Anything for You

by Kristan Higgins

  She didn't know how to skate, pressed into him at every opportunity, and he appreciated it. It was pretty fun, he thought. She seemed to be having a nice time, though she kept glancing at her watch. Also, she hadn't really dressed for the outdoors, though he'd told her to, and she was getting cold. Conversation didn't exactly flow, though she was an excellent flirt.

  He drove her home at the end of the afternoon and kissed her on the cheek.

  "You're adorable," she said. "You sure you don't want to come in?"

  "I'd love to, but I have to be at work in half an hour." He also had a hard and fast rule about not sleeping with someone on the first date.

  "Mmm. Not nearly enough time." She stretched her arms over her head, revealing a strip of toned stomach. "I guess you'll have to ask me out again."

  "I guess so." The truth was, he was a little put off by the constant innuendo, the cute looks, the obvious body language. So different from Jessica. The thought of her made his chest hurt. Since their hookup, and their conversation over Christmas, he hadn't seen her.

  "I'll call you," Gail said, narrowing her eyes. Then she turned and went inside, waving coyly over her shoulder.

  She did call a few days later and asked him to meet her for an early drink just down the street from where he worked. They got a seat in the window. "How've you been?" she said, looking him up and down.

  "Great. And you?"

  "I've been wonderful."

  Okay, she wasn't his type. But he was here, so he'd make conversation (he could mentally hear Colleen laughing at that one), and then they'd be done.

  The Market Street section of the little city was packed with holiday shoppers, snow was falling, and it looked like a Norman Rockwell painting, a few glass-blowing demonstrations going on, a brass band playing in front of a bakery.

  Gail was beautiful, that was true. She was also pretty boring. At least skating had given them something to do. He asked her about her travels, assuming she'd have some good stories, but got a vague answer. Asked her if she'd gone to college. She had not. Racked his brain for another question and came up empty.

  "So how much does a chef earn, anyway?" she asked.

  Subtle. "Depends on the restaurant."

  "Those celebrity chefs make a lot, I bet."

  "Probably."

  "You have the looks for that kind of thing. A TV show and stuff."

  "Not really my thing." He suppressed a sigh. Great ass or not, she seemed fairly vacuous.

  Then his father pulled up on the street right in front of the bar.

  Pete O'Rourke owned commercial property all around Manningsport as well as a few places in Corning and Dundee; half of his life was spent in his swanky little Mercedes coupe, driving to and from places to talk to building managers and tenants and lawyers.

  Pete got out and fed the meter. Connor sat still, hoping his father wouldn't look his way.

  "That's a cute car," Gail said.

  "And that's my father in it," Connor said.

  "Really?"

  "Yeah." Pete went across the street to another building--probably one of his properties--and went inside.

  "What does he do for work?" Gail asked.

  "He owns buildings," Connor answered.

  "Is that right." Gail sucked on her straw again, smiled at Connor for no reason, then dropped her eyes. You had to wonder if she practiced that in the bathroom mirror. She checked her phone, then said, "Whoopsy! I have to meet some friends. Thanks for the drink!" She air-kissed him, and he said it had been nice to see her, and expected never to see her again.

  The truth was, it was fine. She was gorgeous, yes.

  But she was no Jessica Dunn.

  A few weeks later, when Connor's shift was over, he walked down the block to his car. Christmas was over, and Corning was quiet under the dark winter sky. A dog barked somewhere. The frigid cold felt good after seven hours in the steamy, hot kitchen, and Connor stopped for a second in the alleyway to the parking lot, taking a deep breath of the clean air.

  Then he heard a familiar voice.

  He turned, and there was his father in the doorway of the building he owned.

  Kissing Gail, his hands on her spectacular ass.

  It was one thing to have suspected his father was a cheater. It was another to see it.

  All Connor could think about was his mother, his sweet, loving mother who adored her husband. Who'd made her traditional bacon and eggs on Christmas morning and beamed when Pete gave her a puffy red bathrobe as a present.

  Gail was twenty-six; Pete was in his fifties. Hardly a new story, but slimy just the same.

  Connor left.

  At home, he tried to be extra nice to his mother and gave Colleen a wide berth so she wouldn't pick up on anything on the twin radar.

