Authors: Allison Morgan
Hollis and Bevy will be here shortly.
It’s business as usual between Evan and me. Neither of us has mentioned last night’s dinner, which I’m grateful for. I don’t want to explain or justify my feelings to him or anyone else. I will finish the jar. For me.
Evan spent the morning pacing his office, reviewing my market analysis and proposal, while I arranged the bouquet of daisies and assortment of muffins I picked up this morning.
If all goes well and the Murphys sign a listing agreement, I will be Evan Carter’s new business partner. Though my heart is thick with emotions about Dad, Mom, and Wes, I push them aside and focus on the task at hand.
I wipe a scuff off my desk and clean a smudge on the nearby mirror with my rag. After a final scan of the office and myself—I free a piece of fuzz from my cocoa-colored cardigan and comb my low-slung ponytail—I’m ready.
A few minutes later, Hollis walks in with the help of a cane. “Hello, Miss Lanie.”
“Good morning.”
“Carjacker dies rear-ending a patrol car.”
“Where do you find this stuff?” I laugh, then point at the cane. “What’s with this?”
“Bevy. She says I’m a bit shaky. What the hell? I’m nearly eighty years old. I’ve been shaky the last ten years.”
“She’s right. Better safe than sorry.”
“You women always stick together,” he says in defeat. “It’s like a cult.”
A quick glimpse out the door assures me Bevy isn’t with him. My heart sinks.
Damn.
“Um, Hollis, I’m starting to take this personally. Where’s Mrs. Murphy?”
“My fault. She told me
not
to make our appointment before noon. I thought the opposite. She already had a facial scheduled. Apparently it takes weeks to get into this place and she couldn’t cancel.” He jabs the carpet with his cane. “I don’t know what you gals do at those spas. All I know is she comes back with a shiny face and it costs me a couple hundred bucks.”
“Ah, but I bet there’s a relaxed smile on her shiny face.”
“See, I told you, a cult.” He laughs. “Bevy was impressed with your taste in Chardonnay as well as your evaluation.”
“Good.”
I wish she were here today.
“Mr. Murphy.” Evan walks from his office with an extended arm. “How are you?”
“Still kicking.” He shifts his weight. “My wife told me you bought the house on Orchid Lane.”
Evan looks surprised. “I did indeed. You know it?”
Hollis nods. “Sharp place. Bevy wanted to pick it up and flip it. Is that your plan?”
“No. After a small remodel, Lanie and I will move into it.”
Hollis glances at me, then questions Evan. “Before you’re married?”
Evan stammers, stroking his tie, “Well, we—”
“Actually, Hollis”—I scrunch my nose apologetically—“we already live together. In Evan’s condo.”
“Never mind. It’s none of my business. Silly notion I had when I was your age. I insisted on getting married before we moved into
our
first house. It was important that we cross the new threshold united.” He waves his hand. “Pay no mind to me. Times have changed.”
“It’s sweet.” I squeeze his hand.
“Anyway, let’s get started,” Hollis says. “I’ve got a bocce ball game in an hour and if I’m late, I’ll get stuck with that cheatin’ son of a bitch from Glendale.”
“We don’t want that.” I gesture toward Evan’s office.
Hollis and I sit down beside one another in the barrel chairs.
Evan flips open my report and clasps his hands together. “What we’ve gathered here is exploratory. Our purpose today is to give you an idea of the marketability of your home, discuss promotional opportunities, and provide you with specifics why my firm is your best choice for optimum price point potential. And, of course, the listing documents—”
Evan’s voice is drowned out when Hollis fishes in his top pocket for a candy cane. Fiddling with the crinkly plastic wrap, his hands tremble as he concentrates on the stubborn wrapper between his fingers. Finally, he rips it open and a chunk of peppermint falls on the floor. He glances at me like a toddler wanting direction from his mother.
I shrug.
With a mischievous smile, he plops the remaining candy cane in his mouth.
My shoulders give way to a tiny laugh.
“Yes, as I was saying,” Evan continues. “Based on a thorough examination of recent sales in the area, factored with influx projections from the Arizona Real Estate Department and demographic studies for the Valley . . .”
