Basket Stuffer

by Wylder, Penny

  I bite my lip against the angry words edging out of my mouth. I want to tell him to go to hell, but I can’t. Not yet, anyway. Soon, though. It won’t be long before I won’t need his money anymore. If it wasn’t for my son, I would be perfectly happy living on pennies without my father’s help. I won’t do that to my child, though. If all goes well, I’ll have my own job, making my own money. In fact, that’s why I was late to the book club meeting in the first place. I was at a job interview at the library. The interview went so well that afterwards, the current head librarian was showing me their system. It was clear that she was overworked and overwhelmed. There was a lot of work to be done, and not enough help to do it all. We hit it off right away, and I know it will be a job I’ll fall in love with. It made being late for book club, and even my dad’s wrath after, worth it.

  I continue to stand in my parents’ living room, allowing my dad to reprimand me the way he did when I was in high school, and notice how my mom keeps walking by, but not entering the room.

  When he’s done scolding me, I swallow my pride and apologize even though I want to tell him how pissed I am that he always takes my ex-husband’s side and never mine. What if I were the one who left my son for some lover? Would he blame my ex instead? No. Everything will always be my fault in my father’s eyes. Josh was never the bad guy because he was a genius with numbers and money and fixing numbers to make them work even when they shouldn’t. And his family had ties to the White House, which impressed my father to no end.

  I walk away from my father when I’m dismissed and head toward the nursery where the nanny my parents hired is putting my son down for his nap. I’m still frustrated, but the moment I see my child, all of those feelings disappear.

  “I just want to see my son for a moment before you put him down for his nap,” I say to the nanny. She reminds me a lot of the nanny who raised me. An older lady with a gray bun on the back of her head and kind eyes that crease in the corners when she smiles.

  She nods and leaves us.

  I kneel down so I’m face to face with my son. He smiles at me and mumbles a “mommy” before wrapping his little arms around my neck. His corn silk blond hair tickles my cheek and he smells like fresh baby shampoo—the organic expensive kind my parents buy with lavender. No Johnson and Johnson in this household.

  I reluctantly pull out of his hug and hand him the little origami giraffe I made for him while I wasn’t paying any attention to the women at book club today. I got pretty good at making them while I was alone and my ex-husband was off banging other women. There really wasn’t much to do at the time while my son was sleeping. My ex didn’t like my cooking and we had a housekeeper who came to the house to clean, so I had to find ways to keep busy. When I wasn’t reading, I was making paper animals.

  Of course, if I had known he was having affairs at the time, making origami animals would’ve been the last thing on my mind. Thinking back, I realize how naïve I was. How could I not have known he was cheating? He would go on long, extended business trips and use our personal credit card instead of his business card for motels and dinners. There were always two meals purchased during those trips, but he always explained it away as entertaining a client. All those late nights working, I just assumed he was dedicated to his job. Though he made a lot of money, the numbers never added up to all the time he put into his work. But still, I trusted him.

  I never actually caught him. One day he came home, put his briefcase on the kitchen table and his jacket on the back of the chair, and spilled everything. He told me about all of the affairs. The way he said it was the most heartbreaking, like he didn’t care, like he wasn’t ashamed at all for his actions. I wasn’t worth the thought or fear of the repercussions.

  I’d been so stupid. He was never an overly affectionate person, but I’d noticed in those last months how distant he’d become, and that he showed no interest in having sex with me, but again, I attributed his actions with being overworked. Now I know better, and I swore to myself that I would never again get serious with anyone who doesn’t treat me as their equal. Just the thought of ever dating again makes me sick to my stomach—especially to some wealthy asshole my parents set me up with. I push the thought away. I don’t even want to think about that.

  My dad comes into the nursery and asks me to go on an errand for him, interrupting my time with my son. I want to snap at him for asking me to do him a favor after everything he just said to me, but it’s not worth another argument, so I get the list of things he wants from the store, and leave, happy to get out of the house for a while.

