by Rachel Hauck
“My concussion protocol was cleared, so technically I can work.” Lexa motioned to her arm. “But this thing is holding me back.”
“When can you go back to work?” Coral again.
“I won’t know until I see the doctor later this week. I hope to go back next Monday.” Lexa offered a sincere smile.
Ed liked her all the more. She carried her wounds with courage and boldness. Like she’d been kicked when she was down but refused to stay on the ground.
“Here’s to your health and well-being.” Ed saluted her with his bottle of water as he sat in his chair.
Might as well brave this heap of bunny food.
With a forkful of vegetables drowning in dressing, he commenced eating. Esmerelda used to rag him about eating his veggies. This salad was for her.
“Lexa, this cream of tomato with chicken and orzo is so good.” Coral closed her eyes as she savored a bite.
Ed liked her more every week too. She was also strong and bold but cut from a different cloth than any woman he’d ever known. Except Esmerelda. She’d been a society girl. Though not quite as high society as a Winthrop.
Coral had been guarded the first three weeks, but tonight she shoved back the draperies and opened a few windows.
“I’ll have to get a cup when I finish my salad. Eating with my left hand is so awkward.”
Without a word, Jett pulled around a small table that had been home to a lamp and set it in front of Lexa.
“This ought to help.” Then he retrieved a bowl of soup and set it on the corner, leaving room for her to eat her salad.
Ed caught his attention as Jett returned to his grand high-back chair and gave him a slight nod. Well done, young man.
“Jett, what about you? How’s your dissertation?” Coral turned their attention to the professor.
“Writing an introduction. Going through some more research from a professor at Oxford. Should have it to the publisher by the fifteenth, no problem.”
“You’re happy with it?”
He shrugged. “Why not? I’m the newest expert on GPR, and the school will get a lot of money because of this publication. So yes, I’m happy. Chuck, what about you? Good week? Hear any fun gossip in your car?”
He shook his head. “Nothing worth repeating.”
“Did you see the twins?” Lexa said. “Are you a Wednesday and weekend dad?”
A burly, deep grunt rumbled in Chuck’s chest. Ah, the big man had secrets.
“No,” he said after a moment, giving his salad the business with a plastic fork.
“Don’t tell me you switch off every other night.” Coral’s gaze followed him. “For Han and I, our parents—”
“Leave it, Coral.” Chuck slammed his plate in the trash. Lettuce bounced and floated over the side. Grumbling, he picked up the litter and grabbed a water and returned to his chair, the rumble in his voice still vibrating in the room. “We can’t all have the perfect divorce like your parents.”
Coral sat back, turning slightly away from Chuck in pinched silence.
“How was your week, Coral?” Ed said, trying to give Chuck space to cool off.
As the senior member of the group, he should ensure good etiquette among the society members. He was no expert, but he was raised in a time when people respected one another.
She wiped her lips with the corner of her paper napkin. “Besides losing my company? Good.” She shot a sideways glance at Chuck.
The society collectively gasped, and while Ed was 100 percent interested in how and why this fine beauty might lose her family business, her confession changed the atmosphere and inspired a rather selfish notion he might not get to read his piece about Esmerelda.
Putting it off meant he’d have to wait another week, and he had no assurance he wouldn’t permanently change his mind.
“How are you losing your company?” Chuck all but snarled. What was eating him?
“I’m not really sure.” She lowered her eyes and Ed almost demanded Chuck step outside so she could have an honest moment without fear of his bark. “We’re in the red. In every category.” She offered the society a sad smile. “However, my team is convinced the blame goes to our new lip gloss line, Pink Coral.”
“How can one product drain the whole company?” Ed said.
“Expenses. Diverted advertising dollars. Brand inconsistency causing concern with long-time customers, the head of the company distracted by a prince . . .”
“But you had a team in place.” Lexa exchanged her salad for the soup. Ed rose up just in case she needed help. “They didn’t have your back? Once Zane had to go home for three weeks to help his parents. We got more done in that time than in three months when he’s in the office.”
