by Moriah Jovan
“Uh . . . why?”
“I’m going to solve your problem and you’re going to solve mine.”
“I know what my problem is. What’s your problem? Or did you already tell me that?”
“My problem,” she said as she got to her feet and brushed off the butt of her jeans, “is that you suck. He sucks. You all suck. And you know what? Women suck, too. People suck. I hate people.”
“You’re in sales. You’re not allowed to hate people.”
“I can hate who I want, fuck you very much.”
“I don’t feel like taking you up on that right now.”
“No, and you won’t. Because you’re in love with someone else and you have no way to be with her without completely screwing you both up.”
“Hmm, beginning to think the same thing about you.”
She dropped onto the couch beside him. “You are good in bed, though.”
“I know.”
“It could work.”
“Think about that for a minute, Annie. You’ve got the same background check problem Vanessa does, with you and your bisexuality.”
“Bicuriousality. Totally different. Besides which, I told you I gave that up for real penis.”
“So what is Real Penis’s name?”
“Rafferty,” she mumbled, crossing her arms over her chest and looking away. Eric leaned forward to look at her face because he thought he saw . . .
“Are you crying?” he asked, shocked and awed.
“Shut up.”
“So . . . ”
“He’s got mommy issues, okay? His mother, my mother. Could be evil twins separated at birth. He knows she’s wrecking his life. Makes him miserable. He won’t dump her. Said he made a deathbed promise to his dad to take care of her. Well, I sure as hell am not getting wrapped up in someone else’s mama drama when I moved away from my own.” She swiped at her cheeks. “I hate honorable men.”
“No, you hate that honor is inconvenient.”
“That too.”
“I don’t want to marry you, Annie.”
“I don’t want to marry you, either, but it’s efficient. You aren’t going to brea—”
He waited for her to finish, but she didn’t. “Break your heart. You can say it, you know. It doesn’t make you less of a hard-ass.” He paused when she braced for the cheap shots he would normally take. “Is this the guy you brought down here on election night?”
“No. He was an ambulance chaser. Not a very good one, either.”
“Oh, okay. So what does, uh . . . Rafferty . . . practice?”
“Maybe he’s not a lawyer. Ever think of that?”
Eric decided to back off that whole conversation because Annie’s discombobulation unnerved him a little. He’d never seen her like this and whoever Rafferty was, he’d gotten under her skin.
“Well, uh,” he said, clearing his throat, “getting married’s a nice idea in theory, but we can’t live that way. You’ll get horny and go find somebody and then the press would find out. Shit, I just got them off my back—well, Vanessa did that. I don’t need you fucking that up.”
She sat silent for a moment. “I . . . ” She swallowed. “Raff— I’ll stock up on batteries and toys. Just . . . roommates. With the same last name, okay? You help me. I help you.”
“This would kill her,” Eric whispered, staring at his laptop and feeling the weight of the world settle over him.
“Well, I’m sorry about that,” she murmured, and Eric knew she was. “I can’t imagine being in her situation and here I am, feeling sorry for myself.”
Eric glanced at her. “You kind of are in her situation, sounds like.”
“Not even close. She built that gorgeous place, but now she’s trapped. She loves it. She loves you. What to do, what to do. No contest. I get it, right? So if you want to keep Vanessa, I’ll cover for you. Really.”
“Mistress? Are you fucking kidding me? I wouldn’t insult her with that and she’d hate me just for asking.”
Annie pursed her lips. “Yeah, I guess she would,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t like it, either.”
Eric studied Annie, thinking about how well they worked together. He’d been her first lover, she sixteen and he seventeen, and they’d been lovers on and off ever since. As adults, they had a four-year monogamous engagement behind them. They’d never had a need to look outside their relationship for anything else. Even now, Annie was his ticket. She got it, what he was about and why, and she was willing to play the game with him as long as it suited her purpose to do so.
“I’ll call Knox and Sebastian tomorrow,” he finally said. “Bryce. They have the most to lose and they deserve a say in how we go forward.”
She looked at him, her expression somber, then began to nod slowly. “Good idea.”
* * * * *
45: Just Leave, and I Will Come
Eilis looked at Vanessa soberly across the kitchen table, Vanessa’s staff all bustling in and out, busier than ever. They both nursed cups of sassafras tea.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Eilis murmured over the rim of her dainty cup.
Vanessa nodded. “I’m sure.”
“The county’s probably going to sue us.”
“I know. I talked to Cooper and the mayor about it this morning and now they’re pissed. Won’t take long for everybody to come pounding on the back door requesting my head on a platter.”
“Have you talked to Vachel?”
“Yes. He’s good with it.”
“But—”
Vanessa gestured slightly to interrupt her. “The clientele is shifting. I got the corporate business I wanted by putting in the golf course. They want steak and potatoes, not roadkill and weeds. In another three years, Chef Granny Whittaker will be an artifact.”
“Then wait until that happens.”
“I can’t. I won’t.”
“Are you going to tell him or am I?”