  At least the things he wants aren’t at some high priced store or boutique where the clerks will follow me around like I’m about to shoplift. I can get everything on this list at a regular market. I park my Honda next to other reasonably priced cars, some with dings in the doors and tags a month or two expired. Just normal hardworking people who get by on what they earn.

  I walk into the store, the florescent bulbs overhead like spotlights. I have to squint to see. Flute music plays over the loud speakers and people shuffle around, reading the backs of boxes and struggling to tame their wild children. I look down at the hastily made list, written in my father’s chicken scratch, and try to decipher what he wants. Luckily I’ve been running errands for him most of my life so I can read his code.

  Figures that the one thing on the list that is circled with a star around it and arrow to let me know it’s important, is on the very top shelf out of my reach. I don’t see a single person around who works here, so I have no choice but to try and get it myself.

  The only other person in the aisle is a woman—just as short as I am—with her child running in circles and playing with a toy helicopter, making propeller sounds. It’s the same way my son plays with the origami animals I make him, mimicking animal noises. He’s about the same age as Ian and it makes me smile to watch him.

  I put a foot on the bottom shelf, testing its strength. Feels stable enough. It would have to be to support all the weight of the items on it. The entire shelf is dedicated to Easter merchandise. From candy to premade baskets, ceramic bunnies for decorating, and a whole row of party favors.

  I climb up the next shelf and reach for the top. My fingers touch the bags of candy I’m looking for, the ones so important to my father, but I’m not able to reach far enough to grab it. I step onto the third shelf and things don’t feel as stable up here. The lighter items are stacked on these shelves for good reason, and I’m not one of them.

  But at least now I can reach. I’m vaguely aware of the child beneath me trying to reach the chocolate bunnies on the shelf below the one I’m standing on. I’m feeling triumphant over such a little thing as reaching the top shelf because everything else in my life is nothing but chaos. Just as I grab hold of it, the child below bumps into me and I lose my balance. I drop the bag of candy and try to grab hold of the shelf. But it’s too late. I’m falling.

  3

  Bernard

  As I turn the corner down the aisle, I see the woman, her hands flailing as she tries to grab hold of the shelf. She’s falling backward and I can tell she’s desperately trying to avoid landing on the child below her, but she won’t avoid him. He’s standing there with his mouth open, staring, watching. Not moving at all.

  I don’t think, just react. I move swiftly and move the child away, just in time to catch the falling women in my arms. The angle of my feet are at odds with my momentum and we fall backwards together. I land hard on my backside with a grunt, feeling the pain shoot through my nerves. But at least I didn’t drop her.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her.

  She stares at me wide-eyed and bewildered. She stutters, “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Thank you. Are you?”

  She doesn’t make any motion to move. I wonder if she realizes she’s still sitting on me.

  “I’m okay.” At least I think I am. From what I can tell, nothing is broken. I can wiggle my fingers and toes, and the pain in my tailbone is starting to ebb. I
hold my hand out to her to shake. “I’m Bernard.”

  She shakes it with a firm grip that surprises me for such a little thing. “Pippa.”

  I smile at the name. It fits her so perfectly. A petite name for a petite woman. “Nice to meet you, Pippa.”

  Now that the shock of the fall has eased, I notice for the first time, her stunning ice-blue eyes, high cheekbones, and the kind of pouty lips that drive my mind straight into the gutter. I try to shake off the spell she has me under, but I’m far too aware of her warm body against mine, the way her dress has slid up to expose smooth thighs and tan skin.

  “Are you done?” she asks.

  My focus snaps at attention. “Done with what?” Ogling her, picturing her naked? No. I’m not done with that at all.

  Her lips quirk up in one corner in a crooked smile that drives me nearly insane. “Are you done holding me like a bag of garden soil?” she says.

