by Ewens, Tracy
They were Sam’s foundation. They did have dark sides. They tended to hold grudges, they rarely forgot, and the women in the family had tempers that seemed to simmer for eternity and then explode.
Walking through the front door of the imposing two-story home built by her grandparents, Sam was filled with the familiar. She was desperate for Sunday breakfast. She needed these people.
“Samantha, is that you?”
Her mother called from somewhere in the house.
“It is. Where are you?”
“Kitchen.”
“There are flowers sitting by the door. Do you want them?”
“Oh, yes, your brother brought those. Could you bring them in here and also grab the vase on the piano?”
Sam stepped into the living room, which was filled with morning light falling on the lush red Oriental rug her parents had shipped home from their trip to China. She had always marveled at how such an intricate design could sit in such a traditional home. It didn’t look busy, but rather joined in somehow with the rest of the furnishings. Her mother had not even flinched when it was delivered. She didn’t care if it went or not, she loved the rug, and it would simply have to work. Susan Cathner was daring that way.
Sam grabbed the vase and the bundle of paper-wrapped flowers on her way into the kitchen. Her mother was whisking eggs at the counter. No makeup and her hair pulled back. She was lovely, Sam thought. No one dressed up like her mother, but she didn’t need all of that for Sunday breakfast. She had no one to impress and Sam liked her best this way. She put the vase on the counter and opened the flowers over the sink. Susan, still whisking, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
“Good morning, dear. You look tired.”
“You always say that.”
“Well, maybe you always look tired,” she laughed.
“Susan, I can’t find those damn little knives for the . . . Button! When’d you get here?”
Jack barged into the kitchen holding what looked like toasted muffins.
“Hey, Dad. Got here a few minutes ago.”
He tossed the muffins on the table, gave her a big, two-armed hug and a kiss on the cheek. He held Sam by both shoulders.
“Let me take a look at you. Yup, still gorgeous. A little tired maybe.”
Her mother raised her eyebrows as if to say: “See?”
“What’s with you guys and the sleep thing? I’m getting plenty of sleep. Maybe I just look this way.”
“Jack, tell me you didn’t already toast those muffins. I haven’t even finished the eggs. They’ll be cold. Oh, this whole breakfast is hitting the fan, damn it!”
He wrapped his arms around her and whispered into her ear, “They’ll be fine.”
“Your charms won’t work on me, Mr. Cathner. I hate cold muffins. At least wrap them in tin foil until we eat. The little knives are right there on the table. Put them by the butter and jam. Oh, and put that spoon in the fruit salad, please.”
He wrapped the muffins, grabbed the other stuff, winked at Sam, and walked off before he got into any more trouble.
“Where’s Henry?” Sam asked, finishing the flowers.
“Out back, two mimosas into breakfast.” She rolled her eyes.
“Flowers arranged. Where would you like them?”
“Oh, they look beautiful, let’s put them on the table outside.”
Sam walked toward the back doors and looked out on the large redwood patio. Both men were reclined around the table, and she could hear their laughter before the doors even opened. Sam loved that sound.
“The thing is, he was way too old . . .”
They both turned as Sam walked onto the patio. Henry stood, took the vase from her, and set it on the table.
“Hey, sis, could you tell our father that we saw my very ex-girlfriend in Los Angeles last week having dinner with a guy that was old enough to be her dad?”
“We did,” Sam said, kissing Henry.
“Dodged a bullet breaking up with that one, no question.”
She joined them at the table.
“Henry, come get these plates and set the table.”
Susan peeked her head out and handed him a stack of plates and silverware. Henry obeyed, while their father was ranting about what a mistake it would have been to marry his old girlfriend and that he was better off.
“Speaking of better off,” Henry added, setting the plates down, “or maybe not . . . Sam should tell us how things are going at work?”
Both her father and Henry grinned right up into their eyes. Sam shook her head and got up to pour some orange juice. They were both waiting for her response.
