Judy looks overjoyed as she grabs a gummy worm out of the small cup of chocolate pudding Emma is holding, and bounces off in the direction of the dance floor.
"I think she might be hitting the eyeball punch just a little too hard," Emma says.
She points toward a clear plastic punch bowl sitting at the end of the table. The green liquid inside is illuminated from glowing eyeballs floating throughout it. Another punch bowl sits beside it with red punch with a cube sitting on the bottom of the bowl, flashing in a variety of colors. It looks like someone is throwing a rave in an artery.
"I'm guessing the eyeballs are the more adult-oriented choice," I say.
"I think the appropriate way to put that at a Halloween party is to say it’s spiked."
I laugh and nod as I use a clear plastic ladle to portion out some of the green punch into one of the cups stacked in a pyramid on the table.
"Well played," I say.
"Your costume is fantastic," she says.
"Thank you," I say. "So is yours. You just threw that together in the last day?"
"It's amazing what a bored mother with a sewing machine can accomplish," Emma says. "And I might have already had this dress sitting around. A few strategically-placed sequin seeds, and stem added to a fascinator, and you've got a berry."
"Why did you already have that dress sitting around?" I ask. She shakes her head like it's something she doesn't want to talk about, and takes the cup out of my hands. I fill another, and take a sip of the tart, acidic drink.
"Just something I had," she says. "How about you? You just happen to have that little ensemble hanging in a closet somewhere?"
"It's amazing what having a dedicated, trained staff can accomplish," I tell her.
She smiles and takes a drink from her cup, then looks down at it with a grimace.
“That’s truly horrible, isn’t it?”
I can’t help but chuckle. "It’s not good." I look around. "Tell me you aren't responsible for this atrocity."
"No," she says. "Remember, I'm the student activities advisor. Only Spirit Week events that don't have to do with the teachers."
"Well," I say, putting my cup down on the table. "The drinks might not be world-class, but that doesn't mean we can't have a good time." I hold my hand out to her. "Could I interest you in a dance, Miss Berry?"
Emma sets her cup down beside mine and takes my hand.
"You can, Mr. Manger."
"Mr. A," I correct. "I just happen to be the manger."
Emma laughs as I lead her to an empty corner of the dance floor. The music had been fast and energetic when I asked her to dance, but as soon as we get into our place, it slows. We look around as the other people on the floor start to head off. She meets my eyes, and my mind flashes back to what Mrs. Burke said about us. I still don't get exactly what she was talking about, but I do know how I felt the instant I saw it was Emma sitting in that car in the rain. Without hesitation, I take her into my arms, pulling her close, so my hand rests on the small of her back, and I hold her with the other against my chest. Emma places her other hand on my shoulder, and her hand relaxes in mine. Looking down at her, I feel the tension between us growing. Any second, it could break, and Emma will retreat from me again.
"Where's Judy's date tonight?" I ask, trying to fill the silence and keep her close.
"I think I'm Judy's date tonight," she says. "I'm not being very chivalrous."
"What happened to her real boy?" I ask.
"He's still around," she says. "But they're still casual. You can't bring someone you barely know to a work function, especially a dance."
"That's not a rule I've heard before."
"She's pretty adamant about it. I think she was really thrown off by the whole thing with the online boyfriend thing, and now she's trying to be more cautious and responsible."
We fall back into silence, and I let myself rest in it. I pull Emma closer so her body presses against mine. She draws in a breath, and leans in even closer. The song slides by and fades into another and another. She looks like she's starting to say something, when a Winnie the Pooh who looks like he spent too much time in the honeypot, bumbles over to us, calling Emma's name.
"Fred?" she asks. "What's wrong?"
"Judy," he says. "I think she drank too much punch."
Emma breaks away from me, and we rush across the gym. Fred leads us out through the doors and into the main common area, where I see Judy sitting at our usual lunch table, which is one of the few still in the center of the floor. The others contain decorations and other preparations for the dance tomorrow night, but Judy seems to have settled happily into the familiar stool, and is now resting her head on the table. Emma runs up to her, and sits down beside her, wrapping her arm around Judy's shoulders.
"Judy?" I hear her ask. "Are you ok?" Judy doesn't respond, and Emma shakes her slightly. "Judy?"
Judy suddenly bolts upright, and looks over at Emma.
"Hmm?" she asks, seemingly unconcerned about what's happening.
"Judy?" Emma says again. "Are you feeling alright?"
"I'm great," she says. "Why?"
"Fred came and got me," Emma tells her. "He's worried about you."
"No," she says, shaking her head. "No, I'm fine."
I sit down across the table from them, and lean slightly toward Judy.
"What did you drink?" I ask.
Her eyes slide over to me, and she smiles, her eyes half open.
"You," she says. "You're… hot."
Emma's bites down on her bottom lip as she tries not to laugh.
"Thank you," I say.
"I mean, like… Emma… Emma… look at him. Isn't he hot?" She lets out a sudden, loud honk of laughter. "I know you think he is. You know he's hot."
I look back at Emma and see her eyes closed, her head shaking slowly back and forth.