  I notice, for the first time, that my arms are still wrapped around her, holding her close to me in a protective manor. I don’t want to let her go. I don’t want this to be over. It’s been a long time since I’ve dated, or even been attracted to anyone. In my line of work, it’s not that easy to meet women. I thought if I ever wanted to date again, I would have to join one of those dating apps and suffer through a lot of weird shit and crazy women before even talking to someone worth meeting. And then, as if predestined by fate, this angel literally falls into my lap.

  I laugh and reluctantly let her go. “If I ever hold onto a bag of soil like that, someone should throw me in jail.”

  Her cheeks blush, and she’s even more beautiful than I thought her capable of. She climbs off of me and I hate the cold feeling it leaves behind. When I stand, I have the urge to take her in my arms again, but I stand a polite distance away. I notice the Easter candy scattered across the ground and reach for the top shelf to grab a bag that hasn’t been ripped open from the fall. Her bag is full of candy.

  “Having a craving?” I ask, pointing to the heaps of chocolate bunnies and jelly bean eggs.

  “It’s for a church thing at Saint Francis.”

  Saint Francis is near my home. I can hear the bells ringing in their tower every Sunday. I used to hate them. I thought they were annoying and they would always wake me up on my days off. I wanted to strangle the real estate agent who sold me the place after conveniently forgetting to mention that little piece of information. But over the years I got used to them, and now I hardly notice at all.

  “I’ve never been into the whole church thing myself, but if there are girls like you there, I best get to praying.”

  She blushes again, and again the urge to grab her and hold her in my arms overwhelms me. She giggles a little, but not enough to be flirty, and I wonder if I’ve crossed a line.

  “I should go,” she says.

  Yep, I messed up. I want to apologize, but instead I watch her go. And damn, is it a nice sight. The way her dress forms to her perfect heart-shaped ass creates an instant bulge and I’m lucky to have worn an oversized shirt and loose jeans to the market.

  I can’t stop thinking of the way she’d blushed, how pink her cheeks got, and I start to wonder how pink her other parts are. Those thought are definitely not helping my hard-on. But it’s not just her looks, I realize. I can’t help but admire her spirit. When she wants something, she’s willing to do anything—even climb precarious shelves—to get it. She’s a badass and I want to eat her up. When she bends over to pick up the fallen candy and place it in a pile, all I can think is, hallelujah.

  4

  Pippa

  We pull up to the church in my father’s Mercedes. The church is decorated for Easter Sunday. There are more people here than a normal Sunday service. A lot more children. I don’t recognize most of them. But my parents seem to. They say hi to everyone and know their names. My father and mother walk ahead of me while I hold my son’s hand as he toddles along. My father takes this time to turn to me and start randomly preaching to me about not sinning in the house of God.

  “I want you on your best behavior today,” he says.

  Is he reading my mind? Because I was just thinking about Bernard, the man who literally saved my ass last night when I fell from the shelf at the store. He was so strong. At first I hadn’t noticed just how handsome he was because of the shock of the fall, but the longer we sat on the ground, the longer I noticed little things about him. Like his massive, muscular arms, his sculpted face that rivaled the stunning good looks of Channing Tatum, but it was those gray eyes and thick black lashes that did me in. His hands seemed like a giant’s as they clutched me. Calloused and grease-stained. A hard worker. Not like my ex-husband’s prissy delicate hands. The most manual labor he ever did was lift his fingers to type numbers into a computer. The guy was utterly useless around the house. But that’s what laborers were for, according to him.

  Feeling Bernard’s arms around me was such a shock, so different from the way my ex used to hold me. My whole body tingled with longing. For the first time in a long time, I entertained the idea of dating again. I’d been closed off to it after everything that happened, and I’ve been so leery of cheaters that anytime the idea even crossed my mind I would instantly shut it out.