“Really?” Sam asked. Henry wiggled his eyebrows up and down. She laughed and pushed his shoulder.
“Are you sure you two have only had a couple of mimosas?”
They were still waiting.
“Wow, okay. Well, the play is off to a great start. You both saw Peter at the fundraiser. He’s fine, the same I guess. He works. I work. That’s all there is to it.”
Jack and Henry both saw something in her eyes and without a word between them, they stopped joking. The table got quiet as Sam added some champagne to her orange juice.
“What?”
She looked at both of them.
“Are you all right with this? I mean, how are you, Sam?” Henry asked.
“I’m fine with it. I’m assuming that you’re asking me if I’ve returned to the heartbroken mess that lived on your couch for two weeks? No, I have not. That was a long time ago. We’re both different.”
Jack and Henry looked at each other again. Sam was saved when her mother finally joined them.
“Well, this conversation looks like it’s turned awfully serious,” Susan said, putting the eggs on the table and pouring herself a drink.
“What’s so dire?”
“Peter, Peter Everoad.”
“Oh, well. Let’s start eating before everything gets cold.”
She handed Sam the muffins.
They all sat around the large glass top table, and Sam was thankful the passing of plates took center stage, but of course they swung back around once everyone had settled in and begun eating.
“So,” her mother asked gently, “have you read the play? Bridge club gossip is that it’s about the three of you?”
“Really?” Henry asked while putting jam on his muffin.
“It is based loosely on his growing up in Pasadena, and there are three friends. I have not read the whole play. It’s being given out in sections. That’s how Peter wants it.”
“Hmm, well it should be interesting,” Susan added.
Seeing Sam’s obvious discomfort, she attempted a change in conversation.
“Is he excited about his sister’s wedding? I spoke to April last week, and Cynthia went for her final fitting. Can’t believe it’s only a couple of months away now.”
“Oh yeah, I’d be excited if my sister was marrying a tool like Alan Christian Ferrimore. Please, he’s . . .”
“Henry, do you need to go sit in the corner?” Susan asked, pointing her fork at him. The whole table laughed.
“Very funny, I’m just saying. Have you met the guy?”
“I don’t know if Peter’s excited. We don’t discuss his personal life. It’s professional, so if it doesn’t have to do with the play we’re not talking about it,” Sam blurted out and the table became awkward again.
Her parents and Henry sensed Sam had feelings, things she wanted to discuss, but they weren’t sure she was ready.
“It really didn’t look like you were talking about the play at the fundraiser a few weeks ago.”
Henry kept picking away, hoping for a reaction.
“I swear to God, I’m going to hit you. Shut up.”
“Hey, let’s settle down. Wow, you two revert back to kids in a flash. I half expect you to start throwing food at each other,” Jack said.
“If you say everything is fine, Button, then we believe you. You just seem a little tense, edgy.
Are you sure you don’t want to talk about anything? Everything’s all right?”
“Everything’s fine, Dad. Sure, it has taken some getting used to. I haven’t seen Peter in years, but it’s professional, there’s a distance, and that helps. He brought Spencer with him, who I knew in college, and Grady has kept in touch with Peter. They’re playing table tennis this afternoon. We are simply working together, it’s good. I promise, it’s fine.”
The table was silent. Sam was in pain and her mother wondered if she even knew it herself.
“Be sure you’re . . . yeah, just take care of you, Sam,” Henry said and looked at her with a smile that reminded her why she’d cried on his shoulder after Peter left. Henry went through it with her and he wanted her to be careful. Sam nodded and he knew she appreciated his concern.
“Right, well, you’ve got this under control, and we’re here if you need us,” her mom added.
Sam couldn’t take the tension.
“Now, can we please get back to Henry’s narrow escape from the wicked witch of Prada?”