“Three weeks is one thing, but I was in and out, traveling back and forth, distracted with my wedding. Even when I was here, I was there, across the ocean in my mind with him.” She tapped the side of her head. “I didn’t think I was that distracted, but the numbers indicate I was. I should talk to my father, though I’m terrified of what he’ll say.”
“What will he say?” Jett got up for another cup of soup.
“That the team is right. I need to kill Pink Coral. But it was my first product launch. I spent months in Paris developing the formula, and another year and a half testing the product, designing the packaging and marketing.” She held her soup bowl in her palm. “No Winthrop or Calhoun woman has ever failed.”
“Neither will you. You’ll figure this out,” Lexa said with a bold confidence. “About two years ago we thought ZB was running red. We dug, did some research, and learned our prices were too low. Customers didn’t believe we were really organic at the prices we’d set. So we raised them a dollar. Boom. Back in the black.”
“We’ve looked at marketing. It’s not our price. It’s more like a preteen lip gloss doesn’t fit our brand. We’re the cosmetic company for adult, even aging, women.”
“I love your stuff and I’m not an old lady,” Lexa said. Ed loved how the girl with the broken arm tried to encourage the girl with the broken business. “If you want to brainstorm, I’d be happy to think outside the box with you. I know nothing about cosmetics but I love business and marketing, developing strategies.”
“She is good at thinking outside the box,” Jett said.
“I feel rather like a stone these days. I arrive at work early, ready to go. An hour later I want to quit,” Coral said. “I appreciate your offer to help, Lexa, but I wouldn’t know where to begin. My own team, I suppose. But I have to do something. This last year has been humbling if not humiliating. I’m not sure I could face another public downturn. Dragging CCW through the mud would be worse than the mess with Gus.”
“Coral,” Ed said. “What did happen with Gus?”
“Not tonight, Ed.” She carried her soup bowl to the trash. “Besides, I’ve taken enough of everyone’s time. What about you, Ed? How’s your memoir?”
The time had come. “Since you asked—” Ed reached for his briefcase.
“And you two.” Coral pointed to Jett and Lexa. “What’s going on? There’s something different.”
“Us?” Jett said at the exact same moment Lexa said, “Nothing.” They averted their gazes, and Ed was sure he felt a spark between them. He was somewhat of a “spark detector.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Ed, your memoir?” Lexa gave him her best smile. Underneath it said, “Please read.”
“Jett?” No denying the teasing light in Coral’s eyes. “Nothing to add?”
“Not a thing. Ed, so you wrote on your memoir?”
Well, guess he was up. He produced his typed pages, realizing too late he had a drop of coffee on the bottom of the first page. “So, um, well, what do I do? Just read out loud?” He offered the pages to Jett. “Maybe you should read them.”
“It’s your story, Ed. You read.”
“Wait, I want more soup.” Lexa started to rise slowly from her table and chair, but Jett jumped up.
“I got it. What kind do you want? The chicken soup is gone. Tomato basil or spinach artichoke cheddar?”
“Spinach, please.”
When Lexa had her soup, Ed stood. Then sat. No, better to stand. But his legs wobbled. Best sit for fear of falling over.
He cleared his throat once, twice, and a third time, irritated at the flashing tremors.
“I have to admit, I thought putting my life on paper would be easier.”
“Welcome to every writer’s world, Ed,” Jett said. “Sportswriter Red Smith coined the famous line, ‘Writing is easy. You just open a vein and bleed.’”
“Well, I didn’t go quite that far, but good to know I have room to grow.” Good, he’d made the society laugh. “Here goes.”
But nothing came out. The words stuck to his dry tongue. He slugged down some water then tried again.
The words swam across the page and he could not command his lips.
“Ed?” Chuck patted him on the back. “The library closes at nine.”
He nodded. Couldn’t even manage a simple okay.
