Ain’t He Precious?

by Juliette Poe

  Regardless, I know I never missed her like this when we broke up. I was hurt, I was angry, and yes, I missed her. But I focused on the hurt and anger to get over the missing her.

  I don’t have that right now because when I left Whynot seven days ago, it was with the memory of Trixie’s lips on mine just before she told me she loved me. She saw me off with a hope in her eyes that it would all work out this time. I promised her that I’d get Leslie and Aaron settled, and I’d be back as soon as I could, but surely before Wednesday when we had the Ogletree mediation.

  But that didn’t happen. No… that would just be way too easy.

  The Leslie and Aaron issue wasn’t that much of an issue. I kept Aaron Friday and Saturday night, and we spent the days at the hospital with Leslie to keep her spirits up. The only touchy part of that was the slight look of hope written all over Leslie’s face that I’d give her another chance. I hated to kill that look, but I gently told her about Trixie when we sent Aaron off to the vending machines for a Coke. She took it as well as could be expected. Maybe the pain medications helped. Who knows?

  Aaron’s father came back to the States on Sunday, so I was released from childcare duties. Although, I did assist in getting Leslie home while Aaron went with his father. I had also had the foresight to hire a caregiver who could stay with her for a few days until she was comfortable getting around on her own. From there, my plan became to go into my office on Monday, handle some shit that needed handling, and then head back to Whynot so Trixie and I could decide our future.

  While Trixie and I talked every night on the phone, texted each other several times a day, and even had one late-night dirty FaceTime session, we had not talked about what we were going to do to make this work. We had agreed that was a conversation we needed to sit down and have in person when I returned to Whynot for the Ogletree mediation. So, our conversations were fun, flirty, sometimes dirty, and always with the promise that we’d get this figured out as soon as we could look each other in the eyes and be honest about what we wanted for our futures.

  But again… that plan would just be way too easy.

  Two things hit me almost simultaneously on Monday morning when I walked into the firm of Hayes Lockamy. Trixie sent me a text that I read just as I was walking through the lobby.

  You won’t freakin’ believe this… the defense just offered the million dollars on the Ogletree case. I’m in total shock.

  I stopped dead in my tracks, a smile coming swiftly to my face because Mr. Ogletree deserved that money. Every penny of it.

  That’s awesome, I wrote back.

  Totally awesome, she replied as I stood in the lobby bent over my phone. And it’s all because of you entering in on the case.

  No way, I maintained.

  Yes way, she returned. I love you.

  I love you too. I’ll call you after we have our partner meeting.

  She replied by sending me a picture of herself blowing me a kiss. I just shook my head, eager to get into the meeting so I could roundtable some thoughts I’d been having about the direction of the firm, including my role in it.

  The second thing that hit me was that our partner meeting went to shit very fast. We met every Monday morning amid a spread of bagels, pastries, and fresh fruit in the large conference room where we went over financials, operations, marketing, and human resources issues. I was thrown off course, however, when the first order of business was that James Hayes III announced his early retirement from the firm.

  This was a complete shocker because he is only fifty-five and a third-generation Hayes in this firm. The Hayes were well known for their work ethic, and his father and grandfather before him died at their desks in their late seventies. But Jimmy—as he liked to be called—told us casually while he munched on a bagel with lox and cream cheese that he was leaving his wife and marrying his secretary, and they were going to move to Bermuda.

  Jimmy munched on that damn bagel while the rest of us stared at him with our jaws hanging wide open.

  Of course, the rest of the meeting was chaotic as we tried to figure out what to do. Jimmy wasn’t just a name on the sign. He was a major fee earner. Clients could potentially walk out on us with him leaving. Needless to say, the rest of the agenda, including my own issues I wanted to discuss, got pushed to the side and were never addressed. Instead, we haggled over money and a buyout of Jimmy’s shares.

  My ability to get back to Trixie only got worse from there.

