by Greta Boris
"And are we having the Braided Vine or the Adele Cellar?" he asked.
"I had the Braided, but which do you like best?" Caroline asked and fluttered her eyelashes. Mo sniffed and pulled out the Adele Cellar.
Caroline was interested, Gwen thought with amusement. But why not? She was only a little younger than the man was. Gwen wondered what he'd look like without the omnipresent ship captain's cap he wore. His features were nice enough. He wasn't her type, but he had a refined way about him she imagined was attractive to some.
"I put an app on Julissa's phone," Maricela told Lance. "She turns it on, and I know where she is. She's very worried about appearances. She doesn't want to have to check in with me in front of the other kids."
"Ooh, I should get that. But who'd care where I was?" Caroline's expression went from excited to depressed in three seconds flat.
"So it works? You can keep track of her?" Lance leaned over Maricela's phone, and she showed him the features.
His profile was almost perfect. It reminded Gwen of a Greek bust she'd seen at the Getty Museum. If she were a director, she'd cast him as a young Caesar, or Pericles, or even an older Romeo.
He glanced up at her. She realized she'd been staring, jumped up and walked to the bar. Mo acknowledged her with a nod. She ordered more Cabernet. She hadn't been planning to have another, but it was the first deflection that came to mind. Now she would have to stay, not only until it was drunk, but also until she wasn't.
It didn't matter. Art wasn't going to be home until late. He and the kids were going to a school concert, then out for pizza. Gwen felt a little guilty she hadn't attended, but she'd promised Maricela she'd meet her for a glass of wine. Besides, she was making a point by her absence.
If Art wanted to be el presidente of St. Barnabas, God bless him. She didn't plan to be la primera dama. Her mother had been her father's wingman, the wind beneath his wings, his guardian angel, whatever. He'd had many names for her. All lovely. But none of them stopped him from abandoning her when a younger cherub flew into his life. Art would have to accept that he and she were a team with different, but equal, roles.
"So you were almost strangled with a tape measure." A warm voice close to her ear startled her. "That seems a fitting death for a Realtor." Lance sat on the stool next to her.
"Better for an interior designer."
"True." He nodded. "I guess if I were going to kill an agent, I'd suffocate her under a mountain of paperwork."
"Or bludgeon her with a 'For Sale' sign," Gwen said.
"Seriously, though, that was a pretty stupid thing you did today, if you'll forgive me for saying so."
"Yes, but I want this deal. And," Gwen lifted her glass in a toast, "it looks like I'm going to get it."
Lance didn't return the gesture. "But what if he'd been the guy?"
Gwen shrugged. Since the shock and fear had worn off, the whole event seemed more humorous than dangerous. "What if you get hit by lightning when you leave here tonight? That's more likely than me becoming the Real Estate Killer's next victim."
"Lightning just struck twice in the same county." Lance sipped his wine.
That was another thing that annoyed Gwen about Lance; he always had to have the last word. A bubble of laughter burst at a high top table where the Humboldt agents sat. She slid off her stool and wandered over to the group.
"So I shove the panties under the bed with my foot while I try to distract my client with the view out the bedroom window, which, believe me, is nothing to write home about. I think she thought I was a nut case," John Gordon said.
Caroline, Maricela and two other women from the office laughed.
"You should have seen the backyard of the house I showed two weeks ago," Maricela said. "I never take people to a house I haven't previewed, but I had a busy week, and... well, anyway, the whole yard was covered in pink flamingos and dog crap. Que lio. The lady of the house had four Chihuahuas. I guess the flamingos were there to keep them company or something."
The-worst-thing-I've-ever-seen-in-a-house was a popular game among real estate agents, but Gwen was surprised it was being played tonight. Time hadn't had a chance to smudge the stark edges of their recent discovery. Gallows humor boosted bravado she guessed.
"The most terrible experience I ever had, hands down, was the cockroach house," Caroline said, and smiled at Mo as he handed her another glass of wine. She was on a roll.
"You win." Gwen groaned and placed her hands over her ears. "Please don't tell that story again. I don't even like to think about it."
