by Kristi Rose
Stacy backs out and when he looks over his shoulder, that adorable, crooked, chin-dimpled grin is on his face and I force myself to look away lest I spontaneously caress him everywhere...while in the car...with his child and my cousin in the backseat.
“Dad?” Cordie yawns again.
“Yeah, Cords?”
“I’m sorry about you and Jill. I was really mean to her before we moved.”
“It’s all right, kiddo. It’s in the past,” Stacy says, his eyes darting between the road and me. I turn to look out the window, hoping to lighten the awkwardness.
“I mean, you should be happy, too. I’m going to be happier.” Another large yawn. “And I’ll be a better kid.” Her voice fades at the end.
“Listen, Cordelia, you’re the best kid in the entire world. I’m the luckiest dad to have a kid like you. You understand me? You make me happy and are not to blame for anything that happened in Seattle before we left. You hear me?”
Cordie laughs softly. “I love you, Dad.”
“I love you more, kiddo.”
“So if you want to marry Jill, I’m okay with that now.”
I look over my shoulder; Cordie is snuggled up next to Pippa, her head on Pip’s shoulder. Her eyes are closed and a slight smile on her lips.
“Cords—” Stacy starts but I touch his shoulder, stopping him, and press my fingers to my lips.
“She’s asleep,” I whisper.
“About what she said—”
I hold up my hand. “It’s your life. I’m not a part of it. I mean, in that capacity.”
He glances at me, his smile gone, before returning his attention to the road. I don’t know what to say. And as my normal custom, instead of staying quiet, I prattle about, wishing I could quiet my own mouth or stick my foot up my arse.
“I’m sorry Eve didn’t stick,” I say.
“Evie.”
“I beg your pardon?” Because confused is also a normal state for me.
“Her name is Evie,” he says with bite.
“I apologize.” I shift away, leaning against the door.
“What is with every woman in my life trying to set me up? You, Cordie, my mom, and even Josie. Is there something about me that says I can’t get my own woman? I know I have a girl’s name, but I can promise you there is nothing girly about me,” he says with such passion I’m startled.
“Again, I apologize and ask for your forgiveness. I will cease from matchmaking from this moment forward.”
He sighs heavily. “Why do we fight in cars? You ever notice that?”
I shake my head, refusing to look at him.
“Maybe I’d like to be in charge of finding someone for me.”
“We were only trying to help. And Cordie, she wants you to be happy.” I look at him now. He’s got one hand on the wheel and the other is adjusting the mirror, I assume looking at his child. Do I tell him what she shared tonight? When does it become a parent’s right to know? I suppose not having the answer to this question points to my non-existent maternal instinct.
“I know. I thought she’d be happier here. I’m glad she had a good time tonight.”
“She really did. You’re a good dad for letting her come.” Does he have maternal instinct? Or is he limited to his paternal guts? We’re pulling into the car park and I gesture for him to pull in front of my flat rather than go around to the garage.
“She needs to make friends her own age. Outside our group. She’s becoming too dependent on Pippa and Josie. I know it’s because she wants a mother but she’s not going to find it there, and the sooner she starts doing things a nine-year-old does instead of hanging out with adults, the less she’ll be aware of what she doesn’t have.”
I turn to him, mouth agape as I search for the proper words. “If you think that’s true then you’re a bit of a punt, aren’t ya? Nothing will make this child less aware of being one parent short other than filling that void, and even then it’s not a hundred percent.”
Chapter 23
It’s been over two weeks since the football game and now that I’ve promised not to matchmake anymore, I’m flat out of ideas on how to deny myself Stacy.
I’d ask Paisley for recommendations but now that everything’s worked out between her and Hank, her suggestion of jumping his bones is counterproductive.
As he promised, Davis delivered a dossier of potential investors, only not to my email but to the shop, bound professionally, the spine a coil that allows the thin book to lay flat when opened. I’ve been carrying it around in my messenger bag for a week now, having not cracked it open after the initial glance through.
