by Kelly Wood
“He loves you. You love him. You basically spend all of your time together. You live like a married couple now. What’s the problem? Marry him.”
“I have come to realize all of those things. That’s not my problem.” I buried my hands between my legs. I wanted to fold into myself.
“What did you do?” Her tone sounded exasperated. Peyton had said those words to me so many times over my lifetime. All of those times are wrapped up in those four little words. She might as well have tacked on ‘this time’ at the end.
“I ran. Gray said, will you marry me, and I turned and walked—no ran—away. I still can’t believe I didn’t fall down all those giant steps. I didn’t stop, Pey, I went to the hostel, grabbed my bag and went straight to the airport. I freaked.”
“What is wrong with you?!”
I stared at my sister, flabbergasted. “What? That’s not very supportive. You are supposed to be on my side.”
“I can’t be on your side when you are acting like an idiot. What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t. That’s the problem. I was reacting. Marriage is terrifying, to me.”
“You are such a drama queen.” Peyton rolled her eyes again. Again! I was annoyed. I made a mental note to stop rolling my eyes at other people. “What is so ‘terrifying’ about marriage? It’s great.”
“All the time?”
“Well, no, but it’s great a lot if you pick the right person. There’s a comfort in marriage.”
“Like farting in front of each other?”
“No, well, that happens, too. Comfort, as in, security. Someone’s got your back. I never want to go back to being single.” Peyton shuddered at the thought.
“I thought the grass is supposed to be greener on the other side?”
“That’s for unhappy people. They are too busy seeing what the neighbor’s garden holds than to tend their own.” Peyton pulled to the side of the road. Once the van was parked, she turned to face me. “You are your own worst enemy. Get over yourself. Marry him.”
Tears filled my eyes, but I blinked them away. “I think it’s too late for that. I do want to marry him. I’ve tried calling him a dozen times. I’ve texted him. I just want to talk to him.”
Peyton held my hands in hers, she gave them a quick shake and then dropped them back in my lap. She was a good sister. Peyton always put up with my crazy and talked me down. Usually, she gave me way more grief, though. This time she took it—
“Peyton?” She had gone back to driving. She stared at the road, refusing to glance my way. “You didn’t seem that surprised when I told you what happened in Mexico. Why?”
“It’s not surprising. You act like a moron on a regular basis.” True. I kept staring at her, watching her dimples get bigger and bigger. She and our mother had the same tell. Dimples. When either of them was lying, their dimples became more pronounced. As a child, I was jealous of them. I wanted cute little dimples, too, for everyone to compliment. Peyton bit the inside of her cheeks to hide the dimples, but she couldn’t fool me.
“Your turn to spill it, sis.”
“He called me.”
“Peter?”
“Gray.” This time she glanced my way. Our parents’ house was coming up. We saw glimpses of it through the trees. There was a strange car parked in the driveway. I was not in the mood for company, but my mother’s house was like Grand Central Station. There were always people coming and going.
“Why would he do that? Does Mom know?” Fear bubbled up inside. I. Do. Not. Want to talk to mom about it.
“He was worried about you. He managed to follow you all the way to the airport but couldn’t get on a flight to the States for another day. They were all overbooked. He called me to make sure you made it home. Imagine my surprise to find out my sister was back in the country. From her ex-boyfriend.”
Ex. She said it. Ex. All hope drained out of me. Of course, Gray would make sure I arrived safely. Of course, he would shoulder one last burden and tell my sister for me. Saving me again from myself. I wanted to kick myself for not realizing his kindness before. Before it was too late. This time when the tears came, I let them fall. I didn’t sob or hiccup, but I couldn’t stop the steady flow. I had messed up big time.
“Let me know when you are done?” Peyton asked. She turned into the driveway. She reached over, holding my hand. The kids were still silent in the back, watching the latest Disney craze. I wiped my eyes and sniffled. I actually felt better now. I should’ve let myself cry days ago. I still missed him. I was still angry with myself for my stupidity, but some of the pressure had eased.