“Don’t say a word. It’ll kill him.”
*
“So I wanted to let you guys know,” Eric finished heavily. “I’m sorry.”
The four of them, Eric, Knox, Bryce, and Sebastian sat around a collection of tables at Bryant’s Barbeque, along with six children under the age of four because the ladies had taken Annie to the spa for the day. It was pandemonium. Though all three fathers were adept at dealing with their respective offspring, it wasn’t the best of circumstances during which to break the news to these men who’d guided and supported him.
“All that money, all the effort. All the bullshit the press put you—” Eric pointed to Knox. “—and Sebastian through . . . ”
“Oh, we don’t care about that,” Knox muttered as he stuffed a bottle in his son’s mouth. “We care that you might regret it.”
Maybe. It was possible that, in a year or two or five or ten, he’d look back on this moment and wonder what if.
The road not taken.
He studied them all. Knox and Sebastian were variously feeding their children or cleaning them or trying to keep them in line. Sebastian was so busy with his three he didn’t seem to be engaged in the bigger conversation. Bryce listened calmly while he ate his brisket, his little boy asleep on his shoulder. He occasionally reached out a hand to gently redirect one of Sebastian’s children. Knox smiled at something his daughter said—in sign language—and answered her the same way; whatever he said made her giggle.
Eric found it oddly . . . comforting that they really didn’t care what he chose to do because they considered all his options valid.
“So . . . what would you do if you were me?”
“Exactly what you’re doing,” Sebastian offered over his shoulder while he wiped his squirming three-year-old’s face. “When you get to this point in your life, there is no choice.”
Knox nodded and took a long pull out of his bottle of diet Mountain Dew. “I hate this shit,” he grumbled. “Perfectly good pop ruined by the word ‘diet.’”
“Then why are you drinking it?”
<
br /> “Because,” he said snidely, “Vanessa tricked me into telling Justice about my . . . problem . . . and I don’t feel like getting my ass chewed constantly over my sugar consumption.”
“Not used to getting a taste of your own medicine, are you?”
“I don’t know when she got that good at it,” he grumbled, which made Bryce start laughing.
“If I’d known Justice didn’t know,” Bryce rumbled, “I’d have told her straight out. She’s your wife and you don’t tell her?”
“Exactly. Justice is my wife, not my mother. I have a mother. His name is Bryce Kenard.”
Eric watched this, the camaraderie of men who had been friends forever, who had wives and children, whose families had merged and become one. They were men who were rich and powerful enough that they could do or have anything they wanted in the world—
—and what they wanted most was what they already had.
It was then Eric knew he would never regret taking this path.
“Hey,” Eric said, trying to make himself heard over the children, “I’m gonna head back home and get started.” He looked at Knox. “Don’t tell Vanessa, okay?”
Knox started. “Mmmm, I wouldn’t advise that. She doesn’t like surprises.”
“It’s going to be a surprise either way. She’ll get over it.”
* * * * *
46: You May Kiss Me Goodnight
May 2011
Hi, I’m Shepard Smith and this is the Fox Report Live from Studio B.
Something’s rotten in the state of Missouri. The supposedly defunct romance between Missouri prosecutor Eric Cipriani and cover-girl chef Vanessa Whittaker may have taken another bizarre turn today. In separate press conferences held only minutes apart, each announced their intention to abandon their careers, but no mention was made of each other.
Vocal Independent-slash-Libertarian Eric Cipriani, who seems to be at war with the very Republican leadership that needs him to reform the party and give it a much-needed facelift, announced his resignation from the Chouteau County, Missouri prosecutor’s office.
“While I still have political interests, at this time I don’t feel I can serve the party or my future constituents the way I want to, the way they deserve. My head’s in politics. My heart isn’t. My executive assistant prosecutor, Justice McKinley Hilliard, will be taking over as acting prosecutor until the next election.”
A half hour after that, owner and Chief Executive Chef of chichi Ozarks resort Whittaker House, Vanessa Whittaker, held a press conference on the front steps of her inn.
“Today marks a turning point for Whittaker House. As you know, OKH Enterprises has been my corporate partner for the last two and a half years. As of today at noon, OKH Enterprises is the sole owner of Whittaker House and will continue its niche cuisine and traditions. The only change anyone will notice is that my nephew and I will not be here.”
Cipriani’s blog has exploded with more well wishes than insults. Whittaker’s Thanksgiving confessional has been revived all over the media, and talk radio is practically swooning over the romance of it all. Wow. Even though Ms. Whittaker said nothing about where she and her nephew are going, and Mr. Cipriani made no mention of his intentions for the future, it’s easy to draw a few conclusions. You kind of have to root for a couple like that. Too bad they didn’t coordinate their efforts. Might have helped to talk to each other, you two. It’s called communication.
*
Vanessa stared at the TV in horror, as did every single person in her kitchen. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, a trembling hand to her mouth.
“WOOT!” Vachel shouted and dashed out the back door, shouting all the way to ol’ Curtis’s cabin.
