Hardest to Love

by Sidney Ivens

  “You okay, Elena?”

  “Have you been married long?”

  “We were high school sweethearts.” Street lamps cast stripes of shadows across Dustin’s face and coat, almost like a strobe light. “Tried dating other people in college, but we kept going back to each other. How ‘bout you and Nick? Things getting serious?”

  She glanced down. “We’re not really . . .”

  “Oh. I misinterpreted. Seeing you both at REPLEN*ish that afterno—”

  “Terminal One coming up: United,” the taxi driver said over his shoulder. Jet engines roared above their heads, and the diesel exhausts from shuttles were giving her a headache.

  Dustin shifted on his seat and his knee jostled a lump on the side of his carry-on. “Shoot, I almost forgot. I had to grab something from my office earlier, and my family all wanted to drive over there with me. Those darn kids of mine know I keep jellybeans in my credenza. Well, we get there, and my daughter made a beeline for this on your desk. While my wife distracted her, I hid it in here.” He patted the lump and unzipped the compartment. “I forgot to put it back.”

  He pulled out an object wrapped in several paper towels.

  She took it and unraveled the messy roll.

  The polar bear mug.

  She held the cherry-red handle, cradling the round part of it in her other hand, remembering their hot cocoa toast, the green-and-red sprinkles and whipped cream.

  She’d taken to drinking tea in the afternoons, sipping her favorite brand, a pleasant ritual to revive herself. Her cubicle could get chilly late in the day, and the mug was warm on her fingertips. Warm like him. At night, Nick would hold her, his big body emitting heat like a furnace, his long slow breaths reassuring as she slept alongside him. She could lie two inches from his sinewy back and feel her own body grow warm. Alone, it took several minutes for her feet to get toasty before she could fall asleep.

  She brushed the curved side of the mug, over the glazed ridges of the bear’s ears.

  Every time you put your lips on it, you’ll think of me.

  From the moment that Spartan helmet rolled to her foot, he’d changed her life. Brought her out of her shell, challenged and infuriated her, made her breathless, made her laugh. Any future success she might have would not be half as rich, or have as much meaning, without him.

  She had to risk it.

  The taxi driver pulled to the curb. Hectic travelers tugged their wheeled upright suitcases, activating the auto sliding doors.

  When the driver got out to open the trunk, cold air mingled with the heated interior of the vehicle. Her boss and she opened the side doors and lowered their feet to concrete. He bent over to tip the shorter driver.

  “Dustin. Please don’t fire me.”

  He spun around. “Fire you?”

  “I’ve had an emergency come up.”

  His mouth opened but nothing came out.

  “It’s Nick. I can’t lie. It’s Nick.”

  “I thought—”

  “I’m not sure what we are. All I know is he’s in trouble.” Her eyes teared up. “Will the airline and hotel let me cancel? I don’t want this to cost the company money. Or you can take it out of my salary. Please. I don’t want to lose this job.”

  “An emergency’s an emergency. Is there anything I can do?”

  She shook her head. “I just need to get home.”

  “Do what you need to. And keep me posted.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Whatever happens, I hope it’s the best outcome for you.”

  Impulsively she went to hug him goodbye. Her professionalism was shot to pieces, she might ultimately lose her job, but there was no turning back.

  Dustin whistled and held up an arm. A yellow taxi sedan jerked to a stop, and she got in, shoving her luggage to the side. She gave the driver an address, scrolled through her phone and hit ‘Send.’

  “Chris. Call Marc, and both of you drive over to Division One. Carry him out if you have to.”

  “We’d better add another scoop.” Elena glanced toward the kitchen at the black appliance on the counter.

  Her aunt dipped the plastic scoop into the coffee bag and emptied fresh grounds into the brew funnel. Faucet on, Chris dodged around her, using the pot to pour water into the tank.

  She hustled to the bedroom, where every light blazed: ceramic lamps, ceiling mount, Tiffany’s bright phone screen. Nick was sprawled across the queen-sized bed, suit jacket off, shirt unbuttoned. At the foot of the bed, his dress shoe plopped to the floor, while Marc worked on unlacing the other.