I chew on the inside of my lip. I know what Evan says is important, a necessary discussion, but I wish he’d make this presentation a little less
boring
. I collected the data and it’s interesting, but the way Evan speaks, all monotone and with the enthusiasm of a tollbooth operator, I find myself distracted and counting the circles on Evan’s tie.
Hollis leans over and whispers in my ear. “How many times must I nod and smile, pretending like I’m interested?”
“Pay attention.” I scold under my breath, and then a giggle leaks out.
Evan glares at me. “Given the data—”
Hollis stands. “Let me stop you there. I appreciate your approach and you clearly are on top of the market, but hell, son, I can read. Do you know how many years Bevy and I have lived in this house?”
“No. I—”
“Since the year after our first daughter was born. We’ve raised all six of our children here, three foster kids, and Lord knows how many hamsters, fish, and dogs. Bevy’s made forty thousand peanut butter sandwiches and kicked countless boys out of our teenage daughters’ rooms. I don’t want to talk about sales numbers or projections.” He points to the analysis. “I want to talk about why I should list.”
Evan squirms in his chair.
“This house isn’t just a number to us. It is
us
.”
“Well, we . . . um . . . yes, let me just . . .” Evan flips through the analysis.
Hollis stands. “Thanks for your effort, but I think I’ll just give Lanie her candy cane and call it a day.”
Evan’s pissed. His knuckles are white from his grip on the report. He releases the paper and scratches his head before saying, “Candy cane. Of course.”
Hollis hands me one. “Sorry to waste your time, kiddo.” He winks at me, then shuffles out of Evan’s office, leaving my fiancé speechless.
That didn’t go well.
Without looking at Evan, I jump to my feet and catch up with Hollis.
He moans under his breath as he climbs inside his truck.
I muscle shut the door and wait for him to roll down the window.
“Hollis, I’m curious why you have such a sprawling mansion. It doesn’t seem like you.”
Hollis smacks the door frame. “I’ve had this baby since it was brand new. Drove it off the lot with Bevy by my side. It hasn’t let me down once. Nor has Bevy. You’re right. I don’t care about fancy stuff.” Hollis leans closer. “It’s not always about me.”
I cover my hand over his, rubbing my thumb across his thin skin, sprinkled with age spots and thick veins.
“My Bevy.” His tender eyes soften as he says her name. “She wanted a home with bells and whistles, and every woman deserves a candy cane.”
Tears build in my eyes as I think about how much Hollis
loves his wife. Truly loves her. Down to the center of his being. She is his life. His greatest adventure.
I can’t help but wonder if Evan feels the same about me. Or, more importantly, I about him. The mere question alone hints at my answer.
Blotting my teary eyes, I watch Hollis’s truck grumble to a start and bellow black clouds of smoke as he drives away.
I’m melancholy as I step inside the office, partially from the meeting, but mostly because I’m tired of trying to ignore the constant fog loitering around me that I can’t seem to shake. Is it allergies? The beginning of a cold? Mom? Dad? Or should I finally be honest with myself and admit it could be Evan? Will Evan share his candy canes with me? Do I want him to?
His voice jars my thoughts. He tosses my report on my desk, scattering the pages, and paces back and forth. “Dammit, Lanie. We need this listing. That fancy house we’re about to live in, your wedding, this office, our life as we know it, takes money. A lot of money.”
All the more reason to have consulted me before buying Orchid Lane.
I’ve never seen him this upset. Not even after a valet mistook his Mercedes for a Kia.
“That man has lost his senses. He doesn’t know what the hell he wants.” Evan throws his hands in the air. “That meeting was a complete waste of time.”
“It wasn’t a waste of time, not in the least. It revealed everything. Don’t you get it? Hollis wants a handshake.”
“A what?”
“Hollis is old school. He holds on to things made well, appreciates the value. He can’t be wooed by projections or
data. His kids’ growth charts marking up the doorjambs are the only numbers he’s concerned with.”
Evan folds his arms across his chest.