“I’m done. Thank you.” I wiped my nose on an old tissue I found floating around my purse.
“Good. ‘Cause Gray is inside waiting for you.”
Chapter Twelve
I stopped breathing. I wanted to breathe, but my body wouldn’t allow any air to enter my lungs. Gray was here. Inside. Right now.
“What’s he doing here?” Wait. There was a bigger question here. “What does Mom know? How long has he been here? What is he doing here?”
“Slow down. Mom doesn’t know anything so you can take a breath.” Peyton peeked in the rear-view mirror, checking on the girls. They were still quiet, engrossed in their movie.
“But, what is he doing here?”
“Go ask him. This isn’t high school. I’m not passing notes between you two.” She pushed a button and doors opened. “Come on, girls. Time to go inside. You can finish this later.” The girls groaned a little at the interruption but did as their mom asked.
I gathered up my bag, wiped my eyes and headed inside. My body warred with itself. Part of me wanted to run inside and throw my arms around his neck. The other part, the scared part, wanted to shuffle my feet and take my time. What would he say? What would I say? I knew I had been hoping for this moment, but I was now looking a gift horse in the mouth. I wanted this, but the thought of doing this with my mother here was . . . I shuddered at the thought.
I walked through the open door, and dread welled up inside me with joy. Gray stood in the dining room, talking to my mom while she prepared lunch. The two rooms were only separated by the kitchen island. The kitchen was my mom’s throne. She’d putter around baking and cooking while the rest of us sat at the dining room table. She was able to enjoy the conversation and be a part of the camaraderie while cooking. My siblings and I knew to stay out of the kitchen while she was working. Apparently, so did Gray. I paused to watch him for a moment before entering the room. He looked relaxed in his assumed stance, holding his coffee cup. He chuckled at something my mom had said. The girls ran up to him for hugs. He squatted down to their level, hugging them and making silly faces. There would be two more broken hearts if I couldn’t fix this.
Gray must’ve sensed my presence because he looked up. Our eyes locked. I searched his eyes and face but didn’t find any anger there. Still, I was rooted in place. He let go of the girls and opened his arms to me. “Well?”
The invite lasted only a moment before I was across the room and hugging him. I held back the tears, knowing my mother would demand to know what was going on. Oh, my mother. Gray had been here for how long? What had he told her? My body stiffened with worry and dread.
“Act natural. We’ll talk later. All is fine,” Gray whispered in my ear. I relaxed against him again. My relief was short-lived when I realized that I now had to spend the day with him and not talk about it. That was its own form of punishment.
I was jumpy like a caged animal all day. I played with the girls to distract myself. I avoided, at all costs, one-on-one conversations with my mom. I tried to look at Peter’s numbers, but couldn’t focus with Gray in the room. The paperwork sat on the dining room table, mocking me.
By contrast, Gray seemed perfectly at ease, which made me even jumpier. He sat at the dining table, sipping coffee and reading the local paper. I guessed he had made a decision as to what he was going to do about our relationship. If I knew what laid ahead, I would be more r
elaxed, too.
My mother went about her business. She looked the same as when we left. Short, chubby and covered in flour. She loved the role of grandma. She had been waiting her whole life for it. Every so often I caught her watching me from the kitchen, with that knowing look in her eyes. Her mother’s instincts had kicked in. She had picked up on the strained undercurrent. I smiled whenever I saw her looking, as if it would throw her off the scent. Her nose was stronger than a cadaver dog’s, I was a lost cause.
“This baby is killing me.” Peyton emerged from the guest room. She went in to lay down for a while since the kids were occupied and cared for. She settled in at the table, and nudged my papers out of the way.
“I hope it’s twins,” I said. I prayed Peyton had twins with every pregnancy.
“May God strike you down.”