  Obviously, there was no rush to make it back to Whynot before Wednesday as the Ogletree case had been settled. However, we made tentative plans for me to fly in on Friday—which is today—to spend the weekend together. It was at my insistence it be done in a hotel, because while I appreciate her parents’ hospitality, I wanted to do things to Trixie that were best served to be done in a more private setting as we were going to be very noisy. And we had some very important things to discuss, and I wanted her undivided attention.

  That game plan didn’t pan out though.

  I found out last night that another emergency partner meeting was called for tomorrow as more details had to be ironed out over the quick and unexpected exodus of Jimmy Hayes from the firm. He wanted more money for the value of his shares. The other partners—me included—didn’t quite agree on said value, particularly given the messiness and timing of his exit. Over the past few days, resentments have been bubbling, and I’m sure it’s going to get even nastier before it’s all said and done.

  I’m beyond bummed about not seeing Trixie this weekend. She’s equally as disappointed, and I heard it in her voice when I called her last night to tell her I had to cancel my trip. I heard it to such an extent that it worried me. She seemed a bit… distant when I told her what was going on and that I couldn’t make it in. I’m hoping I’m wrong about that, but the one thing neither one of us can afford to do at this point is to give up hope. What we’ve found again is too important to let slip away. I need to keep her bolstered, so she stays committed to us finding a way to be together.

  In fact…

  I grab my cell phone, which rests beside my keyboard, and dial Trixie’s number. It rings three times before going to voice mail, and I assume she might be in court this morning. I listen to her very brief message. Just hearing her voice makes me long for her even more.

  When the phone beeps for me to leave a message, I say, “Hey, Trix. Just wanted you to know I’m thinking about you, which is all I’ve pretty much done for the last week. I’m really sorry I can’t make it in this weekend, but I’ll get there as soon as I get this crap resolved with the firm. I miss you, babe. Oh, and I love you too. Don’t forget that, okay?”

  I hang up the phone, feeling unsettled and knowing that message was nowhere near enough to convey my confidence to Trixie that we’re going to get this figured out. I also continue to worry that Trixie will get mired down in doubts, because let’s face it—we had three great years, one bad breakup, eleven years apart and miserable, four amazing days together where we re-connected on the deepest level possible, and then a week apart that was plenty of time for things to fall apart.

  God… they better not fall apart.

  I glance at my watch and see I have about fifteen minutes until a client meeting, so I decide to check my email. The first thing I notice is a message from the receptionist with the name “George Mancinkus” in the subject line.

  I double click on the message and read: George Mancinkus called. Would like you to call him back.

  It left a number with the same area code as Trixie’s, yet I have no clue who George Mancinkus is. It could be her father, who goes by Gerry, but I suppose that could be short for George. Or it might be Pap, since I have no clue what his real name is.

  Doesn’t really matter who it is because the fact someone related to Trixie is calling me has my heart pounding as I consider the absolute worst. I can’t think of one single reason I’d get a call from one of her relatives unless something bad had happened to her.

  I has
tily grab my phone again and dial the number left by George Mancinkus.

  Pap answers on the second ring, and I know this because his voice is unmistakable. “’Bout time you called me back.”

  “Just saw your message,” I say quickly. “Is Trixie alright?”

  “Of course she’s alright,” he says grumpily. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  My heart rate immediately declines. “Well, I guess I don’t know why you’d be calling me otherwise,” I tell him truthfully.

  Because seriously, Pap… why are you calling me?

  “I’m calling to find out your game plan,” he says without an ounce of shame for being nosy. “I’ve got a granddaughter walking around like her puppy has been repetitively kicked, and I want to know what you’re going to do about it.”

  “She’s pining for me, huh?” I ask, a small grin coming to my face. This makes me feel infinitely better about the situation while alleviating some of my worries that I’ll lose her before we can figure things out.

  “You pining for her?” he throws right back at me.