  But there was just something about Bernard. Had the woman with the unruly child not been standing there staring at us, I might’ve done something about it. Bernard, on the other hand, didn’t seem to notice she was even there. He looked at me like we were the only two people in the store—in the world. No one has ever looked at me like that and I wanted to get lost in those stormy eyes forever.

  My father is still lecturing me about sin when I finally snap out of my reverie. If he only knew. I smile despite the tongue lashing.

  “Dad, it’s Easter Sunday and I’m at church with my parents and child. How much trouble do you think I could possibly get into?”

  By the look on his face, it seems like he thinks I can get into plenty of trouble.

  He wags a stern finger at me and walks away.

  Though he isn’t entirely off about my sinful thoughts, I don’t know why he’s giving me a lecture. It’s not like I showed up to church in a leather mini skirt and fishnets. I’m wearing a long button up shirt dress—another one of my mom’s purchases—and flats with my hair pinned up in a messy bun. I’m the picture of purity. The Virgin Mary herself would be hard pressed to look as innocent as me. Oh, but on the inside, I’m full of lust and dirty thoughts. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a man, and last night Bernard woke a beast inside of me. I’ve run into plenty of gorgeous men since my divorce, but no one has created a spark the way he has. Why has he affected me so much? When I think of him, I can still smell his scent. I wish I could put my finger on that scent. Some kind of cologne. Maybe after church I’ll go to the mall and try every men’s cologne until I find it. Or maybe it wasn’t cologne at all. Maybe it was just him. I’ve read that some people’s scent is so attractive to others that it can come off as cologne or perfume. Something about pheromones. Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know, but either way I’m addicted to the scent of him, and every time I think about it, his face is conjured up in my mind. Vivid, as if he were standing right in front of me. I’m pissed at myself for being a coward and not giving him my number when I had the chance. Now I’ll probably never see him again. I might’ve passed up my soulmate. The thought of something so wonderful that could’ve been but missed, tears at my heart.

  Alter boys hold thuribles. Smoke fills the air from the incense burning inside of them. The same older woman who’s been playing the organ since I was a young child is still the same woman playing today, though she misses the notes now and again, her fingers gnarled with arthritis. The choir wears robes and sings the same songs I know by heart. It’s been the same my entire life. The only time I’ve ever missed a service was because of illness, and my parents hardly let me get away with that.

  I sit with my father and mother in our usual spot in the pews in the
front of the church. Third row from the front. My name is carved into the wood, but it’s spelled backwards so no one would know it was me. I thought I was being clever at the time, but my mother figured it out eventually and I was grounded for a month because of it. My weekends were spent helping the nuns at the shelter dish up food for the homeless.

  I place my son on my lap so he doesn’t get antsy. He hates being at church as much as I do. I kind of miss those days when he would scream and cry during the services and I was forced to take him outside to calm him down. At least it got me out of listening to the same old sermons.

  As we sit there and listen to the priest open the service in his monotone, droning voice that instantly puts my son to sleep, I feel like I’m being watched. It’s a tickle to the senses, an instinct. I try to ignore it, but the feeling lingers and grows. Looking around, I don’t see anything at first until …

  My breath hitches when I see him. Bernard sits in the pew one back and to the side of ours. He wears a nice white button up shirt and his hair neatly combed back. The white of his shirt looks good against his tan skin.

  It’s hard to look away from him, but I can’t help notice that he’s not alone. Next to him is a little boy a few years older than my son with his head on Bernard’s shoulder. I don’t have to wonder if it’s his kid because the boy looks just like him. They have the same dark, wavy hair, though the boy’s is quite a bit longer than Bernard’s; down to his shoulders. They even have the same cement colored eyes. A tiny twin and they are both so adorable it makes my heart melt. But then that gooey feeling flees, and I start to feel slightly irritated because clearly Bernard has a girlfriend or wife. Girlfriend, I’m guessing, because I didn’t see a ring on his finger. Unless he’s one of those assholes who takes it off when his wife isn’t around. I bet my ex was one of those assholes.