“He doesn’t want a sterile, formal relationship for something so close to his heart. He’s a pat-on-the-back, I-take-care-of-you-and-you-take-care-of-me kind of man. A handshake mentality. Hollis cares about the
type
of person he works with more than anything else. And, remember, Hollis wasn’t certain he wanted to sell. Sure, I gave him promising projections, but it might take some time for them to decide. It’s a big deal. Maybe they want to consult with their family. Maybe they—”
“What did you say?”
“Well, first off, I don’t appreciate the attitude. And, what I said was, maybe they want to consult with their family.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Shit. How did I not see this coming?”
“See what coming?”
“Timothy Bane.”
“Who’s that?”
He shakes his head in frustration. “And you want to be broker?”
“Excuse me?”
“Bane’s a real estate developer in the Valley. He typically handles industrial developments, but for the size of the Murphy commission, I fear he’ll take on their mansion. Dammit. We blew our chance today.”
“If he wanted to list with Bane, wouldn’t he have done so already?”
Evan says nothing, just marches back and forth, and I fear he’ll wear a hole into the carpet.
“Why would Hollis care about Timothy Bane?”
“Bane is Hollis’s niece’s husband.”
We are screwed.
“That does suck. If Timothy is family, then I’m sure Hollis would rather—”
“Bullshit.” He glares at me. “You need to find dirt on Bane. Suspicious deals, kickbacks, favors for investors, anything. I want to know if he’s so much as jaywalked in the last ten years. Given the types of developments he represents, I’m sure he’s stepped on a few toes and crossed a few legal lines over the years. If we’re lucky, we’ll find he’s been slapped with a fine or two.” Evan’s face lights up. “Maybe jail time. Or better yet, caught with a hooker. Embellish if you have to.”
“What? No way.”
“This is what I’m talking about. This is how the game works. You don’t become a top broker by playing nice.”
“Well, you don’t have to be an asshole, either.”
He inhales a deep breath and combs his fingers through his hair.
“Forget it, Evan. I’m not going to dig around for ammunition against some guy I don’t know, then tattle to Hollis. I won’t stoop to that level.”
His face relaxes and his voice turns sweet. “All I’m suggesting, babe, is prepare yourself. If he even hints at calling Bane, have some artillery to make Hollis reconsider. Won’t you agree that our job is to represent the Murphys the best way possible?”
“Of course.”
“Clearly, if his nephew-in-law operates with less than perfect ideals, Hollis should know that. You said yourself, Hollis cares about the type of person he works with.” Evan doesn’t give me a chance to respond. “I’m telling you, this is the only way to coax Hollis our way.”
“This is a bad idea.”
“You got a better one? I’m all ears.”
“No. I think approaching this professionally, yet with compassion and honesty, is the best tactic.”
He leans over my desk. “I don’t care how you handle Hollis. Write the listing on a fucking napkin for all I care. Just get it.”
Phoenix averages 211 full-sun days per year. Today is no exception. If not for the condominium complexes and skyscrapers lining the view beyond my bedroom window, I could see unobstructed for miles. Wes’s City Core towers and the dominance they warrant poke into my distant periphery, but I quickly push them and
him
out of my thoughts.
More than a week has passed since our meeting with Hollis. Evan and I have been pleasant to one another, sweeping the latest arguments, like the others, under the rug. It helped that we each had busy weeks, both at the office and with Orchid Lane. I went to a couple more kickboxing classes and Evan was out twice for dinner meetings. We met with Stacee on Thursday, and though Evan and I sat close and he slid his arms around me, planting a kiss on my cheek when I agreed to red velvet groom’s cake, I’m certain she sensed we’re a bit
off
.
I can’t shake Evan’s reaction to Hollis’s listing.
Soiling a competitor’s reputation? Who does that?
We’ve been together for three years and this is the first I’ve seen him act this way.
The only way I can make sense of our bickering and his motivations is to chalk it up to stress and anxiety and the weight Hollis’s listing carries for his future. Evan doesn’t truly mean to play dirty.
Right?