  He didn't know what to do. Tell? If he told his mother, it would break her heart. If he told Colleen, ditto, and she'd tell Mom. Granted, this probably--definitely--wasn't the first time Pete had cheated.

  But this time, Connor knew for sure.

  The fact that he'd inadvertently introduced Gail to his father made him feel sick.

  He owns buildings, he'd said. Might as well have said He's a sugar daddy.

  He avoided his father, and doubted Pete even noticed.

  And Connor decided not to tell. He thought about it a thousand times. Once, he even started to tell his mom, opening by asking if she was happy, and when she said, "Oh, my heavens, yes, honey! Why would you even ask such a thing?" And she smiled so sweetly that he just couldn't do it.

  That was a mistake.

  In April, Pete dropped the bombshell. He was divorcing Mom.

  Gail Chianese-Rhymes-with-Easy was pregnant.

  Colleen was devastated. Mom was shattered.

  Connor was not surprised. Not very, anyway.

  He did his best to try to avoid his father and Gail. Told his father not to come to graduation, moved to Manhattan to work. But then one autumn day when he was home visiting his sister and mother, he ran into the happy couple, almost literally, right in front of the Black Cat.

  "Son!" Pete said. "Uh...hey. How are you? You look good."

  Connor didn't say anything.

  "This is Gail."

  Connor looked at her, and saw the nervousness in her eyes. Saw her pregnant belly.

  "Nice to meet you!" she said, giving a fake laugh. "Pete talks about you all the time!"

  So she hadn't mentioned him. Dad had no idea that his son had gone on two dates with Gail the Tail, as Colleen called her.

  "You're going to be a brother pretty soon," Pete said. "Isn't that great?"

  Jesus. "I already am a brother." He waited a beat, then added, "I hope it's healthy." That was the best he could do.

  And that's pretty much how it had been for the past ten years. Savannah was a great kid, and Connor saw her often. He and Colleen babysat once a week almost from the very beginning. When she was two, she started having dinner with them every Friday night at O'Rourke's. When she was five, she started playing T-ball, and Connor went to every game he could. He gave her piggyback rides and took her swimming in the lake. Once a year, Connor took Savannah to Yankee Stadium, just the two of them. He bought her cool presents and sometimes stopped by her school to say hi at lunchtime, just because she loved when he did.

  When she was nine, she was good enough to play on the town softball league, the youngest player in the history of the league to qualify, and Colleen made sure she was on O'Rourke's team.

  And he avoided her parents as best he could. Was polite if he had to see them, like at Savannah's birthday parties or games. Gail made his skin crawl, and his father was worse.

  Colleen had made her peace with their father. Connor had not. After what Pete put Mom through, Connor saw absolutely no reason to invite the slick bastard back into his life.

  He certainly wasn't going to give him the chance to invest in a business.

  Well, he could sit here all day, or he could get out and do something. Go for a run, hit t
he boxing gym, see if Tom Barlow was around and up for a few rounds.

  Running won.

  He went home to change. He owned a two-family Victorian a couple blocks off the green. Until recently, Colleen had lived upstairs, and though he wouldn't admit it, he missed having her there. Missed Rufus, her giant Irish Wolfhound mutt.

  The downstairs apartment had always seemed too big. Three bedrooms, a living room, den and kitchen. Colleen called his style "Generic American Male," but he didn't see anything wrong with that. He'd bought his furniture in one fell swoop, basically ordering page 21 of the Pottery Barn catalog. He had three framed photos: one of him and Colleen the day they opened the bar; one of him, Mom and Colleen at Collie's wedding last year; and a photo of Savannah at bat.

  Not one of him and Jess.

  Yeah. The place was too quiet. Too big, too quiet, too empty.

  Then again, it was supposed to have been for a family.

  "You're an idiot," he said aloud.

  Maybe he'd get a dog. A new girlfriend seemed like too much work. Bryce Campbell, a former classmate, ran the local shelter; maybe he could hook Connor up with a new best friend.

  He changed into running shorts and an O'Rourke's baseball team T-shirt. Their slogan for this year was O'Rourke's: Manningsport's Reigning Champions. As Usual.