"That's right, you're cockroach-phobic," Caroline said, pretending she'd totally forgotten. "Tell you what, I won't talk about it if you cover my bar tab." She smiled sweetly.
"I haven't heard it," John said. "How do I know if it's worse than my panties if I don't get to hear it?"
"Trust me," Gwen said. "It's worse than a pair of panties on the floor."
"They weren't clean."
"Yuck, and it's still worse."
"Caroline’s on her third glass of wine. That's a lot of money to cough up." John's words were fuzzy. It sounded like he'd had more than three himself.
Several nasty comments popped into Gwen's mind. Before she had a chance to choose the perfect one, Lance appeared at her side. "Tell you what, John. I'll pay Caroline's bill if I don't have to hear about it. I'm with Gwen. I can't stand cockroaches."
John's jaw jutted forward. "You can't leave it alone, can you? Always gotta be the guy. The guy with the ladies."
"Come on, John. That was uncalled for."
"Seriously." John's "s's" slurred together. "You got like a Prince Charming complex or something? It's getting under my skin."
"Hey. Sorry. I haven't been trying to get under your skin." Lance's voice was soothing. He pulled his phone from his pocket and began typing.
"No." John pushed away from the table and swayed on his feet. "Not my skin. The ladies' skin. That's what you want to get under."
"Shut up, John," Caroline said.
"Whassa matter? You got the hots for Lancey boy? Little young for you, wouldn't you say?" John walked to the bar and slapped down his credit card. "Mo, my man, I wanna pay. It's getting stuffy in here."
Lance reached John in two long strides. "You owe Caroline an apology."
"I owe Mo some money."
"You're making a fool of yourself."
"Yeah? Well, least I don't make my living on my knees," John said.
Lance became as still as stone except for the clenching of his right fist. Gwen took a step toward the men. What she was planning to do if a fight broke out, she didn't know. Lance's hand jutted forward. Gwen flinched, but he didn't hit John. Instead, he snatched the credit card off the bar and stuffed it into John's shirt pocket. "An Uber is on its way. Let's go wait outside." Lance gripped the other man's arm and steered him toward the door.
John yanked away and held both hands up in mock surrender. "I'm flattered, but, sorry, you're not my type."
"You need to leave," Lance said.
"I was on my way."
"You're not in any condition to drive."
"Doesn't your flock of hens keep you busy enough? You gotta be all up in my business too?"
Mo came around the bar and placed himself between the men. "You can’t drive, John. Sorry. But my license is on the line."
For a moment John tensed as if he was readying himself for a battle, then realizing he was outnumbered, or maybe that they were right, his shoulders slumped. He got the Uber info and slammed out the door. The brass bell clanged a jarring note.
Nobody said anything for a long moment. Caroline broke the silence. "Talk about a buzz kill. I guess I'm headed home to the cat."
Lance put a hand on her shoulder. "Sorry."
"Hey, it's not your fault. Wife left him for another guy last year. He's mad at the world."
Gwen hadn't known that. All she'd known about John was that he was difficult, prickly and proud. And, she didn't like him much.
&nb
sp; Lance handed his credit card to Mo. "Take care of the table."
"You don't have to do that," Gwen said.
"I feel like I kind of ruined everybody's evening."
"How was this your fault?"
"I know how John feels about me. I shouldn't have gotten involved. Should have let Mo handle things."
"You were chivalrous, defending Caroline's honor." Gwen was surprised to hear herself defend him.
"And protecting you from cockroaches. Don't forget that."
Gwen laughed. "Right. How could I forget?"
"You can't if I keep reminding you."
"Ready to go?" Maricela hefted her purse strap over her shoulder. "I'll walk you to your car."
"Sure." Gwen smiled once more at Lance.
She pulled her jacket closer around herself when she hit the cold, night air. "It's funny how you think you know someone, but you don't know them at all."
"I know. I was so surprised to hear about John's wife. It makes me... I don't know. I'm not making excuses for him, but I'm sorry for him. I know how it feels to be cheated on," Maricela said.