"Judy," I say, getting her attention again. "What did you drink?"
"The green stuff with the eyeballs floating around in it," she says. "You know… the other one has malcohol in it. I didn't want to put myself in a compromising position in front of my coworkers."
"Because of the malcohol," I say.
"'Zactly."
She's starting to droop down toward the table again, and Emma pats her back.
"How much of the green stuff with the eyeballs floating in it did you drink?" she asks.
"Five or six of those cups," she says. "I was dancing a lot, and it got really hot." She looks over at me again. "Hot like you."
And that was it for Judy.
Her head drops down, but fortunately her arm slides first, catching her forehead before it hits the table.
"What should we do?"
"We should probably take her home and let her get some rest," I say. "I don't think she's in any danger. I have a feeling she's not normally a heavy drinker, so this is probably enough to make her sleep for a while."
Judy's phone rings, and Emma fishes it out of the pocket of her sweatpants.
"Hello?... This is Emma… Yeah, Judy's here, but she's…. she's incapacitated right now. Who's this? Oh! Um… do you know where she is tonight?... Ok. Well, she plied herself with alcohol… No, herself…. On a table in the cafeteria… A grape of wrath… Great. Thank you."
She ends the call and slips the phone back into Judy's pocket.
"What was that?"
"Oh, that was the real boy. Jeremy. He said he'll be here to get her in a few minutes. We just need to get her to the front of the school."
I take Judy's arm that isn't under her head and toss it over my shoulder before scooping her up off the stool. Boosting her up higher so she is secure, I gesture with my head toward the front of the school.
"Go ahead," I say.
Emma scurries around the table and leads me through the common area and down the main hallway to the front entrance of the building. She holds one of the double doors open, and I push the other with my foot, giving me enough space to carry Judy out without hurting her. I'v
e just gotten to the curb when a green tractor, towing a large, blanket and hay-filled wagon, pulls up in front of us. Nothing that happens in Magnolia Falls surprises me anymore. A long, lanky man in a beige sweater, jeans, and a straw cowboy hat looks over at me from behind the wheel.
"Is she ok?" he asks.
I nod.
"I think she's fine. If she sleeps it off, she'll be fine."
Jeremy gets down from the seat, and walks around to the back of the tractor to open the wagon so I can rest Judy inside.
"Someone needs to keep an eye on her," Emma says. "If something happens, she shouldn't be alone. I'll go with her."
"It's alright," Jeremy says. "I'll take care of her."
"Are you sure?" she asks.
"I'll take Judy back to my place, get her set up on the couch with a bucket and some ginger ale, and watch over her. Don't worry, Emma."
I see Emma's shoulders relax, and the concern deeply etched on her face disappear.
"Thank you," she says.
He climbs back behind the wheel.
"I would never let anything happen to her," he says. "We’ve known each other since we were kids. Are the two of you sticking around here?"
I look at Emma. She has her arms wrapped around herself, her hands rubbing her shoulders.
"Emma?" I say. "Do you want to go back in?"
She shakes her head.
"No. I think I'm done. I just realized how freaking exhausted I am after this crazy week."
"Do you have your car?"
"No," she says. "Judy and I got a ride. You?"
I shake my head. I gave my on-call driver the rest of the night off.
"Hop in," Jeremy says. "I'll give you a lift."
Emma and I climb into the back of the wagon, and she moves to sit up nearer to Judy. I notice her patting Judy’s arm comfortingly as the tractor lurches forward and starts away from the school. Our drunken friend makes a contented cooing sound and snuggles closer to Emma. Yeah, she’s going to be just fine. By the time the tractor had pulled up in front of Emma's house, Judy's eyes were open, and she was able to slur goodnight to us. We assured her Jeremy was going to bring her home and keep an eye on her, and she smiled as she drifted back to sleep in the hay. Emma and I stand awkwardly in the strip of grass that separates our houses, both of us waving at Jeremy as he drives away.
"They’re only casual, huh?" I ask.
"Apparently you can only bring a real, “official” boyfriend to a Homecoming week party, but casual Jeremy is good enough to pick you up from the party and take care of you while you’re passed out."
"So, when's the wedding?"
"I have my money on next fall," she says.
Emma looks up at me with a smile, and then glances down at her feet.
"I guess I'll be heading home," she says.
She starts across the grass toward her front door, and I call after her.
"It's still pretty early," I say. "Can I interest you in something a little more palatable than the green stuff with the eyeballs?"
"Will it still have malcohol?" she asks.
"It could," I say.
She turns around and follows me into my house. I go to the bar in my living room as Emma settles onto the couch. Pouring each of us a glass of bourbon, I hand her one, then drop down onto the soft cushion of the couch beside her. We each take a sip, and she lets out a sigh.
"That's delicious," she says.
"It's one of my favorites," I tell her. "I've been thinking of having a glass ever since you mentioned the bourbon whipped cream on the winning pumpkin pie."
"I still think that should have been considered bribing the judges," she says. "I'm going to petition for an asterisk next to her name in the yearbook."