  “Yup,” I say soundly. Because I’m totally gone for Trixie Mancinkus.

  “Then get your ass down here and figure your shit out,” Pap says. “She says you cancelled your trip this weekend.”

  “I’m assuming she didn’t tell you I have some really important stuff going on at the office that I have to handle. An emergency meeting with the partners tomorrow and—”

  “You saying all that stuff is more important than Trixie?” he cuts in.

  And while my first instinct is to educate him on the importance of my role as a partner in a major law firm and to let him know that some things will have to periodically take precedence, the words don’t come out. They don’t come out because they’re not true. Nothing is more important than Trixie, and that’s a fact.

  “No, Pap,” I say in a low voice. “Nothing is more important than Trixie.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” he asks, his voice going from combative to slightly accommodating.

  “There’s no problem,” I say, suddenly knowing what needs to happen. “I really can’t make it in tomorrow as I have to attend this meeting, but trust me… part of the meeting has to do with my ironing out a good game plan with regards to Trixie. But I’ll fly in on Sunday.”

  “Want me to tell her you’re coming?” he asks, and I swear I can actually hear him scratching at the bristles on his chin.

  “No… keep it a surprise,” I tell him, but then add on with a chuckle. “Unless you think that her pining is so bad she needs to know.”

  Pap gives a bark of a laugh. “She’ll survive until Sunday, I’m sure.”

  “Good,” I say with a satisfied smile, knowing that within the next two days, everything in my life will be turned completely upside down. I’m actually looking forward to it.

  CHAPTER 18

  Trixie

  I grab the duct tape I’d come to Floyd’s Hardware Emporium for and make my way to the front register. I’m surprised to see Lowe standing at the counter, talking to Floyd. He hadn’t been there when I walked in ten minutes ago, and who knew it would take me that long to choose a brand and size of duct tape. I haven’t seen or talked to him since his rant about passion last week that seemed to have spurred Ry and me into taking a hard look at what we really wanted. I know I owe him some type of gratitude for that, although I know that wasn’t his intent that day.

  “Hey, Lowe,” I say as I approach. When he turns to face me, I’m relieved to find a semi-warm smile on his face.

  “Hey, Trix,” he says.

  I set the duct tape on the counter. Floyd rings it up, asking, “What you patchin’ up?”

  “Leaky sink pipe in the bathroom at my office,” I tell him as I fish in my wallet for a twenty.

  Floyd nods and takes my money, making change.

  “You need help fixing it?” Lowe asks as he leans an elbow on the counter.

  “Nah,” I say genially. “I’ve got Burt coming Monday to take a look at it. I updated his will last month, and he’s promised me plumbing services in exchange.”

  While this doesn’t happen often, I do accept trade services for my work. In a town this small, with many small proprietors feeling the pinch at times, it doesn’t bother me that I don’t always get cash for my legal aide. Burt has been out of work for a few months due to a knee replacement, so his plumbing business has been suffering. Who doesn’t have a plumbing issue at some point? It seemed like a good trade.

  “What are you up to today?” I ask Lowe, since the conversation isn’t stilted for the first time in a long time.

  Unfortunately, this may not have been the best thing to ask as his eyes turn practically glacial. “I’ve got to get started on the repairs to the doors on The Mainer House for that snotty, rich bitch who bought it.”

  I want to tell Lowe two things. First, it’s not nice or cool to call any woman a bitch, except for Sarah Porter who taped a “Kick Me” sign to my back when I was in the third grade. And second, it’s not The Mainer House anymore. It’s whatever name the woman who bought it wants to call it.

  But I say neither, because I don’t want to provoke my brother.

  Floyd, however, has no problem doing so. “You know what I’d do if I were you, Lowe?”

  “What’s that?” Lowe asks as he turns to Floyd with keen interest in his eyes.

  “I’d paint those door casings you replace neon green when you’re done,” he advises with a hoarse and slightly evil cackle.