Henry threw a strawberry at her. They all laughed and the topic was dropped. Jack leaned over and kissed Sam’s forehead. Breakfast was delicious, in spite of Susan Cathner’s worries, and the company filled Sam up. On the drive home she thought about the conversation. She had this under control. She was in the power position this time, not him.
Chapter Seven
Sam had not seen Brian Frackis in a few months. They had dated while she was trying to make it in Hollywood. When she moved home, he came over a few weekends, but then their relationship seemed to fizzle out, not unlike many of Sam’s relationships. Brian was a solid guy, a Los Angeles firefighter with a geology degree: an interesting combination. They’d seen each other on and off for a little over a year, but this trip was unexpected. He called and wanted to have lunch. Sam felt a tug mainly because Brian was beautiful, distractingly so. He was well over six feet tall, muscular, lean, with deep, chocolate brown eyes—and kind. That was the right word, Brian was a kind man. When they were dating Sam always felt cherished; he was a great lover. Other than his need to watch and rewatch Dirty Harry movies, there was nothing wrong with him. It was a bit annoying that every woman on the planet ogled him, but Sam got used to it. He barely noticed the fuss, which made him even more appealing. Having given up on making it as an actress in Hollywood, Sam decided to lick her wounds for six months in Europe. It never even occurred to her to ask Brian, not only sure he couldn’t go because he had to work, but also—she didn’t want him to go with her. The night before she left, Brian took her to dinner, made love to her, and at the airport he told her he loved her. Sam smiled, kissed him, and knew her heart wasn’t there. It was the last time she had seen him. Their break up followed shortly after in a series of polite, awkward, phone calls.
Maybe he’s coming to tell me he’s getting married? She thought, getting out of her car. Like in the movies, tying up loose ends with women too blocked or stupid to take advantage of a great thing. Sam walked into La Grande Orange Café. She was greeted by the smell of cookies baking and jovial, lunchtime chatter. Sam spotted Brian on the patio, she only needed to follow the line of blushing waitresses. Okay, maybe it was annoying. Brian stood, smiling as she approached the table.
“Sam, so good to see you.”
The waitresses scattered. That’s right, ladies! She was being silly, but it felt good. Brian was light and fun. Not a lot of that in Sam’s life these days. He kissed and hugged her gently. He smelled like . . . well, clean, beautiful man, and Sam held on for a second longer.
“You, too. Are you taller?” she joked, breaking the ice.
They both laughed and Brian pulled out a chair for her. He sat, folded his towering body into the seat next to her, and pushed his brown hair off his face. Sam noticed his hands, she always did, big working hands. His right thumb was smashed from when he had slammed it in a car door as a kid. Sam smiled, remembering when he told her that story one night in bed. They had been in that wonderful beginning period of every relationship, discovering everything about each other. The waitress took their order.
They lunched and laughed as Brian brought Sam up to date on how things were going with him and some of their mutual friends. She told him about her adventures at the Playhouse, and it was a perfectly lovely afternoon. Beautiful weather, great salad with a very attractive man who, unless he was going to start showing pictures of his new fiancée, she might consider dating again, maybe. Brian reached over and touched her hand. Nope, no fiancée in the picture. She took a sip of her wine. All was right with the world, and then she saw Grady. Brian did too and stood to shake his hand. They knew each other from the community service Grady did in Los Angeles, and while Brian and Sam had been dating they went out with Grady and a couple of his lovelies from time to time. Sam stood as well and laughed as Grady jokingly compared biceps with Brian. What was he doing here? she thought, wasn’t he playing tennis with . . . oh, dear God . . .
Peter walked out onto the patio, and Sam went rigid. Damn it, am I not allowed a minute to . . . what was I doing? Relaxing, right, am I not allowed to relax?
“So, Brian, you may not know this about me, but I’m a table tennis champ.”
“No kidding?”
Brian laughed as Grady mimicked his paddle moves. They liked each other. Brian had tremendous respect for the time and effort Grady gave to many communities.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were playing . . .”