"I think that’s a valid move," I tease. "You don't want her going down in Spirit Week history with a tainted victory. The people deserve to know.”
She grins, then draws in a breath, tosses back the rest of the bourbon, and sets her glass down on the table in front of her. Turning her body to face me, Emma looks me squarely in the eye.
"Ok. He cheated on me," she says matter-of-factly. "You asked me what happened to my marriage. That's it. The asshole cheated on me."
"Alright," I say. "Is that really it?"
"No," she says.
"Do you want to tell me the rest?"
"No."
"Do you want another bourbon?"
"Yes."
I refill her glass, and she takes a sip of it, then stares down into it like she's waiting for it to tell her the mysteries of the universe.
"He lied to me," she says. "He made me think he was somebody he wasn't, then convinced me I needed to change myself to be married to him. I pushed back. He pushed back harder. I gave in. He started cheating on me. That is the Reader's Digest abridged version."
"What a fucking idiot. You probably don’t want any more commentary on it, but that's my input."
Emma smiles at me.
"I appreciate that input." She takes another sip. "What are your plans now that Homecoming week is over? I know you were planning to visit with your brothers, but since they weren't able to come, has anything changed?"
"It can't," I say. "I still have to get back to the office on Monday. I have two new clients who are going through the initial stages of their experiences, and I’m finishing up a few others as well."
"Initial stages?" she asks.
"When somebody first wants to be my client, they get in touch with the headquarters, which operate about an hour from here. First, they speak to my intake team, and the team decides which one of us should handle that particular client. Each of us has our own specialties, and if the client is willing to travel, and wants to get the best experience for their money, which is usually a considerable amount, they will have us choose the brother that's best for their list. Sometimes, they only want just one experience checked off their list, or they have a short time frame they're working with, or don't want to travel. If that happens, we connect them with the brother who is geographically closest. Sometimes, we even travel to them."
"And after that?"
"After the intake process, if the team has decided I'm the right concierge, they have the client fill out some paperwork for me. I ask a lot of questions to help the person really clarify what they want and get a feel for them as an individual. Sometimes, they have no idea, and it's my job to help them find that out. Once we've nailed down their bucket list, we start talking logistics. That’s where it can get really complicated, especially for the clients who have long or diverse lists. Some want things that require an insane amount of planning and preparation. We have to find venues, source specific items, and sometimes go through a lot of red tape to get permits and reviews to make sure everything is legal and safe. If they're willing to put themselves out there, and pay for it, of course, I'm going to give them the very best experience possible. That's my top priority. Keeping my clients happy and making sure my business remains a success."
Chapter Nine
Emma
"Isn't it kind of sad to work with people on their bucket list?" I ask. "Aren't you constantly thinking about the end of the people's lives, and everything they're never going be able to accomplish?"
"No, not really," Grant replies. "I don't think a bucket list necessarily has to be all about death. I actually think our work can be incredibly life confirming. When I'm working with these people to conceptualize their biggest dreams and most incredible aspirations, I'm not thinking about their deaths, or that they are running out of time. I'm thinking about how I can help them live and experience all of these incredible, unspoken wishes in their hearts and minds. I mean, I've worked with people who don't have much time left. There have been clients who have gotten in touch with me right after receiving a horrible diagnosis, and they only have a few months, or even a few weeks, and want to go out with a bang, so to speak. Even those aren’t sad experiences. They were joyful and full of excitement. Part of the reason I love my job so muc
h is because I get to have all of these wonderful experiences that I never would have if it wasn’t on someone’s list."
"How did you decide to do something like this in the first place?” I ask. "I've never heard of a bucket list concierge before."
I take another sip of the rich, smooth bourbon. The smoky liquid slides down my throat and warms my body.
"I hadn't, either," Grant says." That's why I got into it. It actually wasn't originally my idea. When I was a teenager, my great-uncle Bernard got it into his head he was dying. I don't know if a doctor actually told him something was wrong with him, or if he had a friend who was diagnosed with some sort of health problem, and he had a few of the same symptoms, so he diagnosed himself. It also might have been because he was older than dirt and spent the majority of his life living off bourbon, cigars, and bacon, but was healthy as a horse, and thought he might be pushing his luck. I don't know exactly what happened that convinced him he was on his way out, but it was all he thought about. Bernard never was the most conventional person of our family. I think that's the best way to put it. He was unpredictable, and eccentric. He also had more money than many small nations, and no wife or children to spend it on. A creative, intelligent mind paired with virtually limitless capital can be an extraordinary thing. Sometimes extraordinarily disastrous, but not always."
"And that time?"
"Fortunately, there was no disaster. But there was a bucket list that looked like it had been written on a scroll. Even though Bernard had seen and done more than I could possibly ever imagine, he suddenly decided he hadn't done enough. Out of nowhere, he had come up with a seemingly never-ending list of aspirations. Some of them were really easy, but there are other ones even he couldn't figure out how to do. I went on quite a few of these adventures with him, and during one, he mentioned how much easier it would be if someone else could take care of the details for him.”
"So, what happened to your great-uncle Bernard? I ask.
Marriage Mistake Page 16