*
Eric stared at the news clip in horror after Annie had called him, panicked. “Oh, my God,” he whispered.
“Pretty neat trick, huh?” Knox said smugly from the doorway of Eric’s office. He looked up, feeling anger wash over him.
“You knew,” he growled.
“Of course I did. I’m the CFO.”
“And you let her do that.”
“Same way we let you do it, yes. Now you both have options, but whatever you choose to do, you can do it together.”
“Was this your idea?”
Knox pursed his lips. “While I’d really like to take credit for it, no. It wasn’t my idea. The mastermind of that little operation will be taking over your job as soon as you feel like getting your ass out of here. I like to think she learned it from me.”
“You motherfucker.”
“And might I remind you that she attempted to talk to you about this, but neither of you gave her the right time of day. Then you turned around and handed her the opportunity on a silver platter. All she had to do was arrange the press conference dates and times.”
Eric glared at him.
“Your self-imposed martyrdom was getting tedious.”
“Okay, so I’ve sold my share of the dojo to Dirk and Giselle, and I’m officially out of a job in two weeks. Vanessa doesn’t have a business to run or a home. What are we supposed to do?”
“Shit, Eric, do I have to take you by the hand and walk you through it? Call Vanessa. Go to Mansfield. Something. Just quit being so fucking stupid.”
* * * * *
These Happy Golden Years
He found her in her grove behind Laura’s house the same way he had found her before, on her knees, her hands fisted against them, her head bowed, her shoulders shaking.
The sun set in the west, giving her an otherworldly green
and gold glow filtered by the leaves on the trees.
She started when he plopped himself down beside her.
“They tricked us,” he said wryly.
Vanessa sniffled. “I know.” She paused. “Are we really that stupid?”
“Apparently. So I guess the first order of business is a wedding.”
“Whose wedding?”
“Ours. Yours and mine.”
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You hadn’t asked, so I was confused.”
“Smart ass,” Eric grumbled when he saw the corners of her eyes crinkle. He felt vindicated when he opened a little hot pink velvet box and she gasped.
“Eric,” she breathed.
Platinum, with a large pink diamond solitaire flanked by white seed pearls.
“I did good?”
She nodded, too choked up to speak when he put it on her finger.
“The second order of business,” he said after a while, a while that they spent kissing for the first time in months. “Kids?”
“I threw my pills out when I decided to leave Whittaker House, so whatever happens happens, I guess.”
His mouth twitched. “We need to get on that then.”
“Mmmm, but we need to get through our agenda for this meeting first.”
“Ah, yes. What to do with the rest of our lives now that we’ve been cut loose from everything.”
“Eilis,” Vanessa murmured, “is going to keep me on as Chief Executive Chef and as part of that, I’ll phase out roadkill and weeds to steak’n’potatoes and golf. I’ll keep doing Vittles and finish the cookbook I started last fall. I can create new recipes if I want to, but the focus will change.
“She’s going to offer you the temporary position of COO. If you want. In the meantime, we’ll be launching your official campaign. That way, we’ll be free to campaign for the next eighteen months and then go to Jeff City after you’re elected attorney general. That’ll give us time to find a general manager. If you lose the election—which I doubt now since we have become the love story of the decade—we can continue running Whittaker House until the next cycle or we can settle down and buy it back. If you decide you really don’t want to go past attorney general, we can buy it back after your term ends. But no matter what, we’ll always be able to call Whittaker House home. We can come back for good when you’re finished being the leader of the free world.”
That made him smile. “We’ll
need to find a campaign manager, then, to do this right. I told the Republicans to go fuck themselves and third-party candidates aren’t popular.”
Vanessa pursed her lips. “I talked to Annie.”
Eric started. “Uh . . . ”
“She quit her job when she left Omaha so she’s not tied up at the moment— So, well . . . ”
“You want Annie to be my campaign manager?”
Vanessa shrugged. “Sure, why not? She’s savvy like that. Shares our politics. Attractive. Wants to take her career in a different direction. Still wants to get away from her mother. Solves our problem. Solves her problem.” She paused. “If you say okay, she’ll move to Jeff City and start there, since we’ll be in Missouri for at least the next ten years or so.”
“I don’t know if I can trust her around you.”
“I like, ah, real penis. Particularly yours.”
Eric burst out laughing and shook his head. “So whose idea was that?”
“Justice’s. She got tired of Annie moping around about, uh . . . ”
“Rafferty.”
“That’s it. And . . . I empathize completely. Been there, done that. Running a campaign should be a good distraction and who knows? Maybe she’ll meet somebody else.”
“Well, what the hell. And Vachel?”
“Funny thing. Vachel and Eilis have somehow become best friends forever and he’s decided he wants to learn how to run a company. So . . . we’ll start with Whittaker House, then see where that ends up. Whether we stay here or move to Jeff City next fall, he decided he didn’t want to leave Whittaker House until he goes to college, which . . . I think is wise, all things considered.”