by Leslie Pike
“Flowers.” He rolls his eyes with the thought and lets out a big sigh.
“Sounds exciting,” I say dryly.
“If I didn’t love Charlotte so much I’d say let’s have a barbecue and wear our flip flops. I just want to be married. But she has her heart set on a proper party, as she calls it. And Mallory’s all in. They never run out of things to get excited about. The invitations, the seating chart, the three thousand Bride magazines around the house.”
“Your own family would disown you if didn’t celebrate. Nine more weeks, right?”
“Yeah. You haven’t asked me what hot women will be there. Don’t you want to know?” he says.
“No. Doesn’t matter. Whatever.”
“You act like you’re a hundred years old, Brick. You gonna bring someone?”
“I’ll think about it when it gets closer.”
He can read my face. It’s telling him to change the subject.
“Okay. We have to talk about the bachelor party. I don’t want one.”
“Really?”
“What’s the point? I’ve had my fill of that kind of shit.”
I’m taken aback. “That’s the first time you’ve ever said those words.”
I get a shrug. “It’s the Charlotte effect. Now tell me what you’re up to today. Negotiating a contract or putting out a fire somewhere?”
“Neither. I’m meeting an agent for lunch.”
He stops talking for a beat, then narrows his eyes. “Who’s that? Why the look on your face?”
“What look? It’s our new second baseman’s agent, January Jordan. But it’s a business lunch.”
Lifting his nose in the air, he sniffs for an imaginary scent. “I knew it was about a woman. I can smell it a mile away.”
“It’s not about a woman, asshole. Quit reading into things.”
“Nice way to talk to your little brother. What’s she look like? Your type?”
“Like a woman. I didn’t really pay too much attention.”
I almost start laughing before he does, because when Atticus thinks he’s picked up a scent, he keeps digging. It’s easier to answer him the first time.
“Really, it’s just good business,” I continue. “She’s representing McMartin and who’s his good friend that I know?”
“I have no idea.”
“Duane Ricky, the Atlanta Braves favorite trouble maker. My client.”
He’s weighing the facts and deciding whether to believe me or not. I’m getting the once-over, as if he can decipher the truth just by looking.
“Okay. I guess it makes sense,” he says, temporarily giving up.
“Yeah it does. We need to make sure those two don’t get into trouble.”
“Good luck with that. Answer my question. What does she look like?”
“Blonde. Tall. About 5’10”. Blue eyes, kinda like a lake. Nice body. She’s got this voice...”
“But you didn’t really pay attention, huh?”
“Shut up,” I say, holding back a smile.
All Atticus does is grin and nod, like he just rutted out the truffle.
Glad January picked Italian. Now if she’d only show up so we can get to it. I check the time. Twenty minutes past two.
“Can I get you another glass of wine, Mr. Swift?”
“No, Anthony. I’ll wait till my party joins me.”
That’s when I see her walking through the door. Me and every other guy in the restaurant. Their eyes are locked on the woman in white. Great tailored suit. Fits her to a T. I take it all in before she has a chance to bust me looking. It’s entertaining watching the drooling men and the way she walks past them. It’s a kind of a saunter. But not at all put on. I think her body just was made to move well.
As soon as she passes, the eyes of more than a few of the men slowly lower to ass-gazing height. Men are such idiots. We think we’re being sly. I’d guess she knows they’re looking. She’s probably used to being ogled. There’s nothing sexier than a woman who has it all to display, but instead keeps it undercover. Imagination’s a turn-on.
I watch her speaking to Anthony. Looks like they know each other. He stands a little straighter in her presence, but it might be because he’s at least six inches shorter.
Fact is, she’s striking. The whole package works well together. I’m going to keep that to myself. If Atticus or anyone in my family heard me say that, I’d never hear the end of it. People close to me are hungry to see me with someone, and they don’t hide it. Giving them false hope just because I admire what a woman looks like would be a mistake.
Her eyes find mine. A grin lifts the corners of her mouth.
“Hi! Sorry I’m late. It’s not like me,” she says approaching.
I stand and we exchange cheek kisses. Nice subtle perfume. The heels she’s wearing lift her to my height, six-one. I hold out her chair.
“That’s good to hear, because being late is my pet peeve,” I say.
She gets comfortable in her seat and looks over her shoulder back at me.
“You’d better buckle up then, buttercup. I lied. Being late is occasionally like me. But only when I’m meeting friends. Never when it’s concerning business.”
I sit. “Well, the good news is I’m in the friend category.”
“You are. God help you,” she chuckles.
“Are you hungry? Or are you a lettuce and water type?”
“I’m not sure you’re going to be able to categorize me that easily, Brick.”
Anthony walks up and she speaks before he has a chance to ask what she’d like.
“I’m starving, Anthony. I’ll start with the Caesar salad. For the entrée I think fettuccini sounds good. And will you bring out some of your bread with olive oil and vinegar?” she pauses. “Oh! Are you having a cocktail?” she asks me.
“Of course. I’m off for the rest of the afternoon.”
She touches my hand in solidarity.
“Me too! We can get hammered.” She says it so sweetly, as if she’s suggesting we partake in a Shirley Temple binge. I’m not sure if she’s kidding or not.
