by Brisa Starr
Mom walks over to me, and she peers over my shoulder. I catch a whiff of her perfume, the same one she’s been wearing for twenty years, Mysterè de Rochas. She bought twelve bottles of it once, “afraid they might stop making it someday,” and it’s all she wears. And although it’s not my favorite scent, it’s her. It means she’s nearby, and that gives me comfort.
“Did you go see Charlie?” she asks.
I smile big. “Of course! He’s getting the paperwork together, and I’ll take a check over later this week. When do you get the money from Robert?”
“Should be in a couple of days.” She turns back to her cleaning up, and I put the cherries on the counter, and then head to the pantry for the rest of the dry ingredients. I stand in front of the counter to do a quick tally of everything there. As I check off my mental list of ingredients to ensure I have everything I need, I see something black and hairy, and I scream “Ahhhh! Spider!!!” and I jump back. Creepy-crawlies are a legit phobia of mine.
A half a second later, I realize it’s not moving. It’s just sitting on the counter. Ew. Is it dead? Then I peer closer, squinting my eyes.
For fuck’s sake.
“Mom! It’s not a spider! It’s one of your fake eyelashes!”
“Whoops!” she yells from the back. “Sorry, honey!”
“Mom, you have got to stop wearing the individual lashes. This is happening too often, and you’re lucky one of them hasn’t ended up in someone’s quiche!”
“I know. I know. I just can’t stand the other kind, and you know I can’t leave the house without my lashes.” I sigh. Mom and her lashes. I need to buy her some of those groovy magnetic lashes. Then, she regales me of the time she wore them on her honeymoon with husband number one—my dad… and I’ve heard the story a million times.
I resume making my pies, half-listening to her, but smiling as I acknowledge that my pies are no longer in the sky.
My dreams are coming true.
4
Ryker
“What would you like to drink, Mr. Miles?” the young, female server asks. She knows my name, as should all the servers in a country club like this. Now that I have many homes around the country—hell, the world—I’m a member of more than a few country clubs. Frankly, they’re all starting to look the same. Hunter green and burgundy carpets, a bar and grill with heavy, rolling brown leather chairs, and windows that open up to views of the golf course. I thought country clubs would be good places to meet people, but I find myself bored or disappointed in the members, whether it’s California, Colorado, Michigan, or Vermont.
“I’ll have a Pick Axe Blonde beer, please.”
She leaves to get my drink, and I change my seat to the opposite side of the table, deliberately with my back to the room. I thought I’d sit facing the room so I could see when Sax arrives, but I prefer the view of the golf course to people. I open my black Moleskine journal to sketch, my habit when I’m feeling restless. I go through a lot of them… I should buy stock in the company. Or just, the company. Maybe Dad is right. I need something to do. Something I’m passionate about. Something other than the things I use as excuses to fill time.
But, what?
I’ve done some philanthropy, setting up a charitable foundation that donates investment proceeds to a handful of causes I support. It’s nice, but not anything that makes me “jump out of bed,” or… what did Dad say? “Juiced?”
No, it’s definitely not juiced. I envy Dad’s appetite for the law. He’s always been passionate about it, getting excited about this or that new case, for as long as I can remember. The frustrating thing is that I’m not sure I’m passionate about anything. Travel this past year has been sort of exciting, but it would’ve been better having someone to share it with. Which isn’t easy when friends are few and far between. It’s not like most people can just up and take off to travel. They have jobs. Or families. I’m the loner, with neither.
The waitress brings my beer with an enormous smile as she bends over, lower than necessary, to set it on the table. I return my attention to my journal. She stands up and asks if there’s anything else she can get me.
I don’t look up when I answer, “No, thanks. I’ll wait for my friend. Thank you.”
I glance at my watch and see that Sax is running late for our lunch. I’ve been looking forward to seeing him. He’s a crazy fucker, and he has a talent for making me laugh. I wish I could see more of him, but his work in industrial sales makes him travel a couple of weeks a month.
