The Boyfriend of the Month Club

by Maria Geraci

  “I don’t get it,” he said, shaking his head. “How can chocolate be a substitute for sex?”

  “Okay, I’ll try to explain it again. You know how running releases endorphins and they make you all happy and relaxed? Well, eating chocolate is kind of like running,” Grace said. “It releases some kind of magic drug into your system that makes you feel all tingly and happy inside.” She pulled the banana peppers out of her Italian sub in disgust. “Did you tell them I didn’t want banana peppers?”

  “Sorry about that, I should have checked. Okay, I get the chocolate. Now explain the Jane Austen thing.”

  “It’s also like chocolate, but for the brain. Women crave the kind of heroes she wrote about. Men like Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Knightley, and Captain Wentworth.”

  “You mean guys who aren’t real.”

  “Consider it a kind of fantasy.”

  “Like Playboy?”

  Grace giggled. “I’ve never heard of comparing Jane Austen to Playboy, but I guess it’s not so far off.”

  “So your women’s empowerment group is really a front for talking about sex?” he joked.

  Grace had forgotten she’d told him they’d discussed Jane Austen at the “empowerment meeting.” She hated lying to Joe about the boyfriend club. She really did. And more than anything she wanted to warn him about the extent of Melanie’s infatuation, which, if you asked Grace, bordered on seriously delusional. But to do that would expose the exact nature of the club, and although Grace had no problem with that in general, she was pretty sure Joe would have a problem with the fact that he’d been the club’s latest flavor of the month. Grace could still kick herself for being manipulated into critiquing him.

  “Um, Joe, how’s Melanie?”

  He shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

  “I mean, how’s it going around the office? Does she still have a big crush on you?”

  “It’s under control.” He sounded slightly annoyed.

  No, it’s not under control, she wanted to say. She thought back again to Ellen’s ridiculous conclusion that Joe was a Wickham. Objectively speaking, maybe the descriptors pointed to a similarity, but there was no correlation in real life between the two men. Wickham was the womanizing equivalent to a category five hurricane. Like Wickham, Joe was handsome and charming, but he . . . well, Joe had joined the Peace Corps, for heaven’s sake. That in itself totally blew Ellen’s theory out of the water. Ellen didn’t have the right descriptors for Joe. She just couldn’t.

  “So tell me again why you can’t go to Tampa with me?” he asked, taking a bite of his sandwich.

  “Because not all of us work half days on Friday.”

  He laid his sandwich on the desk and wrapped his hands around her ankles. “I can wait till you get off.” He glanced at the closed door, then back at her. “Speaking of which, do you know what this position reminds me of?”

  “It’s not just this afternoon. I have to work tomorrow too. Penny’s already covered enough Saturdays this past month.” Grace slapped his hands away. “Don’t even think about it,” she said.

  “Why not? I promise, it’ll be fast.”

  Joe’s idea of fast wasn’t exactly shabby. For one wild moment, Grace actually considered it. There were places deep inside her that were more than just considering it. In the end though, she just couldn’t.

  “Because it would scar me for all eternity.”

  “Explain to me how an office quickie is going to ruin your life.”

  “This isn’t just the place I work. It’s Florida Charlie’s, keeper of all my sweetest, most innocent girlhood dreams. It would be like doing it in church. And besides, I could never cheat on Gator Claus with him so close by.” The last part slipped out of her mouth before she realized what she’d said. She watched his face for a reaction, but he didn’t act as if she’d said anything out of the ordinary. “Um, Gator Claus is the nickname I call the stuffed alligator.”

  Joe nodded. “The one you talk to.”

  Grace almost fell off the desk. “You know about that?”

  “I’ve seen you talk to him before.”

  “And you don’t think it’s . . . weird?”

  “Maybe a little. But I like weird girls. The sex is always better.”

  Well, that was one perk Richard Kasamati’s third-grade self couldn’t have foreseen.