  It was a perfect spring day in the Finger Lakes. Trees were in full flower, the sun was shining, the town bustling with tourists and townies alike. He waved to Julianne, the librarian, and Emmaline flashed her patrol car lights at him as she passed. He headed out of the Village--someone was cooking pork, and it smelled fantastic--then headed up to the Hill, where the vineyards sat like crown jewels of the area, the fields green against the bright blue sky, clouds slipping past.

  Three miles of hard, uphill running cleared his mind. He'd get some investors and start the brewery, a place that would almost be a spin-off of the bar. Five or eight varieties to start with, a tasting counter, a few little tables. Maybe he could hire Faith Holland to design a little outdoor terrace. He had to finalize the loan from Sherry at the bank. Needed to investigate the real estate market and see about an old barn that could house the brewery, which would be the perfect building for such a place.

  He was coming up to the top of the hill, where the air smelled like grapes; the farmers used the crushed skins as fertilizer. There was Prudence Vanderbeek on a big John Deere tractor. He raised a hand, and on impulse, turned into the drive of Blue Heron Vineyard. The Hollands' place, where Jess worked.

  He'd never visited her at work before; having a secret relationship meant he couldn't drop by with flowers or just to kiss her.

  But his mother worked at the vineyard, too, as a pourer in the tasting room. The perfect excuse.

  Inside, several couples were taking down notes, chatting with Mom, smiling. And why not? The Blue Heron tasting room was one of the prettiest around, and chances were high that one of the Holland family had come out to schmooze, which customers loved, according to his mom. Mom herself was good at her job, none of the Debbie Downer stuff she saved for her children.

  One couple wore matching sweatshirts with pictures of mustangs running across a desert. You had to wonder where those were sold. Connor sat next to them. "Hi, Mom."

  "My son is here!" Mom announced. "Hello, sweetheart! How nice to see you! I called you yesterday, but you didn't call me back." It wouldn't be a visit with his mother without a guilt trip, but she looked pleased nonetheless, and Connor knew he scored points by stopping by.

  "My son and daughter own O'Rourke's," Mom told the drinkers. "It's the best restaurant in town."

  "Thanks, Mom. You'll get your cut later." He winked at the patrons, who smiled back.

  "What are you doing here?" Mom asked. "Is something wrong?"

  "Nope. I was out for a run. Thought I'd stop by and say hi."

  His mom beamed. "The best son in the world."

  "Why stop at son? How about best child?"

  "You know I don't have favorites." She smiled at him. He was her favorite, of course.

  "So how are you, Mom?"

  "Excellent." She poured a taste of pinot gris for the mustang couple, then answered a question for someone else. She came back and ran a hand through her hair. Repeated the gesture.

  "Notice anything different about me?" she asked.

  Oh, crap. "Your hair looks great," he said. She'd let it go gray recently, and it did look nice.

  "My hair is the same."

  "Um...well. You look nice."

  "Don't I?" She clasped her hands in front of her chin. "Anything different?"

  Connor stifled a sigh. What was it? A facelift? New lipstick? He had no idea. "Uh...are you wearing makeup?"

  "No."

  The door behind the tasting room opened, and in came Jess. She halted at the sight of him, and his stupid heart slammed against his sternum. "Hey, Connor," she said, her voice perfectly normal.

  "Jess." He managed a nod, he was pretty sure.

  "Here to see your mom?"

  "Yep." His mother was frowning at him now and kept shoving at her hair.

  "You still don't notice anything different about me?" Mom asked.

  "Can I have a taste of the Gewurztraminer?" one of the men asked.

  "Let me pour that for you," Jess said. She pulled out a bottle and stepped a little bit behind his mother, then pointed at her own hand.

  Her left ring finger, to be precise.

  Connor's eyes widened. He looked at his mother's hand. Sure enough, there was a diamond there, as big as a cherry tomato.

  "Hail Mary," he said.

  "I know!" Mom crowed. "Ronnie and I are getting married!"

  "Holy shit."

  "Stop cussing and hug your mother," Jessica said calmly.

  "Mazel tov," said the lady in the horse shirt, clinking her glass with her husband's.

  There were a lot more cusses that wanted to come out, that was for sure. His mother? Getting married? She was...sixty, maybe? Did she really need to be married? Because marriage implied... Okay, gross. And to Ronnie Petrosinsky, the Chicken King? Didn't he have ties to the Russian Mob?