I’m halfway through my beer by the time he strolls in. “Hey man, good to see you,” he says, and I stand up to shake his hand.
I nod and smile. “Hey! Good to see you, too.”
The waitress, apparently eager to flirt, sees another opportunity with Sax here, and it’s no wonder. He’s a tall, good-looking guy, blessed with blond hair and blue eyes, and he’s no stranger to the ladies. In our senior year of high school, when he moved to Michigan from Indiana, he was all the right things… quarterback, prom king… he was even voted “most stylish” in the yearbook.
She comes over and takes his order but leaves disappointed that neither one of us responds to her flirtatious smiles.
Sax leans back in his chair. “So, have you made another billion dollars yet?” He laughs.
“Not today, my friend.”
“You know, I still haven’t forgiven you for leaving me out of that when we were in high school.”
“If I remember correctly, I told you to start mining with me, but you thought it was stupid. Sorry dude, when opportunity knocked, you told it to piss off.” I shrug and raise my eyebrows.
Sometimes I envy him. Sax makes great money and loves his job. He happily bounces in and out of relationships like a rubber ball, and he enjoys life one day at a time, never regretting the past, and never looking too far forward. Even though I can buy pretty much anything I want, go anywhere I want, do anything I want… I often imagine what life would be like as him.
He leans in. “Well, it doesn’t really matter, because you’ve made enough money for the whole damn town. I know where to go if I need some.”
“Yeah, you and everybody else,” I say, with more sharpness than I intended.
“Poor baby,” he playfully whines. “That must suck to have more money than god and have to tell people no when they come asking for some. Tell me, is it any different telling people no from your mansion in the Alps or your beach house in Grand Caymen?” Shit. I can’t believe I forgot about the one in Grand Caymen. OK, so I also have a house in Grand Cayman.
“Dickhead,” I say. He’s right, of course.
He laughs, and I laugh along with him. But he doesn’t appreciate the responsibility, or the grim side that comes with this much money. Nobody does, except the very rich. Apart from Sax, I never know what people’s motives are—men or women, friend, family, or stranger. I’ve adapted by hopping from residence to residence. It gives me an excuse to disappear, stay single, and it keeps me busy.
But it gets lonely.
I get lonely.
We order bacon cheeseburgers, and Sax gets the fries, while I opt for spinach salad. Halfway through it, I look up from eating to see Sax leaning to see something past my shoulder. His eyes are locked on to something, like he’s a predator. I know that look on his face. The same face men have been making for millennia when they seek to conquer. Or procreate.
I squint my eyes at him. What the hell has him so fascinated? Dare I turn around, and risk making both of us look obvious? Fuck it, who cares. I turn around and choke on the food I’m swallowing. Coughing, I grab my beer to wash it down.
Aspen.
What the fuck is she doing here?
She’s not a member.
My god, she’s even more beautiful than when I first saw her at the bistro. Probably because my blood has cooled somewhat, and anger isn’t clouding my eyes with red. She’s wearing her white chef’s coat, and her sexy, blond hair is tied up in a loose, luminescent bun on the top of her head. Her full lips a
re as cherry-red as ever, a prominent asset, even from where I sit, halfway across the room. I grip the armrest of my chair to keep myself rooted… there’s an insane magnetic pull to get up and say something to her. Even if it’s only to yell at her.
But I have nothing to say, and I turn back around in my chair. My attention goes back to Sax, who’s still gawking at her. My chest tightens and my pulse thickens.
“Stop drooling like an asshole.”
He looks over to me. “You must not see what I see, because she is one beautiful woman.”
I want to punch my only friend.
How dare he look at her like that?
“Do you know who she is?” I say, in a measured tone.
“No, do you?”
“Yes. She’s not fucking available.”
He leans back to a normal sitting position. “Oh, I see. You’re already in pursuit.” He holds his hands up in surrender, not daring to challenge me.
“Something like that.” I might as well let him think that, even though nothing could be further from the truth. I wouldn’t chase her if my life depended on it. She destroyed my family.
