The Someday Jar

by Allison Morgan

“What did Evan say when you got home?”

  “He wasn’t happy.” My voice garbles beneath my palms. “He stormed upstairs and went to bed. I’m such a twit.”

  “You’re not a twit.” Bless her heart; Kit bites her lip and suppresses a laugh.

  We can’t help it. We’ve known each other since grade school and when she holds back her laugh, it’s only moments before she . . . there it is . . . lets out a snort and we break into a belly laugh, marveling at what a complete jackass I am.

  Ten minutes later, Kit pulls into the airport and stops curbside underneath the DEPARTURES sign, near the parking structure.

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  “Think nothing of it. I always enjoy a hearty laugh; it’s good for my core.” She pats her abs.

  Stepping out of the car and leaning through the window, I thank her for the ride and beg her not to tell anybody what happened.

  “You mean besides Rob, Rob’s colleagues at work, your mom, my mom, Rob’s mom, all of our friends, Dylan, Dylan’s friends, Dylan’s teacher—”

  “Fine, fine. You made your point. I feel bad I let Evan down. Plus, I left Weston hanging and made an ass of myself. Ugh. I’m just so embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be.” She waves her hand. “I’m glad you didn’t choke to death and I’m really glad you had a little fun. You deserve it. Stop taking yourself so seriously.”

  “Okay, you’re right,” I say with relief. “Besides, it’s not like I’ll ever see that guy again.”

  five

  The moment I walk in, Evan’s voice echoes through our spacious office, well appointed with a black iron coffee table and Nantucket beige walls, which his mother and I agree make the room warm and inviting, “Lanie, we need to talk.”

  My stomach twinges with apprehension. Not because Evan intimidates me or I feel inferior in an argument—I’d already passed the LSAT and earned an honorable mention from my undergraduate debate team when Evan and I met—but because we’ve had so few arguments in our relationship . . . two? . . . maybe three? One was a slightly heated discussion over toothpaste, so it hardly counts (I was right, anyway). All the same, I pride myself on our amicable connection. Our ability not to push one another’s buttons. Dad and Mom fought so vehemently, especially during the last couple years of their marriage. Tension stifled our house, making it hard to pass their bedroom without a clenched jaw. So now, in my adult life, I cherish, even crave, an even-keeled relationship.

  Evan was mad last night. Very mad.

  When the phone rings, I’m grateful for the temporary interruption.

  “Good morning, Evan Carter Realty.”

  “Morning, sweetie.”

  “Hi, Mom. I just got in to work, can I call you—”

  “I’m at the hospital.”

  “What?” I grasp the phone tighter and press it hard against my ear. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. In fact, good news. I left the lab and my white blood cell count is five point two. Right on target.”

  “Oh, that’s good.” I plop into my chair, flooded with relief. “I didn’t know you were sick.”

  “Oh, no.” She laughs. “I’m not. You remember? It’s my monthly checkup. Gotta know ahead of time if I’m coming down with something. You should think of doing the same.”

  “Right.” My screen prompts and I type in my password. OREO. Milk’s favorite cookie. Mine, too.

  “Anyway, today in the cafeteria they’re serving chicken alfredo. Want to join me for lunch?”

  “Mom, I don’t get it. You’re afraid of getting sick. You won’t come over to the condo if anyone within a three-block radius so much as sniffles. Why do you eat at the hospital?”

  “Considering the reviews I’ve read, the hospital is the cleanest place around town. All the doctors eat here.”

  “Doctors who have had their hands drenched in sick people.”

  “Oh, Lanie. Don’t be such a snob. Lunch is a bargain at four twenty-five and that includes a drink. How about Evan? Would he like to join me?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, we must get together soon. Time is ticking away for your wedding. There are a few others I’d like to include on the guest list and my friend Liz doesn’t hear well in her left ear. Where will you seat her? Place me near the present table.”

  “No one will steal our presents, Mom.”

  “Well, lots to discuss. Just think, soon you’ll be Mrs. Evan Carter. It has such an illustrious ring to it. Don’t you think? I don’t know how you did it, Lanie, nailing down Evan.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. Good-looking, caring, and successful.” Her voice peaks with the last word. “He’s a wonderful man. Nothing like the featherbrained boys you dated over the years, and what is more important, nothing like your father.” She sighs. “Oh, Lanie, I can’t tell you how happy it makes me, knowing my daughter has found a solid man and won’t have to worry about the things I did. So flighty, your father. If that man hadn’t walked out and—”

  “I know, Mom. We’ve discussed it many times. Neither of us was reason enough for Dad to stay.”