“Peyton Elizabeth! Watch your mouth.” My mom pointed a metal spatula her way, emphasizing her point. I hid my giggle behind my hand, then lowered it to stick my tongue out at her. Since we were kids, my mom had always admonished Peyton for her mouth. My poking and jabbing would slip by, but the minute Peyton said anything in her defense my mother would hear it and jump on her. Peyton took it well. Usually.
“Mom, why don’t you ask Regan how Mexico was? I could’ve sworn we weren’t expecting her until next week. I must be wrong, though.” I squinted my eyes at Peyton, willing lightning bolts to shoot out. “I could’ve sworn she proposed that I pick her up next week from the airport. I must’ve been engaged in conversation with someone else.”
“You are dead to me.” I mouthed the words in her direction.
“I don’t know what you are up to, but if it involves a ring, that ring better be on your finger.”
“Mom.” I rolled my eyes, even though I had promised myself to break that bad habit.
"Well, did he?" Mom asked.
She pointed at me with the spatula again. I knew if I told her the truth she would throw it at me or swat the back of my hand with it. A plastic spatula I could handle, a metal one would go right through my eyeball.
"Of course not." I made eye contact with Peyton. Help me, please! Gray continued to read the paper as if my mother wasn’t talking about him like he wasn’t there. He caught my eye briefly, but I only saw the humor in it.
"Who's padding the PNL's? These numbers are ridiculous." Peyton bent her head over my forgotten paperwork but not before I saw the knowing look in her eyes. I had brought home the more recent Profit and Loss Report to finalize for the pub.
"What? I've only had a chance to quickly glance at those. The numbers looked high to me, but Peter said business had been booming," I got up and headed to the table to see what she was talking about.
Peyton had a degree in Accounting. I studied it for a semester or two in school, but it didn’t take me long to figure out that was not where my passion lied. I moved on to marketing after that. Or Psychology. Or Religious Studies. It didn’t matter since I didn’t finish anyway.
"I've seen a sample PNL like this in school. Somebody is hiding money under your Miscellaneous Sales column, look." Her finger pointed at the Miscellaneous Sales line for the last period. At a glance, a PNL is just a giant sheet of numbers, but if you know how to read the numbers, a PNL can tell you a lot of information about a business. When I used to work for Peter, I studied them religiously. I could see if we were too high in one department, like Labor, or if sales had dropped in any one category from this month to last month, or for a particular month this year versus last. A quick glance could also show a discrepancy, like a missed invoice, or a typo when inputting the numbers.
“Someone’s laundering money,” Peyton said in a sing-song voice.
“Now who’s the drama queen?” I asked.
"Seriously, look at it. Two hundred and twelve thousand dollars? In one month? For miscellaneous sales? Come on.”
“That must be a typo, one too many zeros." I scooped up the papers to put back in my bag.
“I hope it’s just a typo.”
“Why?”
“Because if someone is laundering money, they are doing a poor job of hiding it. Someone has got to be on their trail.” My mom had gone back to cooking and ignoring us, but Gray was sitting up, watching our exchange. He worried the inside of his lip. A habit that emerged when he was deep in thought.
I glanced at the numbers again, laughing before putting them away. Peyton watched too many Lifetime movies. I’d go over the numbers with a fine-tooth comb when I got back to Chicago.
Chapter Thirteen
I swiveled around to look at the party board. A four-month dry-erase board calendar was hanging on the back wall of the office at O’Kelly’s. Upcoming parties were listed on the appropriate date, along with total budget and the times of the event. Managers used the board to request days off and listed any events or conventions happening in the area.
The board was used as a quick reference for scheduling. A Cubs game versus the St. Louis Cardinals would double the pub's business for the weekend. Even a small convention in town could affect the normal flow of traffic through the restaurant, but something as large as the Air and Water show could quadruple it, so scheduling was always important.
I skimmed the board, focusing on the private events for the last period. The pub had hosted a retirement party, a law firm party and a Bat Mitzvah. I tried to do a quick total of the party revenue in my head, but my mind kept wandering back to last night.