  She eased onto the mattress, settling near the headboard, and lifted Nick’s head to her lap. She stroked his dark hair, relief spreading over her. He’s safe. Soused and grumpy, but safe.

  “That’ll put hair on his chest.” Chris carried in a steaming mug and handed it to Elena.

  Squinting as though he were nocturnal and exposed to sunlight, Nick struggled to sit. He took the mug with shaky hands and took small sips. He scrunched his eyes shut, grimacing. “What is this, motor oil?”

  “What?” Tiffany said in a loud voice, her cheeks spotted bright red.

  The rest of them stopped what they were doing.

  “I was under the impression the producers were gung-ho about this.” Tiffany halted her frantic pacing. “Who do I need to speak with to rectify the situation?” She gave her phone a sour look. “No. You have it wrong. I just spoke to them.” She held her phone at arm’s length and pushed End. “Bitch!”

  She threw her phone, and it bounced across the mattress, bunching up the bedding.

  “Tif.” Marc pinched the flesh between his eyebrows. “That phone cost an arm and a leg and another part of me.”

  “Sorry. It’s postnatal hormones. You know how emotional I get.”

  “How is the baby, by the way?” Elena asked.

  “She’s with my mom, thank goodness,” Tiffany said. “Well, guys, what do we do now? Lexi decided he’s out.”

  Elena remembered the way his father looked at her that morning, when she was naked under Nick’s shirt. The sick competition between them extended to women. Especially women. Men like his father clung to their withering virility by indulging beautiful young mistresses like Lexi. But he had a roving eye and would keep his options open, and the thrill came from the chase. While she could be wrong, she didn’t sense Lexi and his father had a relationship built on love, but the stereotypical older rich man, young woman thing.

  Dear Lord. Thinking in terms of stereotypes again.

  She glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. They were in a jam. After the recent defeats—losing DeVille, his father’s new Division One location siphoning off customers—Nick needed the publicity and exposure of this contest.

  Maybe she could outsmart Lexi for once. Contact Nick’s dad and appeal to him directly. She could be shrewd about this. Use her wiles at a safe distance. Act the coquette in words only.

  Bluff.

  She broke out into a sweat and fidgeted with Nick’s collar. That’s it. Do it before she talked herself out of it. She slid free and guided his head onto the pillow.

  His eyes popped open. “Hey.”

  Elena straightened and walked over to her purse on the dresser. She tugged down on her wrinkled blouse. “What’s Lexi’s number?”

  Tiffany’s eyes widened. “If I couldn’t get through to her, I don’t think you can. No offense, but . . . well, you’re too nice.”

  “Text it to me.”

  After her phone pinged, she dialed.

  Lexi’s greeting was cool. “And who is this?”

  “It’s Elena Mufson.” She was talking too fast and slowed down. “About the contest. What happened? He was all set to participate.”

  “Uh, no. I decided no.”

  Arguing would only make Lexi shriek from her princess throne, so Elena rolled the dice. “That’s too bad. I’ll have to tell his father as much.”

  “I’ve already told Nick—Senior—that is, not Junior.
I alone make the final decisions regarding NEW EATS.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Too bad?”

  “His father likes me, Lexi. And I’ll change his mind.”

  Lexi snorted. “You? The church mouse?”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Wait.” There was a frustrated sigh. “You won’t have to call.”

  “Smart move, Lexi. I appreciate the courtesy.”

  “Bitch,” Lexi snapped and hung up.

  She pressed End on her phone and scanned everyone’s stunned faces. “He’s back in.”

  “Elena!” With an awed grin, Marc got up from the corner of the bed to give her a fist bump.

  Tiffany’s mouth dropped open. “I appreciate the courtesy?”

  “That ain’t nothing,” Aunt Robbie said. “You ought to see her deal with a customer who didn’t receive the right discount.”

  Chris nodded, grinning.

  Rather than rejoice that she’d gotten Tailgaters reinstated, Elena now worried her game of chicken with Lexi would explode in a cloud of feathers. Best to get Nick over to the contest site before there were any further complications. Like his father actually calling.

  “Let’s get Drunkan Hines into a shower.” Cos caught the towel his wife tossed at him.