  Half listening to Mom ramble about devoting her good years to a man who tossed aside his wedding vows like a used condom, I reach for the Someday Jar and hold it in my palm, allowing my mind to drift to the days before their arguments, before the strain, before the exhaustion.

  “Are you there?”

  “What? Oh, yes, sorry.” I pick free a piece of lint stuck in the cork. “Mom, do you remember my Someday Jar?”

  “Not that silly trinket your father gave you. Toss it in the trash, Lanie. Right now. Don’t you see? This is exactly what I mean. There is no reason you should hold on to such a childish token when you have a glorious life waiting for you with Evan. Be smart. Don’t you recall how your father hurt us?”

  She’s right.

  I squeeze the jar within my palm, tempted to shatter the delicate glass into pieces. Why should I care about this dumb jar? Why should I waste a fraction of my thoughts on broken promises? Why should I hold on to anything from my dad?

  Because it’s all I have.

  I release my grip and set the crock on the desk.

  “Sorry, Mom, I better go.”

  In the background, a doctor is paged over an intercom and she waits for it to finish before saying, “All right, dear. I’ll call tomorrow after I get results from my liver panel. Bye.”

  Evan buzzes me on the intercom the moment I hang up. “Lanie?”

  “On my way.” I head toward Evan’s office with confident steps. I’ll simply explain that we all make mistakes and I didn’t purposely mean to confuse LAX with LAS, forget Weston, get drunk, or drool in a stranger’s lap. Maybe I won’t mention any of that.

  Evan stands behind his oversized mahogany desk, with his back to me. The wood shutters are open and he stares out the large picture window that lines the far wall, allowing the magnificent view of Camelback Mountain.

  I’m reminded, as I wait for Evan to say something, that he’s always so formal. Unhurried. Exact. His posture screams respect and patience. Whether it’s Monday morning or Saturday afternoon, his belt matches his waxed shoes. His shirt and slacks are pressed smooth. Come to think of it, in our three years together, I’ve never seen him in grimy clothes or dirt under his nails. Does he even own a sweatshirt with grass-stained elbows?

  That goes back to Evan’s upbringing, I suppose. Not quite a silver spoon in his mouth but close enough. Taught in highly accredited private schools, Evan grew up the shining star in his parents’ lives. As a single child, he never had to divide his Legos or fight for the front seat of the family Jaguar. He’s never had to fight for anything.

  Quite different from my modest childhood; with my mom always on the hunt for a bargain, the closest I got to a silver spoon was i
f families like Evan’s donated one to the thrift store.

  Evan says nothing.

  I wish he’d say something.

  Maybe I should go first? Where do I start? The delayed flight? The one-too-many martinis? The handsome guy? What?

  “I just got word that Hollis Murphy might list his fourteen-thousand-square-foot mansion in Fountain Hills. I’ve been waiting a very long time for this day. A very long time. More than anything, I want this listing. Murphy is such a prominent figure in the Valley; it’d be huge for this company. Huge. The commission alone is half a million.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—” Wait. Did he say Murphy mansion? He said work stuff, right? No what the hell happened? No chastising wag of the finger? I shift my train of thought into work mode. “I know Hollis well. I’ll give him a call and offer a market analysis.”

  Evan eyes me curiously.

  “Well, think about it. The market is hot right now, especially for high-end properties. With the currency exchange rate, the Canadian demographic alone is scooping up luxury homes for their winter residences. Not to mention, the latest job-growth predictions show a strong upswing. The market looks the most promising in years. If I draw up an evaluation and give the Murphys an idea of what their home is worth, maybe they’ll consider selling. I’m sure they’re poised for a sizable profit and there’s talk the capital gains tax rate may increase in the coming years. Now might be the best time to sell.”

  “Lanie, that’s genius. Absolute genius. That’s what I love about you, always quick with an idea.” He steps close and kisses my cheek; toothpaste lingers on his breath. “I must admit, your clumsiness a few years ago might prove the best thing that ever happened to this firm.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Knock his socks off with your market analysis. Show him I have a professional, solid firm. No reason to think of listing at any other time or with any other firm.” He smiles.

  That’s it? No mention whatsoever of last night? With this weight lifted off my shoulders, it’s all I can do not to swirl around the room like a helium balloon with a pinhole leak. I head toward the door.

  “Hold up,” he says. “I want to talk to you about last night.”

  My head starts to pound again.

  “I’m disappointed with your behavior, but I spoke with Weston this morning and he made it to the hotel with no problem, so all in all, I guess no harm was done.”

  “Thank you, that’s good.”

  “I trust that sort of carelessness won’t happen again?”

  “Never.” I reach for the handle.

  Evan lifts a hand. “There’s something else.”

  The guy? Did he see the guy in the cab?

  “Yes?”