Another girls’ night, and again I’m the designated driver for Josie and Paisley. And three seconds after settling in the car, they started complaining about the limited head and legroom in the back. I hoped Pip would join us but she begged off, claiming an appointment, and said she would meet me there.
Thankfully, the drive from my house to the pub is relatively quick and we are entering said establishment the same time Pippa gets out from a cab.
I point to the yellow eyesore. “What’s this?”
She does a finger wave to Paisley and Josie.
I narrow my gaze. “What goes on here?” I say. My typically dressed-in-only-tunics-and-yoga-pants cousin is wearing one of my flowy peasant blouses with a skirt and boots.
She pays the driver and ignores me completely.
“Seriously, Pip. You know I’ll come get you anytime. Anywhere.” There’s a secret being kept and I want to know about it. When she gets close enough I lean toward her and take a whiff, but she doesn’t smell like anything unexpected such as sex, cigarettes, or pot. She smells like Pippa. Bergamot essential oils. Five Thieves when she’s sick.
“Mind your own,” Pippa whispers.
“Are we going to stay out here all night or are we going in?” Paisley motions to the door.
“In,” Pippa and Josie say in unison.
I walk in behind them all, still trying to figure out Pip, seeking a clue that might lead me down the path to my answers.
We aren’t two steps past the hostess station, making our way to the tables that flank the bar, when Pippa stops, folds in on herself, and sneezes with such vigor I’m sure birds outside have flown away in fright.
When she straightens a clear, gelatinous half circle blob the size of my hand drops to the ground, catches the tip of her boot and bounces like a skipping rock ten feet away.
“What in the hell was that?” Josie says as Pippa, who has just figured it out, gasps in horror and clutches her chest. Or, more specifically, the right portion of her chest.
“A chicken cutlet,” I say.
“A what?” Heather asks, coming up alongside us, a tray of drinks in her hand.
Paisley covers her mouth, a poor attempt to disguise her laughter.
“A chicken cutlet,” I say again as Pippa runs off to try to retrieve it. Seconds before she’s able to scoop it from the floor an unknowing patron accidentally kicks it.
“I thought she was vegan,” Heather says, still holding the tray, her brow knitted in confusion.
This renders Paisley a mess as she dissolves in laughter, but she’s cut short when the cutlet, also known as a silicone bra insert, is launched into the air by another kick, tags an older gentleman along the side of the head, bounces off, and, quivering in the air, arches downward, coming to rest once again with a resounding plop on the floor.
Josie and Paisley lose it. Overcome with hysteria, they lean against each other and laugh.
Pippa lurches forward, scrambling to snatch it off the ground.
“Oh,” Heather says. “That type of chicken cutlet.”
No sooner are the words out before another patron, this one a biker with heavy boots, clomps right on the tip of the gel pack, the force of which is too great, and the silicone gel squirts out, all over Pippa’s (my, actually) shirt.
She freezes. Heather and I ga
sp. Josie and Paisley nearly fall onto the floor—they’ve given way to the hilarity of it all—and biker man continues obliviously on his way.
Pippa turns and beelines straight toward us.
“I could murder a drink,” she says through gritted teeth and clinging gel. Small beads of gel glisten in her hair.
“Look, Pippa,” Heather says, holding up an aperitif glass of limoncello, a yellow opaque liquid. “This is made with lemons. So technically it’s a fruit.”
“Too right,” Pippa says before tossing it back in one swallow, slamming the tiny stemware on a nearby table. “I need another one. Now.”
Heather springs into action and so do I. Residing deep within my cousin is an impressive temper. It takes a tremendous amount for her to display it but when she does its scary and impressive. I try to force the beast back.
“Aw, love. It’s all right.” I wrap an arm around her, careful to avoid the silicone. “Come, let’s get you cleaned up.”
“What’s the point?” she says tersely. “Why does it matter?”