Anthony finds her charming and laughs out loud. “Let me bring you both something special. My bartender’s drink for lovers.”
“You can bring it, but you better make it the friend version,” she says. “You know. Just a drop more of alcohol.”
“I’ll have what she’s having,” I say, wondering if she gets the reference.
When Anthony walks away, she turns and dips her chin. Her beautiful blues look up at me. “Please tell me you’re quoting When Harry Met Sally.”
“I am.”
A smile lights her face. “It’s my favorite movie from puberty. I thought it was the sexiest thing ever made. Even though I was too young to know what I was talking about.”
I nod. “My mother had the VHS tape. When I was about ten I’d watch the scene where Sally fakes an orgasm over and over. Stop. Rewind. Play.”
“What a little pervert. Did you learn anything?” She giggles.
“Not really,” I say. “I was working under a crushing handicap. First I needed to figure out what an orgasm was.”
And that was how our afternoon started. With talk of faked orgasms and getting hammered. We discussed movies and music, and our shared love of good food and cheap candy. We hardly touched on the most obvious mutual interest, our jobs.
Hours passed quickly, and it wasn’t just the alcohol and Italian feast that made the conversation so damned easy. It was her company. I’ve never seen someone enjoy a meal so much. You’d have thought we were in Italy dining at the best Michelin rated restaurant. It made the experience fun.
I knew we were going to get along. But I didn’t know I’d end up liking her so much in the course of an afternoon. I’m totally at ease with the woman. Making friends slowly has been my m.o., at least since Katy died. It takes me a while to warm up to people. I’m sure it’s because I’ve got such a cold place inside my heart. Today there’s been a small thaw.
“I’m stuffed,” she says leaning her head back. “Just enough room left for dessert.”
“You have the appetite of an elephant.”
“How rude,” she laughs. “You’re a little tipsy, aren’t you?”
“Damned it, that may be true,” I say swallowing the burp that wanted to escape.
“Damned it? Did you say damned it?”
“I’m pretty sure I did.” I chuckle and she joins me. I lean in closer. “Why am I the only one getting hammered? I know, it’s because all that food in your stomach soaked up the alcohol.”
“It couldn’t possibly be the cocktails and wine you had.”
“This never happens. Really.”
“Let loose. Have some more lasagna. You barely touched it.”
My hand comes up. “No, I’m good. Would you like mine?” Not really thinking she’d say yes.
“I might have just a forkful,” she says reaching across the table and taking another serving.
“I’m not much of a cook. That’s a gross understatement. I hate it,” she says.
“I enjoy it. Got that from my grandmother, Birdie. She’s the best cook in a family of cooks.”
“Grandma Birdie. Great name.”
“She’s one of a kind.”
“So, do you cook just for yourself? Every night?” she says wrinkling her nose as if it would be a horrible fate.
“Not every night. Maybe three times a week. And are you asking if I’m single?” I say grinning.
“If I was you’d know it. I’d say ‘Are you single?’.”
Okay, she’s sort of awesome.
“What about you?” I ask. “Just so I’m not blindsided in the parking lot by some bodybuilder in a jealous rage.”
“First of all, yes I’m single and dating. Nothing serious. Second of all, what makes you think I’d be with a bodybuilder?” She grimaces with the thought.
“You look like the kind of woman that would enjoy being bench pressed.”
There’s a beat and then her infectious laughter.
“That’s hysterical … bench pressed,” she says, the corners of her mouth staying up.
I can’t help but chuckle. The alcohol has loosened me up. Don’t know where that comment came from, but it was a pretty good one. Very unlike me.
“Let me cook for you. Something Southern and rich. What about one night next week?” The words just poured out of my mouth, without planning or forethought.
“Yes. Okay. Know what, Brick?” she says sizing me up, “I think we’re about to become friends. I kinda like you.”
Her gaze is straightforward.
“That’s what I was thinking too. Did we just hit it off?” I grin.
“Like Harry and Sally. Except we’ll prove a man and a woman are capable of being just friends.”
“Agreed. Let’s ignore the fact it didn’t work for them,” I say.
One eyebrow lifts. “That was because they let sex ruin everything.”
“We’re smarter than that. They were younger and dumber than we are.”
“How old are you?” she asks.
“I turn forty-one next month. How about you? Or is that an indelicate question?”
“What? Why would it be?” Her eyes are sending me death rays.
“I don’t know!” I say peddling back my comment. “It’s something men usually don’t ask outright.”
“I’m forty fucking years old,” she says chuckling.
“Forty fucking years look good on you,” I grin.
“Thank you. I’m in the prime of my life.” She pauses.” I say that no matter how old I am.”
“Good plan. I wished I believed it for myself.”
“There’s a lot in life to be dazzled by. Don’t you think, Brick?”
“My dazzle meter needs recalibrating.”
She smiles and it’s so beautiful I feel better already.
“Enjoying life is what makes me feel young. So I leave room for play, and pleasure.”
She notices the dirty direction my mind and expression just took and responds. “Not just that kind. I like playing games, and swimming in the pond on our property or walking the hills. I love eating things that taste of butter and chocolate. It’s important not to miss the things that make life worthwhile.”