“You don’t have to read if you don’t want to, Ed.” Jett’s voice was kind. “I understand it’s personal.”
“J-just give me a sec here, you know.” When did that bullfrog move into his throat? Fist to his lips, Ed coughed and hacked, then tossed back another splash of water. “My glasses.”
The society waited while he fished them from the briefcase. He began reading before he could change his mind.
“I met Esmerelda when I was a kid of twenty-five. I was a freshman at Queen’s College after doing my stint in Uncle Sam’s army and a year in Nam. I worked part time for the grocer on the corner of Seventy-Sixth and Northern Boulevard.
“I’d gotten off early that night and headed to Times Square on New Year’s Eve with a couple of buddies. The year was 1966 and I was only a few months home from my all-expenses-paid trip to a war.
“The weatherman predicted snow that night, but we were on fire for a good time. My friend Harold, who liked to say Harold Square was named for him, said he smelled love in the air. He was always saying stuff like that, you know?
“We bought a couple of hamburgers and decided to take in a show. You had to be careful of the theater district in those days due to a lot of unpleasant people hanging around, gangs and such.
“We was making our way down Broadway when I laid eyes on her. She was standing outside the Winter Garden theater with her girlfriends. She wore a fur coat with a matching hat. Her long blonde hair was in curls over her shoulders and down her back.
“I was a goner right then and there. The fellas kept on walking but not me. I had to stop and talk to this vision.
“I didn’t know much about art, still don’t, but I know a masterpiece when I see it. I had to know her name. Once she looked at me with her baby blues I turned to jelly.
“I called the guys back and convinced them to buy tickets to the show, Mame, which they grumbled about but settled down once they saw there was a dame for each one of us. Luck was smiling on me that night.
“My buddies were Harold, Eric, and George.
“So there I was sitting next to this vision. Esmerelda Belmont. During the closing song, I held her hand and never let go. I’d met perfection.
“We married six months later and enjoyed eight years of wedded bliss before she left this world for the great beyond, letting go of my hand for the very first time.
“I miss her every day.”
His voice quivered a bit as he finished. He folded the paper and tucked it in the open case. The group was quiet. Too quiet.
“Ed, I can only hope my husband, should I find one, will write such beautiful things about me one day.” Coral’s kindness made him want to bawl like a baby. So he thanked her with a nod.
“Guess she was something special,” Chuck said.
“I can hear how much you loved her in your voice.” Lexa angled around to touch his knee with her free hand, her expression so much like Holly’s when she was just his daughter and not trying to be his governess.
He waited for Jett’s approval. If the professor approved, then maybe he had something. Jett sat back, his Chuck Taylor shoes flat on the library floor.
“What’s the rest of the story? How’d she die?”
“The good Lord came for her.”
“She died in her sleep?”
“See here, Jett, I want to write about her life and our love, not her death. We had Holly, of course, but this is pretty much the long and short of our story.”
“Eight years of wedded bliss? No bumps. No hiccups? No arguments or fights?”
“We didn’t always agree, but she was perfect—”
“No woman is perfect.”
“No man either,” Lexa said.
“Esmerelda was perfect.”
“Ed . . .” Jett said.
“Young man, you may find it hard to believe, seeing as you divorced your wife—”
“She divorced me.”
“—but Esmerelda and I were perfect for one another. A match made in heaven, if you believe in such a place.”
Which he did, if he held any hope of seeing her again.
A cloud crossed Jett’s face, then quickly faded.
“Ed, aren’t you trying to write a memoir? What you read us was nice but more like a synopsis. ‘We met, we fell in love, she died.’ That’s all well and good, but what happened after you held her hand in the theater? How did you know she was the one? Did she love you instantly too? Did your families approve? Did you fight? Did you have a lot of things in common? Just what made her so perfect for you and you for her? Tell us her side of the story. Can you remember how she felt meeting you the first time at the Winter Garden? You have to write the good and the bad, the highs, the lows. There’s no interest in a story that’s summed up with everyone perfect and everything going well. I mean, dying so young has me intrigued. You can’t leave out how you felt when the woman you loved left this world. That had to be painful.”