“Hey,” Josie says, her laughter instantly gone. “What does that mean?”
“Look at me. I’m a mess. This is why I wasn’t chosen. I’m not good enough.”
Josie crosses her arms. “This sounds like someone needs to be taught a lesson. Point me in their direction and I’ll do some teaching. Can I sue them? Use self-defense? Because that’s straight up bullshit, Pippa.”
“Come on, let’s go sit.” With my arm around her shoulder, I guide her to a back table where Kenley is waiting, her face buried in her phone. I settle Pippa in a chair and after taking the napkins from the table, proceed to clean her up.
“Start with deep breaths.” I demonstrate my meaning by doing the yoga breathing she taught me.
She pulls out her phone and stares at the screen. One lone tear courses down her face.
“Pip?” I say.
“I didn’t get the job,” she whispers.
“Oh, Pip.” I toss the napkins on the table, slide into the seat next to her, and wrap her in a hug. The others have rallied in closer.
“Those...those...those—”
“Fuckers. You can say it. It’ll make you feel better. Add a mother to it.” Josie coaches.
“Those motherfuckers. I gave them years of my life. I remain flexible for them. I take all the additional course work they suggest. Not recommend but suggest. And I still don’t get the job.” She stares at her phone’s screen.
“Why don’t they want me?” She looks at me, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Because they’re jackstupid,” Josie says. She reaches over and begins to rub Pippa’s shoulder.
“I’m really sorry, Pippa,” Paisley says.
“Who did they hire?” I ask. Because who could possibly be better than my cousin? No one I tell you. No. One.
“That large-chested, superficial cow, Cynthia. She can’t do downward dog without toppling over she’s so top heavy. Half the positions she assumes are modified because her teats are dragging on the ground. But I bet they want her for their new marketing plan.” She turns to me with wild eyes, spewing anger, and reaches into her shirt, pulling out the mate to the now-decimated cutlet and slapping it on the table.
That explains the chicken cutlet, but not where she was.
“Like couples are going to travel from the four corners of the world to take lessons with her? What woman would want that? They’re so stupid. And I hate them. And I’m never going to do any more work for them forever,” she says, ending her rant by stabbing the other cutlet with a knife causing the others to sit back a few inches. “I should have never mentioned it,” she adds.
“And this?” I point to the cutlet.
“I applied for a job here, in a local studio, and they said I wasn’t a good fit.” This time the tears break free and unintelligible words follow.
“Oh darling, what would you tell me if our roles were reversed?” I hand her tissues from my purse.
“Stuff it,” she says between tears.
“All right then. Let’s be angry. Let’s get you drunk,” Josie says. That’s Josie; she works well in an angry place. A few weeks before her wedding she talked us all into vandalizing the car of a guy who’d manhandled Paisley.
“Gimme your phone,” Paisley says, before snatching it from Pippa’s hands.
“What? Why?” She uses her palms to wipe away her cheeks before dabbing the tissue to her nose.
“Because booze and phones don’t mix. A few drinks later you’re tapping out a strongly worded email calling that guru guy, oh, what’s his name?” I snap my fingers trying to remember what she told me. “Anyway, calling him some Yogananda hack or wanna be—or worse, actually—is something you’ll regret tomorrow.”
“He is an insult to Yogananda,” she says before blowing her nose. A sound equal to several geese honking.
“And that is why we’ve taken your phone,” Josie says when Pippa stops her impersonation.
“Do you want to stay or leave?” I ask patiently. “I’ll do whatever.”
She gives an adorable hiccup breath. “There is something better waiting for you. Be open to receive it. That’s what I would say if our roles were reversed.”
I pull her into a tight hug, squeezing her full of love. Josie wraps her arms around us, then Paisley.
Needing no further words, we finish our group hug then settle around the table. Since Kenley arrived first she ordered appetizers, and an assortment is ready for our dining pleasure. Pippa goes right for the bowl of crisps—not on the menu but surely delivered by Mum, as she knows these are my favorites. They’re also something Pippa never eats.