  She smiled, but the truth was his response brought up a sore subject. She’d told him a little bit about the two serious boyfriends she’d had, but he’d never discussed any past girlfriends with her. Not that she wanted specifics. They’d discussed enough of each other’s sexual history that Grace felt confident their relationship wasn’t going to end with her on triple antibiotics.

  But the fact that he never said anything about his past relationships, even when prompted, led her to believe that he’d been really hurt and just didn’t want to talk about it. Or maybe he’d had lots of casual girlfriends and none of them stood out enough to mention. Grace didn’t like the idea of Joe being hurt in love, but she preferred the former to the latter. How did the saying go? People who have loved deeply once, are capable of loving deeply again. Or something like that.

  And speaking of feelings, what were hers, exactly? Was she in love with Joe? Technically they’d only been dating a little over a month, but time wasn’t the constraint here. It didn’t matter if she’d known him a couple of months or a couple of years; she either felt it or she didn’t. She loved being with him, no question about that. The sex was great and they had a similar sense of humor. When she wasn’t with him, she was thinking of him. It certainly seemed like love. But . . . there was something missing. She’d known it when Pop had been in the hospital and Joe had wanted to come to the emergency room to be with her and she’d made an excuse about there being too many people.

  “How’s your dad doing?” Joe asked. It was weird—no, she didn’t like that word—it was uncanny how he could read her mind.

  “Finally coming to grips with the fact that it wasn’t a heart attack and that it was stress related. He’s going to a therapist. Some guy named Jim who’s a retired marine. I think he primarily deals with ex-military types who suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. A real man’s man kind of shrink. So now, thanks to Jim, Pop is journaling and he and Mami are going to join a yoga class. You should have seen his face last Sunday at dinner when Abuela mentioned she’s thinking of joining the class too.”

  Joe smiled politely and resumed eating his sandwich. He suddenly seemed uncharacteristically pensive and Grace thought it was as good a time as any to broach the subject that had been on her mind for a while. Since Pop’s “attack,” Brandon had returned to the Thursday night Zumba class. Grace had gone out with him a few times for coffee and lunch and he’d come over for what she considered their weekly movie and popcorn night, conveniently scheduled for a night when Joe was playing rugby. It was all strictly platonic, with the exception of the one night after class that Brandon had hinted heavily that they should take their relationship “up a notch.” The expression had reminded Grace of what Melanie had said of her relationship with Joe. There was no reason to feel guilty about being friends with Brandon, except that she was keeping it from Joe, and that in and of itself told her that maybe there was something there she should explore. The whole thing was confusing.

  “Remember when you told me Brandon Farrell wasn’t what he seemed and that I shouldn’t trust him?”

  He frowned. “What made you think of him just now?”

  “He was here when Pop had his attack.”

  “Here at the store?”

  “Here in the office. He’s part of an investment group that’s interested in buying the store to eventually sell the land for commercial highway development. Charlie set the whole thing up and—”

  Joe stilled. “You’re selling Florida Charlie’s?”

  “Well, not exactly. Pop hasn’t heard the official offer yet. Charlie and Brandon came up with the idea. The store has been in financial trouble for some tim
e now. Didn’t I tell you?”

  “No, Grace,” he said slowly. “You didn’t.”

  “It’s a long story, but Brandon never actually got to present the offer to Pop. And now, I just don’t think it’s a good idea. I don’t want to stress Pop out any further.”

  “And?”

  “I think you’re wrong about Brandon. He seems like a really nice guy, Joe.”

  Joe laid his sandwich back on the desk. “Did this really nice guy make a pass at you?”

  “No! It’s just, I wanted you to know that he and I are friends. He was terrific with Pop, both here and then at the hospital . . .”

  He couldn’t hide the surprise from his face. Or the expression that followed it.

  Well, that was really stupid, Grace.