“It’s a noble goal, but hard to achieve in our profession. Work seems to take all the time I’ve got.”
She touches my hand for just a few seconds. “Then you’re working too hard. Or maybe you just can’t remember how great it feels to step away for a few hours and not have to be the guy.”
“Maybe.”
“I don’t know about you, but I get tired of being the person with the answers.”
Her hands lift in the air like a convert testifying in a church. “I’ve got it! Let’s have game night at my place.”
“I’m not a game player. No,” I state emphatically.
“Come on! If we’re gonna be buddies we should learn about what each likes. Besides, we’ve got to repair your dazzle meter.”
“I bet you’d be good at that.”
She doesn’t shy away from my not-so-hidden meaning.
“I may have the right tools,” she teases seductively.
For a long few beats we just stare at each other with shit-eating grins. Then she breaks the spell and returns us to reality.
“You can do your cooking thing and we can play some games. And cocktails. There’s gotta be cocktails.”
“You’re a faux drinker,” I say.
“What the hell’s that?”
“You talk a big game, but we’ve been here what, four hours and you’ve nursed two drinks. And that’s after promising me we’d get hammered.”
Her eyes widen, and she takes a long look. An index finger points in my direction and wiggles. “But it’s the possibility of it happening that’s most fun, right?”
Chapter 3
January
“Ohhhhhhhh!” Our voices rise in sync with the changing image projected on the screen. Sitting close together on my couch, my sister and I are holding hands, helping each other bear the impact of memories. If it wasn’t for the pregnant stomach, I’d say she almost looks sixteen. A honey-colored ponytail and young face contradicts her thirty-eight years.
Looking back at us from 1981 are our parents and grandparents Nana and Papa. I’m standing in front of them in my yellow Easter dress, stylin’ my Lady Diana haircut. In my hands is Blue Bunny, the favorite toy given to me that year by Nana. His pristine fur and bright color didn’t last long because he was loved too well to stay new. Summer’s asleep in our papa’s arms.
A sibling is the only person in your life who shares your childhood years from the same vantage point. When you’re only eighteen months apart, even more so. Both of us are sentimental. We don’t want to let go of anything. Memories especially.
We’re trying to hold back the tears that threaten to blur our slideshow, but what we see is too emotional. I catch a few streaming down Summer’s face as I wipe mine with the back of my hand. Then we laugh a little at ourselves for self-inflicting the pain.
“We’re masochists,” says Summer.
To watch our mother’s lovely face is overwhelming. I can almost hear the sound of her laughter. To see Dad’s beloved golf outings and captured moments from walks with Sammy is precious. And all four of us together floating on rafts in the pond. That just about kicks me in the gut. The four of us were like a really small gang. One for all and all for one. God help anybody who’d try to hurt one of us.
My sister and I vowed to begin sorting through the rooms this morning. But then Summer uncovered all seventeen boxes labeled and in perfect order. Vacations, graduations, weddings, holidays. All waiting for us to take a trip back in time.
Dad knew we’d be doing it together. When Mom died, he watched how we processed and grieved together. Everything we went through was made better by doing it side by side. He told us he was so glad we had each other and loved unconditionally. It comforted
him in the final months. The greatest gift our parents ever gave us was each other.
“Hold on. I want to get another water,” Summer says, attempting to get up anyway she can.
“Stay put! I’ll get it.”
She sits back with a grateful expression. Or maybe it’s just resignation. Six months into her third pregnancy, she’s ready to meet the twins and get back in her bikini.
“Mom and Dad look so young. They’re younger than we are now. By a decade,” she says looking back.
I grab her a water and get a root beer for me.
“Shit. Is that true? Want an ice cream bar?”
“Bring me an Eskimo Pie. Hey, what’s that Tarot card on the refrigerator?”
“Oh, I wanted to show you that. It was lying on the porch step when I got home the other night. I have no idea how it got there.”
She holds out her hand and wiggles her fingers. “Let me see. It’s a sign, you know. Maybe Mom and Dad are trying to communicate with us.”
“I knew you were going to say that. Here, you take it.”
Summer swipes the card right from my hand and studies it. “I’ll find out its’ meaning. We need to interpret it correctly.”
She sticks it into her purse as I get our bars. Then she turns her attention to the stack of boxes on the coffee table, reading the stickers on each one.
“Let’s watch this one!” She holds up a box. “January and Summer’s dates 1995 to 2000.”
“Oh my god. Do you remember seeing those before?” I say sitting back on the couch.
“No!”
She sets the carousel in its place, and with her ice cream in one hand and the remote in the other, she starts the show.
As soon as the first image comes on the screen, we burst out laughing.
“My god, January! Think you got your hair big enough?”
I pretend I’m going to punch her in the arm. “That was the style in 1995, asshole!”
“The dress! What were you thinking? You look like a cheap underaged hooker.”
“Give me that!” I say grabbing the remote.
When I click the button and a new slide projects on the screen I start screaming. Summer does a spit take with her mouthful of Eskimo Pie. A piece of it lands on the coffee table.