“Think of your gut,” I say in her ear before she can get the flaky, oily delight to her mouth. “Is that asshole in India worth upsetting your digestive system? Is it worth comprising your values? You know, I read in a travel magazine that they weren’t in the top ten best studios.”
“I love you, Jaynie-girl.” She stuffs the chip in my mouth. “I’m righted now. Let us carry on with the girls’ night.” She wipes her eyes and smiles.
“You sure?” I ask.
“Positive.”
I pull the bowl of crisps closer.
“Please no one feel they need not share something wonderful because I just had a wee bit of a fit,” Pippa says.
“And assaulted an elderly gentleman with a silicon pad,” Josie adds.
“Oh, dear. Did I really?” Pippa claps her hands to her cheeks, mortified.
“I don’t think he knew what hit him,” Paisley says and we all chuckle.
“I registered for college,” Heather says in a rush of words.
The group erupts with cheers and congratulations and I’m elated for Heather. I really am. Just a few short weeks ago she was drunk flirting with Stacy. She was crying on her couch wondering how she was going to get through the next day. Now, she’s registered for college and has a plan...and I’ll once again be short a reliable, smart, forward-thinking staff member.
This is truly the worst part of owning a business, staffing it. Well, that and not making any money.
“Any chance you’re going to study fashion or clothing marketing?” I ask.
Heather reaches across the table and takes my hand. “It’s because you gave me a job that I’m able to do this. You gave me back dignity or self-respect or whatever it is that I needed to push me into being proactive. Thank you, Jayne.” She squeezes my hand and looks around the table at others. “I had Tyler when I had only a year left of college but instead of trying to finish it with a newborn, I dropped out. I’m a year short of my teaching degree and if I add on another six months, I can be certified in special education. I think that’s what I want to do.”
“Yay! We can work together when you get out. That would be so amazing,” says Paisley, a pediatric therapist who works in special education.
“That would be awesome but until that happens I’d like to stay at Jayne�
�s shop.” She swings her gaze to me. “If that’s all right with you. For the most part I can work my classes around our schedule and Tyler’s.” Her expression is radiant with excitement and hope.
“That’s a HUGE relief.” I lean across the table to hug her. “Having you at the shop is tremendously valuable to me, Heather, as I try to figure out my plan for expansion.”
“Not going well, is it, Jayne?” Pippa asks. She’s been nibbling on the lettuce Mum uses as garnish for her pot sticker appetizers.
“You and I will have to be patient so we can see what’s meant for us,” I say.
“Whatever it is will certainly want you to be yourself,” Josie adds and sticks her finger in the gelatinous chicken cutlet.
Suddenly, from the back of the pub comes a loud crash of several dishes and Mum yelling “Thomas” in a voice that sends goose pimples across my entire body. Frightened. Mum sounded frightened. Or worse, terrified.
Chapter 24
Pippa, Josie, and I dash through the pub to the kitchen. For once I am eternally thankful for my long legs as I reach the area before the others. Mum’s bent over Dad, who’s lying on the floor. A quick assessment makes me think he collapsed from his chair. His eyes are closed and he’s not responding to Mum’s repeated calling of his name or to her shaking his shoulders.
“Auntie Millie, move please,” says Pippa, gently pushing Mum aside. She begins to check him, bending her head to listen for breathing. That one simple move is all it takes for Mum to burst into tears, panic etched across her face.
“Mum.” I swoop her into my arms, moving her away to allow Pip some room. “Tell me what happened.” I hug her to me, forcing her to face away from the sight of her husband, colored the same chalky gray as the concrete floor. A quick glance at Josie, who’s on the phone, reassures me emergency services are on the way. I force myself to be removed from the situation, holding back the panic that’s clawing to get out. But I won’t be more of a problem; I can fall apart when I get home.