But that doesn’t mean Sax can have her.
Or maybe I don’t want anybody to have her. Let her be miserable and alone.
My hands ball into fists under the table. What is this magnetic draw to her then?
I catch the eye of the waitress and lift my glass to signal another. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Aspen walk through the restaurant, not seeing me, and she heads into the kitchen. The waitress brings my beer to me, and I chug half of it immediately to dilute the pull in my body to follow Aspen.
A few minutes later, I hear that laugh. Her laugh. Coming all the way from the kitchen.
The doors to the kitchen swing open, and Aspen walks out with the country club’s head chef. She’s a large, smiling woman with frizzy, brown hair, and they’re hooting and hollering about something, and I grind my back teeth. I turn my head so Aspen doesn’t see me. Then, I turn to look over my other shoulder and see her walk out of the restaurant. She returns a moment later, carrying pies.
I try to pay attention to my conversation with Sax, but with every other word, I’m thinking of her golden hair and red lips. He doesn’t seem to notice, so long as I keep nodding and going along with whatever he’s saying.
The waitress comes back and asks us if we need anything else.
“I’d like a slice of pie,” I say, without even thinking.
“Pie? Seriously?” Sax asks. “I’ve never known you to eat pie in your life.”
“We just had the pies delivered,” says the waitress with a bounce. “They’re so good! Made locally. I think we have cherry today.”
“Fine. Cherry.” I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I have to taste her pie. My pulse quickens at the accidental double meaning. The literal one will have to do. For now.
Christ. What am I thinking?
A minute later, the server returns with a slice of cherry pie and two forks. I stare at it, noticing the full, round, succulent cherries. The buttery crust, rich and delicate, like Aspen’s curves. I breathe in through my nose. I notice the wet and shiny pie filling. I exhale. I’m almost afraid to taste it. What if I like it?
“Earth to Ryker.” Sax waves his hand in front of my face. “Are you gonna eat it? Hurry up. Our tee time is in ten minutes.”
“No. I don’t want it anymore.” I stand up from the table.
“Fuckin’ weirdo,” he says and follows suit.
We head to the locker room to change into our golf shoes, and I stop. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I turn the other way and head toward the kitchen. I walk through the doors, and the afternoon lunch rush has passed, so the staff is cleaning the kitchen and prepping for dinner. I strain my neck, looking around for the executive chef.
There. I spot her. She’s wearing purple cheater glasses on a chain and looking down at a clipboard, taking inventory or something. I approach her. “Excuse me, chef?” She looks up, alarmed, not recognizing me. “Yes? What can I do for you?” She pushes her glasses up on her head.
“The pies that just came in, that Aspen brought.”
“Yes? They’re amazing. Best I’ve ever had. What about them?”
“I’d like Aspen’s contact information,” I say.
She eyes me warily, and I continue, “I’d like to talk to her about placing an order.” I don’t want to lie. I’ll order pies for my dad’s office to make it legit.
She pulls out her phone. “Yes, I have a number to her restaurant, Gabby’s Rooster, right here.”
“Do you have her cell phone number?”
“Oh?” she says, raising her eyebrows at me, but we members get what we ask for. I shift my stance and wait. Let her assume whatever she wants.
I don’t even know why I’m back here in the kitchen getting Aspen’s number. But I want it.
I give the chef my friendliest smile, and she says, “I do have it. Let me find it.” She puts on her purple glasses and scrolls through her phone. She pauses to look up at me over the glasses and adds, “I should tell you, Aspen is a very busy woman. She’s about to be much busier. I’m not sure if she’s doing small orders.”
“That’s OK, I’ll try anyway,” I assure her.
She clears her throat. “Uh-huh. Well, a friendly tip. I’ve been ordering her pies since she came back from Arizona. She works her butt off at the bistro. Like I said, a very busy woman. A very nice woman.”
A young guy, just a teenager, walks by rolling a noisy cart with a wobbly wheel, and I have to step back and let him pass.
