by C. C. Koen
“A shamrock, just like yours. These petals mean something.” He tapped the first one on the left. “This one stands for hope. The little girl, Rachael was her name, told the leprechaun she hoped all his wishes would come true.” He pointed to the middle leaf. “This one is love. She wished the leprechaun would find love and happiness.” He touched the last petal. “This one is faith. She held the leprechaun’s hands in hers and told him she’d be his friend for life and to have faith in that promise. And that is what I wish for you, sweet pea.”
Kat sniffled behind her, and once again, tears drenched Maggie’s cheeks, and Rick’s and Cece’s too as they hugged each other.
Not long after, he gave Cece a final embrace and quietly said, “I’ll pick her up next Sunday at noon.” Then left before the first guest arrived. Too stunned for words, Maggie nodded and waved as he walked out the door. Cece hit replay on The Lion King video, preparing for her chance to “meet Simba.” And Kat volunteered to tie some balloons on the mailbox.
In the past, cooking kept her mind preoccupied and helped calm her. Now though, nothing could keep her mind off Rick’s gloomy frown, slouched shoulders, and shuffled departure.
Maggie and Kat carried the food, while Cece stood on her tiptoes and rang the doorbell way too many times.
When the barn style, paneled entrance swung open, Emma jumped in too, removing one of the three bags Maggie had clutched to her chest. “Oh my, I would have come out to help.”
Cece dashed around Emma, into the foyer and down a hallway, exploring the new surroundings. Maggie yelled, “Stop,” and for once her daughter listened.
They followed Emma past a cozy family room with a fireplace and dining room with an antique oblong table in the center, into a massive kitchen with snow-white cabinets. Casement windows and French doors comprised an entire wall, offering a crystal clear view of the picturesque backyard. The lush lawn and floral gardens were even more magnificent, surrounding a pond big enough to fish in. Cece entertained as usual, chatting in hyper-speed mode, telling Emma about her “big girl, I five” princess party. The topic of discussion for a week now. More than polite, Emma asked questions and oohed and aahed, giving Cece the attention she adored.
After numerous trips to the car and the essentials piled on the butcher-block island, the eight-foot-wide countertop disappeared. Kat and Cece said their goodbyes, making a quick exit before Maggie could suck them into helping with the enormous job. The only things on their minds were The Penguins of Madagascar movie, a visit to Build-a-Bear, and the Brooklyn aquarium.
Emma had no problem, though, unpacking the bags along with her.
“I didn’t realize how much it would take to feed fifty people.”
Maggie was used to preparing for any type of event at her grandparents’ restaurant, which had an additional thousand square feet for catering weddings, class reunions, or corporate functions. This party wouldn’t be much different. She put the contents in the double-wide refrigerator, lined up the items for the first recipe on an empty counter near the windows, and fell into the comforting motions that were old hat to her. “The menu you chose has a nice selection. Your guests will have plenty of options. We’ll start with hors d’oeuvres at four. Where would you like that set up?”
“Between the living and dining room. The doors slide open. We’ll put tables there.”
Maggie nodded, noticing that feature too. The vintage panels suspended on tracks would expand the space, providing ample room for fifty. “Your home is beautiful. How long have you lived here?”
Emma’s whimsical smile appeared and vanished with a tinge of sadness. “My husband, Max, had it built for me not long after we married.”
Maggie’s pounding heart beat into her ears. Cece’s insightful knack for choosing nicknames hit her full force.
“He passed away over a decade ago, but it still feels like yesterday.”
Reaching across the island, Maggie’s tingling hand took hold of Emma’s.
“He was such an amazing man just like Rick. The two of them were inseparable. Max worked long hours, but he always dropped everything for his son. Nothing got in the way of their time together. It didn’t matter my husband was still getting his company off the ground. What mattered most to him was family.”
“You mentioned how you met, but you never told me the rest.” She’d always been fascinated how couples ended up together. As bittersweet as the story would be, she hoped Emma decided to share.