“Very.”
“Tell us that story too, Ed.”
“I’d like a few years of happily ever after,” Coral said. “A decade where everything goes well.”
Chuck raised his hand. “Sign me up.”
“Maybe that’s why we’re here?” Coral again. “To share our imperfect stories.”
“But why us? Why now?” Lexa said.
“Are we back to a support group?” Chuck said. “Seems we’re more than that. Plus I don’t want to come here every week and cry over my problems. Or yours.”
“Do I have to write about her death?” He’d never considered it. Not for a second. It wasn’t what he wanted to say, what he wanted Holly to read. “My memoir is to remember love. To show people how it can be. Not that we didn’t nip at one another now and then. But nothing knocked down and dragged out. We cared for one another like we vowed to on our wedding day.”
“Ed, I’m not saying you weren’t happy, even blissful, but the point of a memoir is to put it all out there. Tell the reader how you loved Esmerelda when it was hard and dark.”
“It was never hard and dark. Why do people insist on marriage being so blame difficult? It’s ’cause you’re too selfish if it’s hard. Or too wounded yourselves and can’t see it. That’s what I say.” He was more riled than he cared to be.
“Because sometimes marriage is just hard.” So, they were ganging up on him. No wonder Coral left her man, and Chuck, Jett, and Lexa were all divorced.
“I still say people can live selflessly, you know. There are couples who get along, don’t argue. Marriages where love conquers all.”
“Really?” Jett’s expression conveyed his doubt. “I’ve never seen one.”
“Well, you’re looking at the remaining half of a solid, giving marriage.” Ed glanced around the circle. “Granted, you don’t see much of what Esmerelda and I had in these modern times. All I see here is you kids with heartbreak. I don’t know what happened to you, Chuck, but I c
an see pain in your eyes.” He patted his new friend’s broad shoulder. “Lord only knows what happened with Coral and you two.” He waved at Lexa, then Jett. “Esmie and I chose the way of love. It was the sixties, so naturally love was on our minds. We decided things together, and when she was right, I said sorry. When I was right, she made my favorite pot roast.” He fell against his chair. “She made the best pot roast.”
“Ed, if that’s your story, tell it with gusto,” Jett said. “Your daughter and grandchildren will be inspired.”
Ed rubbed his chin. “I guess I could write down a bit more detail.”
“A lot more detail.” Jett smiled. “That’s all I’m asking. You’ll be surprised what you remember as you start to write. What about one of the times she said she was sorry by making pot roast?”
“I’d like to know how your second date went.” Coral angled forward, her long graceful arms folded over her legs.
“Romance is for the birds,” Chuck said with a quick, sideways glance at Coral. “However, now I want pot roast.”
It was good to end the evening on a laugh. Jett volunteered to clean up after the librarian stuck her head in the Bower and told them it was closing.
“Ed, it’s your turn to bring the food next week,” Coral said as the rest of the group walked out.
“I’m thinking pot roast.” Chuck clapped him on the shoulder then offered to drive him home.
“Ed, I want to hear more of your story,” Lexa said. “I enjoyed what you wrote. You’re a good writer.”
Outside on the avenue, he parted company with the girls and walked with Chuck toward his car. Behind him, he heard Lexa accept a ride from Coral.
When Chuck dropped him off he clapped him on the shoulder again. “Keep writing, Ed. See you next week? With a pot roast?”
“Pot roast? Well, why not?”
Nice going, old man. He had exactly six days to figure out how to make the best pot roast a body ever tasted.
Chapter 17
Jett
Every week he was the first to arrive at the Bower and the last to leave. Tonight was no different.
He put away the folding tables and emptied the trash into the dumpster behind the library, hoping for the chance to talk to Lexa when he got home. The weekend hadn’t afforded them a single moment to talk about their kiss.