The chef continues, one eyebrow lifted, “And she just told me she’s putting in an offer on The Rose Hotel, so I don’t know… just don’t get your hopes up.” She looks at me, and then adds, “For ordering pies, I mean.”
Is she warning me?
What the hell, Ms. Non-matchmaker?
Stick to food.
Besides, I’m not after Aspen.
I just want her number.
I don’t respond. She purses her lips and looks back at her phone to find the number. She turns her phone’s screen to me, and I jot down Aspen’s number in my black journal. Right next to the cherries I crossed out.
5
Aspen
Shit. I need a new dress. A nice one, too. I check my credit card balance on my phone and cringe. Oh well, I’ll figure something out. Even though I need to keep saving money for the hotel, I also know we’ll be a raging success, so what’s a little more credit card debt? Right?
My good taste sometimes gets the better of me. My credit card statement is proof. For better or worse, this habit was fostered by my mom. And Popster, now that I think about it, with his motto: Buying quality saves money in the long run…
Which is one reason I’m better off being busy. So I don’t buy things. I’m disciplined most of the time, but after working a ninety-hour week, I just sometimes feel that—dammit—I deserve a reward, and I borrow from my future self.
So, sometimes I spend more than I should. But it’s on my longest days that I feel life is the shortest, and a little retail therapy perks me up like a shot of espresso. This situation is different, however. I need a new dress for the upcoming Chamber of Commerce Charity Silent Auction in two weeks. It’s a swanky event for local businesses. It’s important; Mom and I are going to hobnob to raise awareness about our up-and-coming bed-and-breakfast, The Rose. While I’m at it, maybe I’ll get another couple restaurant clients for my pies, to pay for the dress.
The day is finally winding down, and it’s time to close the restaurant. Popster is helping by wiping down the tables. He’s whistling a tune from the ‘50s—Rock Around the Clock—and he’s wearing one of my leopard aprons, which cracks me up.
I go over to him. I just have to hug him.
“Hey there, girlie,” he says and hugs me back.
“I love you, Popster.”
“I know you do. I love you, too. And don’t ask h
ow many I had today!” he says and scruffs the top of my head when I let him go. I should probably give up the project of getting him to stop smoking, but I just can’t.
“Exciting times ahead, eh?” he says.
“Yes!” I reply and dance on my tiptoes all the way to the counter to start closing out the cash register. Thinking about my future makes me feel light and airy, and I laugh out loud. And feeling unstoppable like this, a new idea hits me! Maybe it’s time to revamp my dream. Maybe I should set my sights on not just one bed-and-breakfast, but a whole chain of them! As I let the idea take root in my mind, I take off my apron and wash my hands, and a fresh jolt of excitement shimmies through me.
Popster is throwing away his newspaper and pile of toothpicks from the day as I’m about to take the trash out to the back dumpster. I stop to scrape a few more scraps from dirty plates into the bag, when Mom’s phone rings. She answers it, and as I’m tying up the garbage bag, I hear her voice turn concerned as she says, “Oh no. That is too bad. Oh my goodness.” My spine stiffens, and not from lifting the heavy garbage bag. She continues, “Shit. What? Really? Shit! Are you sure? No. OK. Thanks for calling. Goodbye.”
Uh-oh, that didn’t sound good. I chew on the inside of my cheek. What the hell was that call about? I walk over to her as she finishes the call. She sees me staring at her from across the kitchen and slowly walks toward me. “Aspen, honey? Let’s have a seat. We need to talk.”
Popster overhears and gestures us to his table. We walk over, and it feels like a year passes in the nine steps it takes to get to the booth.
“I have terrible news,” Mom says as we sit down.
This can only mean one thing. I close my eyes and brace myself, waiting for the axe to fall. She reaches her hands across the table to mine, and I look at her. “I’m sorry, Aspen. Robert pulled out.”
There’s the axe.
And there goes my head, rolling across the floor.
I close my eyes again, and I try to take a deep breath, but I can only grasp at shallow ones. No. This can’t be happening. Please, no.