The sound of SportsCenter on the TV downstairs convinces me to forget about Evan’s actions and reactions. Today is not the day for worries.
I reach for my Someday Jar. With a
pop
, the cork falls into my hands and I dump out a slip.
But it’s not the slip I expected. My stomach twists into a knot as I stare at my childish handwriting. It’s Kit’s favorite slip again.
Damn.
I shake my head, drop the fortune into the jar, and thumb through the remaining slips until I find the right one, the one that reads:
Touch an official Cardinals game ball.
My mood lifts.
Today, not only will I spend the day with Evan, as a committed and supportive other half, but it’s Sunday.
The
Sunday. A sweet blessed Cardinals football Sunday. I’m super excited.
After one last brush through my hair, I’m about to head downstairs when my cell phone rings. Mom. It’s the nineteenth time she’s called. I have nothing to say to her, not sure I ever will. I switch the phone to silent and grab the game tickets. I can’t help but wonder what Dad is doing at this very moment. Sipping coffee? Whipping up a batch of blueberry pancakes? Flipping through the sports section of the . . .
Arizona Republic
,
Boston Globe
,
Miami Herald
? Which newspaper and whether he reads it with the desert sun at his back or beside a fireplace under a cloudy East Coast sky, I haven’t a clue. Tears blur my eyes, but I force them away. Not now. Not today.
I stuff the game ball goal into my pocket and head downstairs.
Evan opens the door for Paige when she knocks at five minutes to ten. “You’re prompt.” He smiles as if punctuality is equivalent to a cure for cancer.
“Well, I’m excited to be here.” She reaches toward Evan for a hug, then turns to me. “Hi, Lanie.” She tugs at the sleeve of my oversized and overworn Fitzgerald jersey hanging loose over my favorite pair of jeans. “Aren’t you spirited.”
I cram the dish towel I’m holding into her mouth.
Okay, I don’t.
But I should.
Even though the denim skirt she wears is short enough to spot her ovaries, I refuse to let her spoil my day and I greet her with a smile. “Hi, Paige.”
Wes steps from his room in jeans, a brown leather belt, and a silver-blue T-shirt. “Morning, Paige.”
Evan, dressed like the team’s owner, twists his cuff link and asks, “Everyone set to go?”
We pile into Evan’s car and jitters flutter inside me like popping corn kernels as we near the arena. I have Cardinals tickets and a locker room pass in my hand. I clutch them close to my chest.
Evan laughs. “You aren’t holding the Hope diamond.”
“This is better.”
After twenty painfully slow minutes stuck in traffic outside the stadium, we finally pull into our designated parking spot. We cross the asphalt lot toward Westgate, an outdoor shopping center full of restaurants, souvenir vendors, and game-day fun.
Along our path, we pass dozens of tailgaters barbecuing
chicken, burgers, and ribs beside tables full of chips, bowls of dips, and coolers full of beer. Heaven on earth.
“Look at these guys.” I point to a group with three operating TVs under a Cardinals EZ-Up. They sit in Cardinals fold-up chairs, dressed in Cardinals jerseys, holding Cardinals coolie cups behind a red Ford truck plastered with yes, Cardinals stickers. I offer a supportive nod. Good people. My people.
A few minutes later, we’re seated at a table in the crowded Yard House restaurant and order four beers (light beers for Paige and Evan, Guinness for Wes and me), three burgers, and a spinach salad without dressing (also for Evan).
Our conversation is light and breezy as we talk about the game and how the Cardinals fare for the postseason, Orchid Lane, and Paige’s recent trip to Cozumel where her bathing suit top “kept falling off while surfing.”
“No tan lines,” she joked.
She’s adorable. Like a rash.
The moment our waitress clears our plates, I scoot back in my chair and say, “Ready?”
Evan chuckles and taps my hand, which is the teeniest bit sensitive from punching Wes. Thankfully Wes doesn’t have a noticeable bruise. “Paige and I still have half a beer.”
Kill me. Kill me now.
It took every bit of patience I had to sit and enjoy lunch. If I stay here any longer, I will explode. “I don’t want to miss a single second of my tour. How about I go on ahead?”