The grin that appeared contrasted with Emma’s previous one and remained as she revealed the past. “He was like a bulldog, relentless in his pursuit. When I didn’t call him, he stayed away for a month or so, and after that time, returned every day for lunch or dinner, depending on when I was working. I found out later he didn’t come back on purpose. It had been part of his strategy. He told me sometimes you don’t realize life’s true gifts until there’s a risk, and you’re confronted with losing it forever.” Tears pooled in Emma’s eyes, but they didn’t fall. She drew in several deep breaths, sucking them back and replacing them with renewed concentration. The perseverance and determination Emma admired in her husband were embodied in her too.
“I fell in love with him a little more every visit. He was such an easy person to talk to. As our conversations evolved, they got deeper. He buttered me up by bringing a different flower each time.” Emma pointed to her backyard. “Every one of them, he planted for me too.” A tear rolled down Emma’s cheek. Maggie squeezed Emma’s hand, holding back her own.
“There aren’t many men that compassionate,” Maggie mumbled, envisioning Emma’s husband on his knees, digging in the dirt, leaving his mark and beauty on his sweetheart’s life.
“Rick is. He just needs the right woman.”
Maggie looked toward the pond, turning her back on Emma’s momma-knows-best inspection. She refused to discuss that hot topic. Grabbing the nearest bag, she pulled out the homemade bread and pastry shells, placing them on a cutting board by the windows. Emma paid her no mind though and kept talking.
“He’s had a hard time since his father’s death. He worries so much about making his company a success, he doesn’t give love a chance. It breaks my heart to see the business take over his life. His dad never would’ve wanted that. Yeah, Max had grand plans to work with his son. But as much as he wanted that, he would’ve sold it all if he knew it would hurt Rick like it has. Max believed in family first and work later. More than anything, he wanted his son to find love and happiness, get married and have kids. He always said that’s what brought him the most joy. He wished the same for Rick.”
During Emma’s hard-to-tune-out plea, she imagined Rick at various stages, toddling along the grass, his father close behind in case he stumbled, and sitting on the dock, his dad with a fishing pole in hand, teaching his son how to cast and reel. Just like her dad had done at their favorite watering hole. “Is he okay?” Caught in the melancholy spirit, her concern for Rick grew. She moved around the island and sat on a stool next to Emma. “I mean, he came by our place last week to give Cece her birthday gifts. But he seemed worried, depressed, I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” Disgusted by her childish behavior, she avoided him all week by taking the stairwell instead of going by his suite. “I should have.”
“He puts on a good show most of the time. But just bundles everything up and refuses to talk about his problems. He thinks I’ll be disappointed if he says anything negative about work. He worries so much about my feelings. I’ve told him a thousand times I’m proud of him no matter what he does. He just pretends everything’s hunky dory. I even told him to sell the company. You would’ve thought I asked him to cut off his head as pale as he got. But he sucked it up. Instead of screaming or yelling at me, or even telling me hell no, he pretended I hadn’t said anything.” Emma’s sighs exposed the agony and concern for her only child. Something Maggie could relate to. A phone rang and Emma hopped up from her seat, running out of the kitchen.
Instead of jumping into prepara
tions, Maggie opened the French doors and walked to the pond, gazing into the ripples. Tomorrow he’d pick Cece up for The Lion King. Maybe she could talk to him. She didn’t know what she’d say. Hopefully, she’d figure it out by then. One thing for certain, she wouldn’t tell him she was in love with him. That would open up a whole other mess she couldn’t handle. Being the first to admit her feelings hadn’t turned out so well before. She pushed Jake to marry her and didn’t want to be in that situation again. Besides, he might love Cece, but what man could take on Maggie’s “idiot-syncrasies” as Kat called them. Just as Emma admitted, he focused on business. No doubt Rick would be opposed to a woman plus one and repelled by an insta-family.
Well, at least being a mother taught her a valuable lesson—sacrifice.
It wouldn’t be the first time she went without.
And it won’t be the last.
BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. TWENTY novels ago, arriving a half hour past the start of the release party might’ve been an issue. Now though, Rick’s mother had become accustomed to his tardiness. As much as he took pride in her accomplishments, the crowd, almost all women, drained him. Another social function where he’d have to chat up strangers, make nice, and talk about one useless topic after another. Besides, it never failed that a female writer, editor, or some other guest whose name he couldn’t remember came on to him. The number of diversions he’d have to come up with was exhausting.
“Honey, I’m so glad you made it.” Mother radar on high alert, she noticed as soon as he entered the family room.
“Congratulations. May you write a hundred more. No offense, but I think this is your best yet.” He pulled her into a hug, whispering the last part in her ear.
She pinched his cheek, replacing the sting with a kiss. “It’s easy when you love what you do.”
Sensing an underlying message, he tucked his arm around her, leading her to the food and hoping she’d find something else to focus on. He picked up a mushroom cap resembling Maggie’s and popped it into his mouth. Tasted like hers too. “Mmm, very good, Mom. Your caterer didn’t make these before. They’re excellent.” He ate three more, careful to maintain decorum, even though he wanted to scarf down the whole tray. They were that good.
“Thank you, sweetie. I used a different caterer this time. That’s why.”
He moved on to the next tray, sampling a bacon-wrapped something on a skewer. “Oh my God. What is that? It’s phenomenal.” He spoke with a mouthful. Not waiting for her response, he ate another.
She giggled and said, “You wouldn’t believe what those are called, angels on horseback. They’re an English specialty with oysters inside.” Pointing to each selection she rattled off the rest, all of which he planned on diving into after he ate at least ten more of heaven in bacon first. “Bavarian meatballs, Chinese pot stickers with veggies and pork, Greek grape leaves stuffed with rice and lamb, falafel, it’s a Middle Eastern fried chickpea patty, and I can’t have a party without my favorite, German deviled eggs.”
“Well, you’ve got at least half a dozen countries represented. Nothing like traveling the globe for your release. When do you go on the book tour?” He walked around the tables, picking and sampling.
“Oh, in a few weeks. I love traveling. Which city are you going to meet me in this time?”
“Since you haven’t given me your itinerary, I have no idea. Tell me where and when, and I’ll be there.” As soon as he got that remark out, his mom’s publicist crept up to him, snagging and squeezing his arm. “I’ll make sure you get that on Monday.”
He pulled out of her grip, filling both of his hands with an appetizer. Reading him like a book, his mother smirked at his evasive maneuver. “How about run in the kitchen for me, sweetie, and ask the chef when dinner will be served?”
Grateful for the escape, he took it.
The closer he got, blaring music registered first, then a somewhat out of tune, high-pitched chanting hit him next. He came to a halt in the archway the instant he caught sight of Maggie. Every ounce of oxygen vanished from the atmosphere and his breathing ceased, immobilizing him.
Beyoncé’s “Naughty Girl” played to perfection from her cell phone, but the version Maggie sang resembled a pirated, flawed copy at best. Hips swinging left to right along with the intense beat, she waved a whisk in the air and then shoved it up to her mouth, using it as a microphone. The hacked up lyrics and lip-syncing came across like an amplified megaphone that kept screeching and cutting out. He would have laughed his ass off any other day, but he couldn’t move.
This would be how he remembered her—forever. Right here, right now. At her best: happy, carefree. Her throw me down, tie me up, please me—love me state.
Tossed in a bun with curlycue twists at the edge of her hairline, loose strands stuck out of the messy clump on top and wisps caressed her ears. He loved when she wore her mass of auburn pulled back from her beautiful freckled face. Every inch of her neck exposed, he memorized the slope and the two dimples at the bottom. She had earrings in today, gold hoops. No chef’s coat and her bare arms were exposed by a white tank top with a scripted warning: Back up! Hot stuff coming through.
Mesmerized, he made it through that song and the next, “When a Man Loves a Woman,” the sentiments taunting him. It wasn’t until “Sexual Healing” came on that he caved—surrendered to her—and their isolated circumstance.