  “He’s got to have a team assembled and be on stage in less than twenty-four hours,” Tiffany said. “We’ve all lost our minds, you know. Pulling this off will be impossible.”

  Dark hair sticking up, Nick lifted the washcloth and opened a bloodshot eye. “When has that ever stopped me?”

  The Affluence Room of his father’s luxury hotel certainly made an impression: shimmery, champagne-colored damask wallpaper, coffered ceilings and chandeliers, walls dramatically backlit in blues, pinks and violets. On either side of the stage were giant screens, and nestled in front, A/V and music equipment.

  Purses on their laps, winter coats draped over their chairs, a studio audience of four hundred watched, chins lifted, eyes glued.

  “It’s time—for NEW EATS!”

  The plump male announcer strutted across the stage in a snug tux, wearing a lime green cummerbund and matching bow tie stamped with smiley faces, his blond hair slicked back, smile crammed with white teeth. Behind him, a Rockette formation of dancers twirled around in oversized bibs.

  Subtle, Elena thought. She shook her head. Then again, Lexi loved splashy. Used to enthrall the male managers at the college cafeteria with her jazz steps and low-cut blouses. She had to be here, somewhere. Once she figured out where Lexi stationed herself, she could avoid the area.

  “Tonight, it’s just the F.A.C.’s, ma’am—Food, Concept and Ambiance!” The host reminded her of a shady circus ringleader, blazing smiles for the audience, elephant beatings backstage. “We’ve screened dozens of the primo eateries in Chicagoland and narrowed it down to seven delicious finalists. Each finalist has assembled their best teams to prepare a full-fledged meal, from appetizer to dessert. You’ll get a feel for their décor and atmosphere, as well as their concept, and ultimately VOTE on whether they stand out in the fiercely competitive restaurant arena. Remember there are no names. Just Teams One through Seven.”

  The emcee brought the microphone closer to his mouth, and his voice lowered conspiratorially. “We must mention that one of our original finalists was disqualified and in their place is Team Seven, a last-minute substitute that’ll make our competition très intéressant! So, let’s review. You, our wonderful audience, will rate each team on two aspects of the F.A.C.—concept and ambiance.” He pointed upward and drew his legs together. “First, you’ll score the C, or concept. Each team will do a one-minute presentation of the restaurant’s concept, and you’ll decide: is it a meh or a marquee?”

  “Next comes the A for ambiance, madames and monsieurs. Each team will present their uniforms, sample wait staff and décor. Yes! We’ll roll dining rooms right onto this stage! And you’ll tell us, what kind of impression do you get? Do you want to sit down at their table, or sneak out before the waiter gets back?”

  There was a trickle of laughter.

  “Stay with me, now.” He held up an arm, palm facing upward, hand directed at the audience. “Under your seat—go on, look—you’ll find a scoring machine, a gadget with five buttons. Five is a superb rating, one is poor, or what the youngsters call an epic fail. A three is average. Blandsville. Do we have that, everyone?”

  The majority of the audience nodded or murmured yes.

  “Finally, we arrive at the fabulous ‘F.’ For what else—but FOOD. Isn’t that why we keep going back, for each yummy bite? For the food tasting portion, we will blindfold our judges. Blindfold them not for kink, you dirty minds out there, but for pure taste ecstasy. Then the judges will score each dish, and the results will be tabulated.”

  “Next, the scoring. You, the four hundred strong here tonight, will send your scores wirelessly. The scores of all the judges shall be averaged as well. A perfect score is one hundred: sixty points for the ‘F,’ or food, twenty for the ‘A’, ambiance, and twenty for ‘C,’ the concept. Whoever emerges with the closest score to one hundred will be our grand prize winner. Our judges will announce the runner-up and winner, at our first-ever eatery-ganza!” Squinting his eyes shut, the stout emcee shook a fist with the zeal of a coach leading his team to the field.

  Thunderous applause rippled through the rows, and a few people stomped their feet.

  “Now, I’d like to introduce our esteemed panel of judges. We’ll start with Garrett Boman. Garrett’s renowned for transforming failing businesses around the country, and his reality TV show is one of the highest-rated in cable!”