Gwen looked at her. "Right. That. It does explain things. But, I didn't mean John."
"No?"
"No. I was talking about Lance. I think there's actually a nice guy beneath that handsome exterior. That whole hero thing he did tonight—it made me look at him in a new light.”
Chapter Ten
Enzo's was crowded. The warmth, the noise, the smell of garlic and tomato enveloped Art as he entered the sports bar. He and the kids made their way across the black and white checked linoleum floor to an empty table near the back.
"I want a calzone," Tyler said, sliding into the booth.
"You always want a calzone. Why can't you just eat pizza?" Jason sat next to him.
"I want cheese pizza. No pepperoni." Emily made a puke face when she said the word pepperoni.
Jason poked Tyler. "If we share a pepperoni pizza then Emily can have a little one all to herself."
"Enough." Art felt like a single dad. He was left alone to deal with the kids more and more often, and tonight he was out of patience. He'd needed Gwen with him at that concert, needed her not just as a prop, as she described her role, but as a co-parent. If it hadn't been for Lorelei the evening would have been a disaster.
He was standing on the stage in the auditorium introducing the performance in front of several hundred parents and the entire board of directors when out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jason slap Tyler in the head. He'd left the kids alone in the third row with threats of dire consequences if they got out of line while he was gone.
He stumbled on his words, but then saw Tyler's mouth opened in a silent scream. No harm done. He'd deal with Jason later. He regained his composure, but then saw his second son pull a harmonica from his pocket, wiggle up close to Jason's ear, and fill his cheeks for what could only be a blast of hurricane proportions.
Art lifted a hand as if he could stop Tyler from where he stood, when Lorelei, God bless her, reached over the seat and snagged the instrument from his grasp. She kept a hand on each of his son's shoulders while Art hurried through the rest of his address.
A harried waitress in black jeans and a gray Enzo's T-shirt ran up to the table, pulled a pencil from behind her ear and said, "What can I get you, Mr. Bishop?"
"Hey, Carrie," Art said. Carrie’d graduated from St. Barnabas two years ago and was working her way through college as a server. "One large pizza, half pepperoni, half plain cheese."
"Dad..." Tyler started to say, but Art stopped him with a no-arguments look.
"How's school going?" Art asked Carrie as she scribbled their order on a pad.
"Crazy busy. Mid-terms. I have to write a paper after my shift tonight." She pushed a stray, black hair into her ponytail.
"Sounds like you're keeping out of trouble anyway," Art said.
"I try." She smiled.
"Work going well? You guys are pretty busy." Art looked around the crowded room.
"It's okay. We're all still kind of shook up."
It was a strange comment. "Shook up?"
"Because of Olivia's kid."
Art was confused.
"Getting hit by a truck." She lowered her eyes.
The din of the restaurant faded as Art focused on the girl standing in front of him. He was sure he'd heard the words wrong. Her statement made no sense.
"What are you talking about?"
"Brian, Olivia Richard's little boy. He's in third grade at St. Barnabas." Carrie shifted her weight from one foot to the other and looked up the row of tables.
"I know Brian," Art said.
Carrie gave a small nod to another table and spoke quickly. "I was sure you'd heard. He was in a hit and run earlier this evening. I guess he was suspended from school. Olivia had to come into work and couldn't find a sitter. He was supposed to stay in the house, but he went out on his skateboard..."
Cold seeped into Art's veins. Brian, the terror of the third-grade playground. Brian, the only kid in grammar school who'd stand up to Dwayne Pratt. Brian, whose small, defiant face had peered over his desk at him only a few days ago. Carrie must be mistaken.
"The cops came to the restaurant to tell Olivia. It was pretty awful." She paused. "I'd better go put in your order."
As she moved from the table, Art caught her hand. "How bad is it?"
She stood and looked at him for a moment before responding. He could see her measuring her words, choosing carefully before she spoke. "I don't think they know much yet. I guess it's serious."