“Your mind still working the problem?” Gray asked. I smiled at him because he knew my moods so well. I shifted into third gear, speeding up to the on ramp to merge onto the Dan Ryan and back to Chicago. I loved having my car back.
“Yes. It’s just the writer in me. I want there to be a story, but we both know it’s going to be a simple answer.” I put away thoughts of the Profit and Loss statement. In truth, I was only using it as a distraction to keep my thoughts off Gray. We were both in my car. Alone. And heading back to Illinois. Neither of us had broached the subject of us, or of the incident, even though it must have been on both of our hearts. For me, it was fear of hearing him say it was officially over. I wanted our time together to last as long as possible.
“Not yet, Regan. Just, not yet.” Yes, he definitely knew my moods and thoughts well. You would think the car ride would’ve been awkward, but it wasn’t. I didn’t feel compelled to talk. I felt comfortable with him. There was something in the air, though. Electricity. A charge shooting between us. I wanted to reach over, to touch my fingertip to his shoulder to see if a spark would jump between us.
Those were the only words spoken for the whole drive. Gray rode with me all the way to Peter’s before walking away. I touched my cheek where he kissed me goodbye, trying to hold onto the feeling. I latched onto his words. Not yet. Not yet signified that something would happen. I could work with that. I still didn’t even know why he was at my parents’ house. Or how or when he got back into the States. I had a million questions for him, but couldn’t ask them. Yet. I was trying to follow his lead.
I brought myself back to the present and got out a calculator since my brain was not up to speed. The three parties came to a grand total of seventy-eight thousand dollars. By O’Kelly’s standards, that was a great month of private events on top of daily sales. But, where was the rest of the money? Where did it come from?
Someone knocked on the door before pushing it open. I had it propped open with the garbage can for some airflow. The office could become stifling with the door left closed.
"Regan, there is a call on line one about a credit card overcharge. Will you show me how to do it?" Seth popped in the door to ask. Seth worked as a key-holder part-time and bartender the rest. He could open and close the restaurant as a manager but had no real power or authority over the staff, financials, or major decisions.
"Sure." I grabbed the phone and started the standard questions. Most calls having to do with overcharges were false or accidental, but all had to be looked into. I got the relevant information
from the customer, date of the transaction, the amount charged, an amount that should've been charged, the number on the credit card and customer name and phone number.
"A server may swipe a credit/debit card and then have to recharge the card. The reasons vary; the card may have been used on the wrong tab, or the customer may have decided to stay longer resulting in the original swipe being deleted," I explained to Seth.
"Banks hold a charge amount for up to seventy-two hours as a Pending Transaction, so an error in debiting cannot be rectified until the charge has Posted to the account." I watched as Seth looked through the signed credit card slips from the date of the transaction. “Once it has posted, we can refund the money if necessary. Nine times out of ten, though, the charge never switches from Pending to Posted. It just disappears.”
“Thanks. Anya was training me on the financials before . . . well, before, but I couldn’t remember about the overages. Thanks.” I nodded my acknowledgment.
"The private parties have really picked up since I left,” I prompted.
“Oh, yeah, the party room really helps. Customers like their own space. It makes them feel important. Found it!” Seth held up the signed slip. Seth was like an eager-to-please puppy. He was so focused on wanting to be helpful he volunteered information without realizing he was being pumped for it.
I almost felt guilty. Almost.
“Okay, now check the computer to verify the card was charged the correct amount. You’ll need to click on the date for the following day since credit cards are batched out after midnight for the business day.” Batching out just meant clearing the credit card charges for the day so the money would go into the pub’s bank account. I let him get going before I started priming the pump again.
“Tips good?”
“Same.” He nodded his head back and forth. “Parties are always easier money, you know that. I work some of them here, but never the offsite ones.” He was staring intently at the computer. He didn’t like to make mistakes. No eager little pup wanted to get kicked. Even a small mistake was a giant whack to him.
