said with affection and warms my love-starved heart. “I know, can you believe it? I’ve always tended to let my passions override my sense, even my sense of self-preservation. Donna and Sully were willing to put in the time, and that’s what I needed most. Time.”
I slide a look, only to find him staring ahead, eyes on the road, keeping us safe. His profile is a thing of beauty, all superhero square-jawed with a shadow I long to run my fingertips over. His lips had tasted so good. I’ve no doubt the rest of him will give me some sort of Max-gasm.
This is the worst time to start feeling tingles along my thighs. But now all I can think of are Max’s hands—the ones gripping the hand-stitched, leather-covered steering wheel with such authority. He did a fine job of cradling my ass in Cubs jail. Those hands would excel at exploring, at spreading my thighs wide and rubbing me wet.
Squirming in my seat, I clench my thighs together to stave off the ache. The car is quiet, the high-quality automotive experience doing a stellar job of cocooning us from the outside world. All I can hear is my shallow breathing, my erratic pulse, my throbbing flesh. I’m a one-woman band of heightened sexual responses.
Are we there yet?
Meanwhile, Max Henderson is silence incarnate. If I placed a mirror in front of his mouth, would there be a reflection or evidence of breathing? A sensual vampire, he’s sucking all the oxygen from the small space. The man knows how to exercise rigid control—except I’ve seen it slip when his mouth met mine.