Sam’s breath was shallow and she tried to maintain some semblance of calm, but all she could see was Peter as he walked toward them. Shorts, tan legs, damp T-shirt, those eyes, and that damn look in them that said he knew her better than any man on the patio.
“We did play, but I can’t stand their food so we came here for booze and burgers.”
Grady looked at Brian and then at Sam, who was now looking at Peter.
Peter and Grady had played table tennis since their sophomore year in high school. Not quite a mainstream sport like regular tennis, Sam even joked it was simply ping pong, but they both enjoyed the oddity of the sport. They joined a club because Grady was trying to go out with Esther Lu, who happened to be a state-ranked table tennis champion. Peter went along for the experience. He wrote an article for the school newspaper cleverly comparing table tennis to dating and Grady went out with Esther for a few weeks. The romance died, but the table tennis continued. Grady and Peter actually went to the state championships as a pair. They didn’t win, but Sam was there cheering them all the way. Watching table tennis can be stressful stuff. Looking at Grady’s sweaty wristband, she couldn’t help but smile at Grady’s mixture of sophisticate and complete nerd.
“Peter,” Sam finally said awkwardly.
“Sam. Nice to see you.”
He looked at Brian.
“Oh, sorry,” Grady said, trying to cut the tension.
“Brian Frackis . . . Peter Everoad.”
They shook hands.
“Peter is a . . . family friend,” Sam interjected as her nerves got the best of her.
Peter winced a little at the distant introduction.
“Peter’s our resident hot shot,” Grady added as they all took a seat because it seemed odd to continue standing.
“He’s a famous playwright. Premiering a new play at . . .”
“The Playhouse, right! We saw your first play in New York. Remember, Sam?”
Her pulse went from calm and crisp like a glass of wine to full throttle in under five seconds. Spots, are those spots in front of my eyes?
“It was excellent. Heavy stuff, man. Remember, Sam, you couldn’t stop crying?”
Sam managed a nod. She didn’t dare look at Peter, which was just as well because he was struck dumb.
How was she supposed to know Brian would remember the damn playwright? Christ, she had forgotten she even went with him. The whole thing was excruciatingly awkward. Grady kept grabbing breadsticks off the table, like he was watching a boxing
match. Sam needed to say something.
“I eventually stopped crying. Please.”
She attempted to sound playful, pushing at Brian’s large perfect shoulder.
“You were in New York?” Peter managed.
Brian nodded as if the question was directed at him and Grady mouthed “Uh-oh,” like a toddler. Sam looked up and tried to meet Peter’s face without fear. He was stunned.
“You saw it?”
She forgot how to breathe. The simple in and out of it all had escaped her. She was sure she started to sweat. This wasn’t a secret, she told herself. Maybe she didn’t want Peter to know that she had flown all the way to New York, seen his play, and not seen him, but it certainly wasn’t some embarrassing secret.
“Yes,” she said, feeling her mouth dry up.
She had never wanted him to know. His last words to her before he left for New York were, “Look, this was a mistake. I need to go. Take care.”
What kind of pathetic person still flies to New York after that kind of heartbreak? Sam could hear Brian and Grady talking about football—and Peter was still looking at her.
“Why? Why didn’t you . . .”
Grady tuned back in at Peter’s tone and decided to give Sam a break. He patted Peter on the back: “Well, let’s let these two finish their lunch. You owe me food.”
Peter pulled his eyes off Sam, which broke the tension and saved her from having to explain to him why she had convinced her boyfriend at the time that the only thing she wanted for her birthday was to go to New York and see this new off-Broadway play.
Brian had, of course, obliged, and they had spent three days in New York City. She had done more than read Peter’s first play, she had seen it, and Brian was right, she could not stop crying. She had to go to the bathroom after the final curtain because she was sobbing. It was emotional for the average audience member. She had lived it with Peter; it was heartbreaking for her.