“We should probably stick together; it’s crowded out there,” Evan says.
Wes swallows the rest of his beer in one gulp, tosses his napkin on the table, and says, “I’ll walk her.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, knowing I’m smiling.
“Well, I guess that’d be okay. Thanks, Wes.” Evan lifts his beer.
“I’ll meet you both at our seats.” He turns to me. “Let’s go.”
“Enjoy yourself.” Evan stands and kisses me on the cheek. “Have fun.”
Wes holds the door and I step outside into the warm air. We pass restaurants and sports shops, dodging between other gamers and beer kiosks. With my swift steps, Wes falls behind.
“You’re a freak about football, you know that?” He quickens his pace. “Most girls would rather shop or do just about anything than watch a game. Heck, Julie can’t stand football.”
My stomach clenches at the mention of her name. “Well, I’m not like most girls.”
“No, Lanie. You’re not.”
We approach a narrow walkway between several restaurants, each with TVs over their outdoor bars. A jumbo screen mounted on a neighboring rooftop airs other football games. A large crowd has gathered, slugging their beers, slapping jersey-clad backs, spouting complaints at referees for botched calls. All at once, the mass cheers and a hundred or more beer bottles lift in unison toward the jumbo screen.
I glance at the TV. With seconds left in the fourth quarter, the Packers score a touchdown, tying the game.
More people hurry close, elbowing for a better view, circling behind us. The crowd packs even tighter. Within seconds, Wes and I are separated. I’ve lost sight of him, too. All I see is a sea of heads and the nose hairs of the man beside me.
I’m stuck in the middle of the anxious group, which cheers again, presumably for the extra point. In the midst of the celebration, I’m nudged and bumped, pressed into the back of the guy beside me. I nearly lose my footing.
Don’t panic. Just worm your way out of the pack. You’ll be fine.
“Excuse me,” I yell, though no one pays me any mind. Stepped-on toe after stepped-on toe, I inch my way through some people, pushed and bounced like a pinball.
After a few steps I’m stuck, wedged between a man with a 49ers jersey stretched taut over his can’t-say-no-to-a-plate-of-potato-skins belly and a Cardinals fan with a faded skull tattoo on his right bicep.
Beer drips off the 49ers fan’s hand. “Watch it, fucker!” he says.
“What’d you call me?” The Cardinals fan anchors himself strong like a concrete pillar.
“Hello, boys,” I squeak, bracing my palms on each man’s chest. “Let me just make my way—”
“You wanna go a round?” The 49ers fan widens his eyes and spits on the ground. He doesn’t take his eye off the Cardinals guy, whose chest is now puffed out like a baboon’s.
Okay, panic.
This is bad. Very bad. If one of these brutes starts swinging, I’m toast. Somehow I slither out from between them, but bump into people holding themselves steady and eager for the impending fight. I’m inched back toward the men when the fist-pumping crowd shouts, “Fight. Fight. Fight.”
“No fight!” I shout, and place a hand on each guy’s arm. “He’s sorry. You’re sorry. Let’s calm—”
“Shut your piehole, bitch.” The 49ers fan flicks my hand away.
What did he call me?
“Bring it,” says the Cardinals guy, who I’m now
totally
rooting for.
“Kick his ass!” I yell.
Beer splashes my ankles as both guys drop their drinks on the ground.
Oh, shit.
“Fight. Fight. Fight.” The crowd roars louder.
With hands protecting my face—thank you, Rudy—I lean away from the beasts as they push, punch, shove, and call each other all sorts of names I’m certain they didn’t learn in Sunday school.
What is a
cocksack
, anyway?
I duck as the 49er’s left hook narrowly misses my cheek and breezes through my bangs. His next swing is a direct hit, and blood spurts from the Cardinals fan’s nose. Upon realizing this, he lunges toward the 49ers guy with the speed of a freight train. Rage swells in his eyes.
Oh, God.
I need to get out of here. Now. Right now! But how? I’m trapped. My hands tremble and sweat dampens the nape of my neck. It’s the first time in my life I’ve felt
truly
scared.