  Joe wrapped up his portion of uneaten sandwich and stuffed it into the takeout bag. “If you’re not going to Tampa with me, then there’s no need to wait around. I promised the guys I’d be at the hotel in time to get in a practice.”

  “That’s it? You’re just going to leave without talking about this?”

  “What’s there to talk about? Obviously we don’t need to know every little thing about each other, do we?”

  “I . . . No, I guess we don’t. I just didn’t want to hide anything from you.”

  She’d never seen Joe react like this. Why had she let it slip that Brandon had been present at the hospital? Had she wanted to make Joe jealous? A part of her couldn’t help but feel a tiny feminine thrill, but mostly she was ashamed of herself. She hadn’t meant to tell him about Brandon. Not like this. She couldn’t have. She certainly wasn’t trying to pick a fight with Joe. Yet that’s how it must seem to him.

  “I’m glad Farrell was such a rock for you in your time of need. But I already told you, the guy’s bad news. You either trust me on that or you don’t. That’s your call.” He gave her a hasty peck on the forehead. “I’ll call you when I get back in town.”

  25

  Busted

  Pop had been holed up in his den like a squirrel with a nut ever since they’d come home from Mass. It was the first Sunday in February and perfect Florida winter weather—a cool, crisp sixty-five degrees outside. Mami had given Grace the assignment of trying to get Pop to come outside and sit with the rest of the family on the deck, but Grace had her own agenda. She couldn’t talk to Pop about Brandon’s offer, lest that brought on another anxiety attack, and Lord knows no one wanted that to happen. But she needed to clear up the roof situation. She shuddered to think what would happen to the Hemingway corner during the next good rainfall.

  The sun streamed in through the den window, picking up the gray in Pop’s dark hair. He wore a new pair of reading glasses, a set of thin wire-rims that Mami had picked out because she said it didn’t hide his beautiful green eyes. For a second, he looked exactly like Charlie—broad shouldered, confident. It was comforting to think that in about twenty-five years this is what her brother would look like. On the other hand, it made it impossible to believe that Pop had really suffered from something as vague-sounding as an anxiety attack.

  Pop looked up and caught her staring at him.

  “Mami says dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes.” Grace played with the doorknob, twisting it back and forth between her fingers. It was a nervous habit from her teenage years. “She says I’m supposed to tell you that you’ve been in here too long and that you need some fresh air.”

  “Tell your mother I’ll be out in fifteen minutes.”

  “Are you busy? Because I need to talk to you about something.”

  Pop waved her in. “Close the door.”

  The last time Pop had asked her to close the door was when Grace had been caught sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night her senior year in high school. He hadn’t yelled at her. Mami had taken care of that. Instead, they’d had a calm conversation about curfews, and trust, and respect, and in the end she’d been grounded for a week, which, though it had seemed harsh at the time, was lenient compared to Sarah’s monthlong punishment of no car.

  Grace was now feeling the same anxiety of the unknown that she’d felt all those years ago. And then she remembered she was the one who had sought Pop out, not the other way around. There was no reason for her to be nervous.

  “Looking up travel information for your trip?” she asked, pointing to the computer screen.

  He hesitated. “I’m glad you’re here, Grace. There’s something I want to talk to you about too.”

  “Okay. You go first.”

  He pulled off his glasses, carefully folded the arms inside, and made a production of placing them in the cloth eyeglass case. Grace had seen Pop pull of his reading glasses thousands of times, but he usually yanked them off in one move. Was Pop nervous too?

  “Let me start by telling you that my father and I had to have this exact same talk.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Pop. Mami already gave me the talk back in the fourth grade.”

  She expected Pop to laugh. But he didn’t. Pop had never not laughed at any of Grace’s jokes before. Not even the really bad ones.

  “This is serious, Tomato.”

  “Oh.” Grace sat on the edge of Pop’s reading chair—a La-Z-Boy recliner he refused to get rid of despite its frayed condition. “Is it about the tests they ran on you in the hospital? Did . . . did they find something?”