  Was his mother actually having sex with the Chicken King? Connor's stomach rolled.

  "He's choked up," Jess said. "Aw. Look at him, Jeanette."

  "You'll still be my best boy," Mom said, coming around to hug him.

  "Uh... I'm so happy for you, Mom," Connor murmured. The wine tasters cooed.

  Jessica gave him a wry smile. He smiled begrudgingly back, then hugged his mother a little harder.

  This would be good. Ronnie was a decent guy, loved his only child, made fistfuls of money with his fried-chicken empire, and Mom would have someone to look after, and someone to look after her.

  Connor wouldn't have to plow his mother's driveway every time it snowed. He wouldn't have to worry about her if the power went out during a thunderstorm.

  He wouldn't have to worry if she was lonely.

  "Okay, let me go. I'm having a hot flash," Mom said, and Connor realized he was hugging her very close, indeed.

  Maybe he was a little choked up.

  "Have you set a date? I don't want you shacking up with this guy. Would've been nice if he'd asked my permission first," Connor grumbled.

  His mother laughed. She did look happy. And younger. And pretty. "Sometime this summer. I also might be quitting Blue Heron."

  "Don't even joke about that," Jessica said. "Folks, no one knows our wine better than Jeanette except the Hollands themselves," she added, filling glasses. "You have the privilege of talking with a real connoisseur today."

  "Oh, Jessica, you're too nice!" Mom said. "But she's right, I do love wine. Have you tried our Chardonnay? It's lovely, and we have both oaked and unoaked." She glanced at him. "Connor, sweetheart, I'll see you later, okay? You and Colleen are coming to dinner this week. Is it me, or is she huge?"

  "I think she looks beautiful," Jess said.

  "She's huge," Connor said. "Congratulations, Mom."


  His mother beamed.

  Good. She deserved happiness. She'd been something of a ghoul these past ten years, moaning and mooning after Pete. High time she got over him.

  "Jess, can I talk to you for a minute?" he asked.

  The faintest blush worked its way into her cheeks. "You bet. Come on back."

  She led him down the hall, past Honor's office and into hers, a smaller version of the same. On the door was a nameplate: Jessica Dunn, Director of Marketing.

  He could guess what that meant to her. The office overlooked the vineyard. She'd decorated with a couple of photos of her and Davey, or Davey alone. A stuffed animal sat on one shelf, as well as some books on marketing and wine. Otherwise, it still looked very new.

  "Have a seat," she said, going behind the desk. She picked up a pen, then put it down.

  "Congratulations to you, too," he said. "On your job promotion. I'm really--" proud, he wanted to say "--happy for you."

  "Thanks." The flush deepened. "What can I do for you, Connor?"

  He could think of roughly eighty-seven things immediately, all of which involved sex. "Uh...well, I just... I wanted to say..." Shit. Talking was hard. He took a deep breath. "No hard feelings, Jess. I understand."

  Her face didn't change, didn't move, but her eyes flickered. There were a hundred stories there, and none that he'd get to hear. She'd told him all she was going to.

  She nodded. "Thank you." Her voice was low.

  "I just don't want to... I mean, it'd be nice if we could..."

  He hated talking.

  "I know. Me, too." She gave him a little smile. Words had never really been their thing, anyway.

  "Is everything okay with you?" he asked, because there were shadows under her eyes, and he wasn't dumb enough to think he'd caused them.

  She picked up the pen again. "My father's back in town."

  A hot, slow wave of anger flooded Connor's chest. Keith Dunn had screwed his family over more times than anyone could count. Left Jessica completely in charge of Davey after her mother died.

  "Want me to get rid of him for you?" he asked before he remembered that wasn't his job anymore.

  She shook her head. "Thanks for the thought. I'll take care of it."

  Or Levi would. After all, he was a cop and could actually do something other than threaten. As ever, the old pang of jealousy sounded.

  It wouldn't be smart to ask her to help him with the brewery. She didn't want to marry him; he should give her, and himself, some space.

  "I was wondering if you might be available for some freelance work," he said, because why not? It's not like he was emotionally intelligent. He'd proven that more than once.