This is so not good.
Out of nowhere, Wes pushes through the crowd. “C’mon.” He grabs my hand and stiff-arms us through the mass. Beer drips on my clothes, my toes are stomped on too many times to count, and we’re nearly pulled apart, but Wes squeezes my hand tighter and drags me along until several minutes later, we break free from the chaos.
“We made it.” He laughs, shaking his head at the mess of people.
“Yeah, thank you. That was crazy.”
“You all right?”
“I think so. I—” Okay, maybe not. My legs nearly crumple when Wes leans close, his face inches from mine, and reaches
behind my neck. His fingers brush across my nape, sending prickles along my back. “You had a beer label stuck to your shirt.”
“Oh, right. Thanks.”
Evan. Evan. Evan.
I plant the image of his face in my brain.
Stay, Evan. Stay in my brain.
“Ready?”
“Yes.” I refrain from looking in Wes’s eyes. “Absolutely.”
We walk silently toward the stadium, the crowd behind us and foot traffic lessened to a handful.
“Your dad got you interested in football, right?” Wes says.
“Yeah. I wasn’t always a freak. At first I got bored and complained about watching the games, but one Sunday the Chargers played the Cardinals and Dad bet me that the Chargers were gonna whop the Cardinals. Normally, I didn’t care who won as long as I had my coloring books and snacks. But this time, he bet me my bowl of M&Ms.”
“Ballsy. What happened?”
“The game got real ugly by the end of the second quarter. Cardinals were down by three touchdowns and a field goal.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. During halftime Dad flipped off the TV, grabbed my bowl of M&Ms and paraded around the room claiming to be the halftime entertainment.”
We both laugh.
“They didn’t lose that day, you know.”
“No?”
“Two interceptions, a recovered fumble, and a blocked punt later, the Cardinals won.”
“No shit.”
“Yep. I’ll never forget the look on Dad’s face when I yanked
the bowl from his hand and dumped all the M&Ms in my pocket. Bad idea, by the way. M&Ms may not melt in your hand, but they sure as hell melt in the front pocket of your favorite skirt.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, aware of the comfort between us. “Ever since that day, the Cardinals have been my favorite team.” I look up at the tall silver dome we’re shaded under. “Today is a dream come true.”
“Let’s get you inside, then.” Wes knocks on the Guest Services door.
While we wait for an answer, I say, “Thanks for walking with me. And, thanks for saving my ass back there.”
“What is that? Twice now?”
“Who’s counting?”
The door swings open and, dressed in a red polo with an embroidered cardinal head above the left pocket, a young woman glances at my locker pass, then extends her hands with a football charm bracelet dangling from her thin wrist. She says, “Welcome. I’m Becca, the guest relations coordinator. I’ll be showing you around today.”
“Thank you. I’m so excited.”
“Shall we?” She gestures inside.
“Yes, thanks.” I say to Wes, “See you later.”
“Have a blast, Lanie. I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
I smile and step forward. It’s then I realize we still hold hands.
“Oh, sorry.” He lets go. “I didn’t—”
“No, I . . . I didn’t even notice myself.”
Wes wrings his hands as if they’re dirty. “Right, well, you better get going.”
“Yeah.”
“Aren’t you joining us?” Becca asks.
I show her my locker pass. “We only have one.”
She ponders this for a second. “You know, the other group for today canceled. I can make room for him.”
“Really?”
“Lanie, is that okay with you?” Wes asks.
“Sure. Thanks, Becca.”
“My pleasure. Let’s go.”
We make our way toward the elevator through the forming crowd of gamers funneling early into the stadium. Becca inserts her key and presses the button for a lower level.
My hand is still warm from Wes’s grasp, but I try to focus on Becca’s words.
“Okay, a little about the facility. It opened August 1, 2006, at a cost of four hundred fifty-five million dollars. The stadium can seat up to eighty-five thousand people and features the first fully retractable natural grass playing surface. Besides seven to eight professional football games each year, we host a number of other events such as concerts, various athletic games, the Fiesta Bowl every January, and most notably two Super Bowls.”