  Lowe’s eyes light up.

  “Don’t you dare,” I warn Lowe. “I do not want to have to go back in front of Judge Bowe to explain that.”

  Lowe cuts me a quick glance, his hazel eyes bright with intent, before looking back to Floyd. “Yeah… painting it neon green is not the best of ideas. But… I’m thinking bright pink would be awesome.”

  “Lowe—” I snap at him.

  “Awesome,” Floyd says simultaneously. “I can totally work up the perfect tint for you if you want to go grab some exterior paint on aisle three.”

  “Lowe,” I plead, but he’s already turning away from me and trotting toward the paint section of Floyd’s store.

  I turn back to Floyd and level a stern glare at him. “Will you stop provoking him?”

  “Nope,” is all Floyd says. “I’m enjoying this way too much.”

  “You’re going to get him thrown in jail,” I hiss at him.

  Floyd shrugs. “Good thing his sister is a lawyer.”

  “Aaaaghhh,” I huff out in frustration. I then call back into the depths of the store so Lowe can hear me. “Don’t call me when you get in trouble, Lowe Mancinkus, you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” he calls back.

  I look back at Floyd, and he’s just grinning from ear to ear.

  Grabbing my duct tape and change from the counter where Floyd laid it, I stomp out of the store muttering, “Sometimes I hate living in this town.”

  ♦

  I’m still stomping when I make my way into Chesty’s, despite having had a good twenty minutes to cool down. I’d went from Floyd’s back to my office where I wrapped my leaky pipe with duct tape. I had planned on getting caught up on some work, but the idea of spending a Saturday cooped up in my office didn’t really hold any appeal to me.

  Given my shitty run-in with Lowe, the anxiety I’m now harboring over what type of trouble he’s going to be in, and the fact I’m absolutely at a loss as to what to do with Ry, all has me feeling like I need to just get drunk with Pap.

  I pull the door open to Chesty’s and immediately see him sitting on his stool at the end of the bar. He has a half-empty mug of beer in front of him, and he’s chatting with Jason Miller who owns Miller’s Gas Station and Wine Shop.

  Yes, that’s right… it’s a gas station and a wine shop.

  It’s an odd duo of a business for sure, but it actually sort of works. While Whynot is a good forty-five minutes from Raleigh, there’s quite a few people who live i
n the surrounding area who actually work there and commute home for “country” living. Many of those people are refined, well educated, and, as Jason came to find out several years ago, like their wine. He started carrying a small assortment, and then as demand grew, his selection got bigger. Then he started holding wine tastings. Now on the last Thursday of every month, you can find his gas station packed with these country-living-city-folk whose cars line the dirt shoulders of Highway 117 as there’s not sufficient parking around the station itself, all so they can attend one of Jason’s tastings.

  Jason and Pap are good friends, despite about a thirty-year age difference. A long time ago, they came up with a gentleman’s agreement that would give each other a bit of equal footing since they were both in the business of selling alcohol. Pap agreed he wouldn’t serve wine in his bar, and Jason agreed he’d only provide very specialty brews that Pap would never carry in his bar. So, if you wanted wine or a microbrew, you went to Jason’s Gas Station. If you wanted regular ol’ beer, you went to Chesty’s.

  Both men turn when the door opens and level smiles at me.

  “Hey, Trixie,” Jason says as I approach. He’s sitting on my stool and immediately gets up.

  I hold my hand out to him and say, “Keep your seat, Jason. I’ll just sit next to you.”

  He shakes his head as he holds the stool out for me. “I got to get goin’. Promised Della I’d take her to Raleigh for dinner tonight.”

  “Woo,” I say with a cocked eyebrow. “Things are getting serious with you two, huh?”

  Della owns the local bookstore, The Reader’s Nook, and her husband died a little over a year ago. Jason’s never been married. They started dating a few months ago. I think it’s beyond sweet and cute.