  At an oblong table in front, a chunky middle-aged man stood from his chair, waved, and sat back down.

  “Next is Chicago’s own Mitzi Callender, a profoundly gifted stage actress—”

  Someone nudged Elena at the elbow.

  She startled.

  “Hey, sweet cheeks. Come here often?” Eyes still puffy, freshly shaven, garment bag slung over an arm, Nick wore a black shirt, black jeans, charcoal gray Nikes, altogether too dazzling. Mere hours ago, he looked as though he’d washed up on shore, green at the gills.

  And she couldn’t help it, she loved seeing him back to normal. Well. Close enough. “How are you doing?” She reached for his hand.

  His hand met hers in a gentle squeeze. “I regret that I’m sober. It looks like a sick Easter egg in here.”

  “Lexi must like Skittles.”

  Laughing, he then switched to serious. “Dad know?”

  “About you competing? Not sure.” She looked down, and a few butterflies floated around in her stomach. She had to tell him about bluffing Lexi, the phony threat to call his father. Even more important was telling him about the manila envelope of his mother’s things from the neighbor’s daughter. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you.” Another round of applause drowned her out. “Nick. I’ve got—”

  “Leen. You should’ve gone to Boston.” He scrubbed fingers over his forehead. “Tell me you won’t lose your job.”

  “I don’t think so.” She kneaded her hands. When she’d called to see how the conference was going, Dustin’s phone defaulted to voicemail. Likely knee-deep in people and presentations, but it bothered her.

  “Listen.” He moved closer, his hands moving up her arms, breath smelling of peppermint. “You have no idea how much I appreciate—”

  “Hello, love-birds.” Lexi approached, chin raised. The black headset around her throat clashed with her tight gold lame dress. In one long-nailed hand was a stapled document.

  “Rhymes With,” Nick said. “I understand there’s been a reprieve.”

  “My wishes were vetoed. I’ll make it quick because I’m busy.” She tapped the pages against a palm. “Space is limited, so we’ve had to set up three of the teams in the kitchen, three backstage.” When she turned her head, her wavy blond hair didn’t move. Too stiff from hairspray. “Unfortunately you, Team Seven, will be i
n a storage room.”

  “As long as it’s properly ventilated so nothing catches on fire.” Nick adjusted the garment bag on his arm.

  “You’ll be fine, Junior. I’m also terribly sorry that you won’t have a Molteni stove like the other teams.”

  “Do I at least get flint and sticks?”

  Spoken by the sarcasm master. Elena covered her smile with her hand. Then her phone lit up, an 872 Chicago area code. Nick’s father’s private cell. Thank goodness only she’d seen the cell screen. She slid the phone back into her jeans pocket and pasted on a blank expression.

  It rang again. She forced herself to move slowly, to be stone-faced. Ignored the ringing.

  “Don’t you need to answer that?” Lexi’s thin eyebrows spiked into a high arch.

  Nick looked concerned. “Is it Dustin?”

  “Too loud in here.” She shrugged. “I’ll call later.”

  “Oh, don’t let him think you didn’t appreciate a courtesy. I gave her Daddy’s number. He was most eager to chat with our favorite little mouse here.”

  “Chat?” Nick turned to Elena questioningly.

  Her stomach rolled and left a bitter aftertaste on her tongue.

  “He likes her, apparently.” Lexi handed Nick a document stapled at the corner. “Contest rules. Think you can follow them?” She stared, eyes slightly bulging. “I’ve already had to disqualify your predecessor.”

  She turned and left, exaggerating the swing in her hips.

  I’m steamed, storming toward an Affluence Room exit, the garment bag on my arm rustling. So now my girlfriend thinks she has to prostitute herself to help me win this thing?

  Elena steps double-time to keep up. “I’ve not even talked to him. It was a ploy. I wanted you to have a chance at this.”

  A chance. Right. So if she’s not debasing herself, she’s got to run interference for me. Agitated, still sweating off alcohol, I head to the storage room where we’re set up, determined not to show how disappointed I am. The storage room? Even if our chances are the proverbial snowflake’s in hell, being cooped up in an oversized closet will guarantee we go down in flames.