He eased up behind her and gripped her curvy hips. She jumped and tried to turn around but relaxed when he spoke. “Shh, don’t say anything. Feel me . . . you . . . us.” As his pelvis rocked to the sensual beat, hers glided along. He removed her hands from the counter and linked their fingers together. Their arms crossed over her stomach, he tucked his chin and lips into the crook of her neck and sang the passionate lyrics. His tenor dipped an octave or two as the sensations of having her alone and in his arms took control. Ripped from his heart and soul, he deepened his tone and relayed all the longing and desire he felt for her and always would—craving, wanting no other.
The final stanza came with an overpowering tagline.
“What the hell is going on in here?” his grandfather yelled.
Maggie tried to turn around, but he squeezed her middle, steadying her.
“Horatio, stop it. Leave him be.”
“I will do no such thing.”
That cue prompted Rick to react, pressing his lips to the hollow of Maggie’s throat, chin, cheek, and temple in everlasting kisses. A final one meant to last a lifetime, positioned on top of her left hand, third finger.
Then he walked out through the French doors—silence following him.
“What the hell? It’s two in the morning.”
Rick stared, stumbled over the threshold, and fell against Matt.
“Oh, shit. Fuck.” Matt grabbed him under the armpits, but he slid to his knees anyway and his spinning, heavy head collapsed onto Matt’s thigh.
“Is everything okay?”
“Go back to sleep, Soph.”
“Oh my god. Let me help you.”
“Wait a sec. Let me get a better hold on him.” Matt’s vise grip wrapped around his back and pulled. “Up you go, buddy.” On his wobbly legs, his stomach rolled, causing him to belch in Matt’s face.
“Oh god, what happened?”
“You can’t smell the brewery?”
“Matt, please, let me help.”
“I got him. Move back, babe. I’m dumping him in the guest room.” His dead weight pressed to Matt’s chest, Rick had no idea how Matt performed the twist and turn he did, propping him along his hip. Hobbled stutter steps commenced until Rick’s view changed from wood floors to a mattress.
“I’ll get some water, wet cloths, and aspirin,” Sophia called out.
“Thanks, babe. Okay, down you go, buddy.”
He face-planted onto the cushy pillow and rolled onto his side. “Ahhh.”
“Please tell me you didn’t drive here.”
“Tax. . . . tax. . . . i,” he stammered into the feath
ered softness.
“Okay, okay. Don’t worry about it. Just lay there and sleep it off.”
“Ca . . . can’t.”
“Uh, yeah, I think you can. You’re half zonked already.”
“Can’t . . . do . . . it.”
“Come on, buddy. Let’s get your shoes and clothes off.”
Rick kept his eyes shut, rolled onto his back, and willed the gurgles in his stomach to stop. Matt tugged his loafers off and grabbed the bottom of his T-shirt. “Oh, Christ. Did you throw up?”
“Do you need a bucket?”
“Yeah, babe, get the one from the bathroom, would ya?”
“Okay. Oh, Matt, I hate seeing him like that.”
“I know, babe. I know.”
Rick mumbled, “Can’t . . . do it . . . anymore.”
“Matt, what’s he talking about?”
“I don’t know, babe. It could be anything. Lord knows, he’s got tons of shit piled on him.”
He opened his mouth to say something, tell Matt to shut the fuck up, but the words wouldn’t come out.
“What can I do?”
Bile crept up his throat, and he swallowed and swallowed, but it didn’t help.
“Hurry up, get the bucket, he’s hackin.’”
“Okay, okay, here.”
“Upsy daisy, bud.” Matt yanked on him again and the motion, along with his gagging, left him with no choice. He slumped over Matt’s knee, expelling the contents of his stomach in the plastic pail, acid burning his throat and tongue, making his eyes water.
“Shit, that’s foul. You haven’t been like this in a long time. This is fuckin’ nuts.”
“Can’t . . . do . . . it.”
“Don’t talk when you’re hurlin,’ man. Soph, where’d you put the water and towels?”