  Pop’s face softened. “Nah, this has nothing to do with those tests. Although it does have something to do with my attack.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Grace, do you remember the day the roof leaked and we had to close the store?”

  “Funny you should bring up the roof leak, Pop, because—”

  “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear when I told you to keep the store closed till the repair was done.”

  Grace blinked. “But I was able to find a company that did a quick fix. I sent you the receipt.” She leaned forward to see if she could make it out among the papers on his desk, but they appeared to be printouts of some kind, along with a leather notebook she’d never seen before. “They were able to do the patch-up job in a day, and the customers didn’t seem to mind. I’ve contacted several companies for estimates and they all say the same thing. We need a new roof.”

  “I’m fully aware the store needs a new roof. There’s some alternative financing that I’m considering, and once I’ve made a decision, I’ll let you know which way I’ve decided to go.”

  She was relieved that Pop seemed to have the roof situation already under control, but Grace was beginning to feel uneasy about something, although she couldn’t put her finger on what it was exactly.

  “You know, Grace, when I had my heart attack two years ago—and that was a real heart attack—your mother convinced me to slow down. I admit, at the time I was putting in too many hours at the store, so she had a valid point. If it gave her peace of mind to think that by not going in to work every day it was somehow going to extend my life, then so be it.”

  Grace sat there and nodded. What was Pop trying to say?

  “At first, I thought this anxiety thing was just some bull the doctors made up because they couldn’t figure out what was really wrong with me. But Jim—that’s my therapist, you’ve heard me talk about him, hell of a guy—he’s got me thinking the docs are right.” Pop shook his head. “Never thought I’d see the day I succumbed to some girly nerve problem, but there it is. I’m holding all this tension inside me. Jim says it’s because I’m stewing about something that’s not going right in my life. Well, what would that be? I said. I have the perfect life. So he had me write everything down in this.” He picked up the leather journal. “All my thoughts, feelings, crap like that. And guess what? It’s costing me a hundred bucks an hour to figure out I’m worried about the store.” He ended with a disbelieving chuckle.

  Grace cleared her throat. “What exactly are you worried about, Pop?”

  “It’s like this, Tomato. My father worked his tail off to make Florida Charl
ie’s a success. Not just for himself, but because he wanted to hand down something of value to the next generation. I want to do the same for you and Charlie. I know Charlie’s not interested in the store, but one day fifty percent of it will be his, just like fifty percent of it will be yours. I always knew when the two of you were kids that you’d be the one to carry on the business. Charlie never felt the same way about the store that you did. And that’s okay.” He picked up the spreadsheets. “I have to tell you, though, sweetheart, the business isn’t the same as it was when I put it in your hands two years ago. That’s partially my fault. I didn’t train you well enough, I think.”

  Pop was blaming her for the decline in business? She’d worked her tail off to bring Florida Charlie’s into the twenty-first century. Was it her fault the economy had taken a nosedive in the past few years? She thought about all the things she could bring up—decreased tourist dollars, rising competition. But they felt like empty excuses.

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “I’m trying to tell you the same thing my father said to me when I thought I knew more about the business than he did. I may be your father, Grace, but when I tell you something about the store, I expect you to listen. As long as my name’s on the deed, I’ll make the ultimate decisions.”

  In all the years Grace had worked for her father, she’d never heard this tone of voice from him. She felt her cheeks go warm. “You’re right, Pop. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “Good. I’ve been going over the spreadsheets, trying to figure out where we’ve been losing revenue. Once I study these a bit closer, then I want to meet with you again and come up with some new strategies.”

  “Have . . . have you had a chance to look over the proposal I gave you? About keeping the store open on Sundays?”

  “I have.” He paused. “It’s actually a well-thought-out plan, but I’d prefer to keep it as a last-minute resort. I feel confident we can keep the same hours we always have and still get back to where we were financially.”