His thinking became sluggish. He rested the weight of his head in his hands and stared at the red Formica tabletop visible between his fingers. It looked like blood.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gwen jumped. The stupid bell with its heavy clapper reverberated through her skull. She was still recovering from her extra glass of wine the night before. Today was Valentine's Day and she'd meant to pick up a few bottles, but all the tension between John Gordon and Lance had driven it from her mind.
Afternoon light from a picture window fell in beams on the bar spotlighting the owner. He spoke into a phone but wiggled his fingers at her in acknowledgment. She walked over to a wall of red wines. Most of the time when she shopped here, Mo followed her from shelf to shelf giving her more information than she wanted about his wares. It was a relief to wander without the education.
What should she bring Maricela? A pinot? She ran her finger over a row of pinot noirs. Maricela's daughter, Julissa, was Emily's favorite babysitter. She was old enough to be responsible, but not old enough to be boy crazy. Usually, she came to Gwen and Art's house, but tonight Emily was spending the night at the Alvarez home. Julissa would take cash. Maricela wouldn't, but she never looked a gift bottle of wine in the mouth.
Jason had an overnight event with his youth group from church, and Tyler was invited to a sleepover at a friend's house. Realizing two of her three children were away on Valentine's Day night, Gwen called Julissa. She and Art had been fighting so much lately, she wanted to make amends, make the evening special.
She selected a pinot noir for Maricela then turned down the aisle with the red blends. She picked out two bottles of her favorite, a Meritage from a small vineyard on the Central Coast. It wasn't easy to find. The Leaky Barrel was the only place that carried it locally. The name was appropriate considering the effect it had on Art the last time they'd shared a bottle. It was called Ravish.
She remembered that night well, because it was also the last time she and Art had sex. Things had been rocky between them for at least a year. The busier she got at work, the more they argued. But somehow, at least two or three times a month, they'd scheduled a date night, made up and made love.
Once he took on the principal job, it seemed they had no time to do anything but argue. And, the arguments were worse. He expected her to support his career decision, even though he hadn't consulted her about it. And, he wanted her to scale back her career, which w
as just beginning to take off. He seemed to think she should drop everything whenever he needed her as arm candy on campus. She didn't expect him to hold her hand at Humboldt.
But, she missed him. She missed the closeness, the friendship. She could count on one hand the number of times they'd had sex since September. She wanted to roll back the clock. Reconnect. She loved Art even though they weren't seeing eye to eye. She believed he loved her.
Valentine's Day seemed the perfect time to offer him an olive branch. She'd bought his favorite finger foods and planned a picnic in the living room in front of the fireplace. That had been their rendezvous spot for years, until Jason walked in on them one night.
Art was a lowly English teacher then, and he couldn't get enough of her. They hadn't been indecent, just making out like a couple of kids. They'd made lighthearted jokes about it scarring their son for life. They'd laughed about it with close friends. They acted like it was nothing, but they'd boxed up their love life in the four walls of their bedroom after that. Now it was gasping for oxygen.
Gwen brought her purchases to the front of the shop. "Anything else?" The owner smiled. His front teeth were too small in for his incisors. It made his face look like Rocket's when the kids got too close to his rawhide bone.
"Just these." Gwen put her bottles on the counter.
"A lovely blend and it ages well. It's a particular favorite of mine," he said when he rang up the Ravish.
"Yes, it's very good."
"You know what they say, wine and women improve with age."
The words struck Gwen like a slap. She took her bag from his outstretched hand, turned on her heel and walked out the door. Her fortieth birthday was fast approaching, March fifth. Less than a month away. Every reminder filled her with a sense of dread.
She knew it was because of what happened on her mother's fortieth. Gwen told herself over and over, her life wasn't like her mother's. She wasn't like her mother. What happened to her mother couldn't happen to her. She wouldn't allow it to. But the feeling of impending doom persisted.
Her mother had cooked her own birthday dinner that night—chicken, baked potatoes and broccoli. Gwen's father never took them out. He always said, why eat in a restaurant when the best chef in the county lived in his own house. That made her mom smile, but Gwen thought secretly she'd have enjoyed a meal out once in a while.