  He steps toward me and says, “What time do we meet with Stacee today?”

  “Four o’clock.”

  Evan slips his finger behind the waist of my skirt and tugs me close. “After that, I’m taking you to dinner. I have a surprise for you.”

  “A surprise?”

  “Yes, and it’s big.” He steps back and outstretches his arms like a preacher welcoming a Sunday congregation. “Life-changing big. Something I think you’ve always wanted.”

  “Can you give me a hint?”

  “Nope.”

  “Even a tiny one?”

  He shakes his head.

  “At least tell me where we’re going for dinner.”

  “The Hill.”

  “Wow. This is a big deal.”

  “I thought you’d be pleased. Now off to work because tonight you’re mine.” With a pat on my ass, he playfully shoos me away.

  I hurry out of his office while my mind inventories my closet. What am I going to wear? Not the red strapless (too slutty) or the black floor-length (too witchy). Maybe my cream V-neck dress with the puckered hem? Perfect. I need to borrow Kit’s snakeskin heels that make my legs look slender and sexy.

  “Evan’s taking me to The Hill for dinner,” I say to Kit when she answers on the first ring.

  “Swear?”

  “Swear.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “He has a surprise for me.”

  “Really? What do you think it is?”

  “No clue. He already proposed and—” Like a firecracker, the airport guy’s voice pops into my mind. Why isn’t your name on the card, too? “Oh my, God, Kit. Do you think he’ll promote me to broker? I mean, we’ve talked about it briefly—albeit very briefly—and I do have my license.”

  “You think?”

  “What else could it be?”

  “Oh, Lanie, that’s awesome. You’ve worked so hard. Clearly you deserve this. Okay, what are you wearing tonight? Not that powder blue pant suit.”

  “You don’t like that outfit?”

  “I would if you were my grandmother. Burn it.”

  “Whatever. I’m thinking my cream V-neck dress. The one I got at Nordstrom’s Rack.”

  “You’ll need my snakeskin heels.”

  It’s like we have one mind.

  After we hang up, and though my head’s still a bit woozy, I focus on work. There’s a lot to do today. First things first. I call Hollis. His voice mail cues after three rings so I leave a message asking him to call.

  The rest of the day, I sell an East Valley split-bedroom to a young couple, list a lot in Mesa, swallow a couple more aspirin, complete and pass two of Evan’s and my broker renewal classes, send a birthday card to Evan’s godmother in San Francisco, haggle with the electrician over an outrageously high bill—four hundred dollars for a defective circuit breaker. Seriously?—and cram a day-old bagel in my mouth moments before Hollis Murphy walks in the front door.

  “Recovering alcoholic struck in crosswalk by Budweiser truck.”

  “Awful,” I say, trying not to laugh and sliding close for a hug.

  “Mr. Murphy,” Evan steps from his office. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Yes, well, Lanie left me a message and since I was in the neighborhood, I thought I’d stop in.”

  “I’m glad you did. Yesterday I forgot to thank you,” Evan says.

  “Thank me? Whatever for?”

  “I read your article a few months back where you said the secret to your financial success is a rich marriage with a good woman.”

  “That’s right. Hard to trust a man whose feet aren’t planted firmly in the ground.”

  “Agreed.” Evan wraps his arm around me. “That’s why I took your advice and popped the question.”

  “She’s a good woman.” Hollis winks at me.

  “I proposed during a sunset gondola ride at Gainey Ranch, spared no expense.” He glances at me. “You probably already told him this.”

  I shake my head and offer an apologetic smile.

  “Well, I don’t know why not.” Evan chuckles. “Have you seen her engagement ring? Lanie, show Mr. Murphy your diamond.”

  I place my hand in Evan’s open palm—grateful I found my ring yesterday—and give him a little squeeze. How lucky am I, cushioned between my two favorite men? Evan, youthful, disciplined, and intelligent, stands across from Hollis, looking at the older man with admiration. What does Hollis see in Evan? Talent? Drive? Focus? A younger version of himself?

  “The stone is over three carats,” Evan continues. “VVS1 rated and nearly flawless. My jeweler said F color, but I lean more toward E. I had the new diamond set in my great-grandmother’s wedding band.”

  “Lovely ring,” Hollis says. “Well, Lanie-Lou, what did you call about?”

  Evan nudges my shoulder.

  My cue.

  “Hollis, a little birdie said you might consider selling your home.”

  “What dumb-ass bird said that?”

  Crap. The last thing I ever want to do is irritate this sweet, sweet man. />
  My heart flip-flops with compassion as I glance at Evan. He stands so rigid that I fear he’ll snap in two if I so much as blow in his direction. He really wants this listing.

  “Bevy and I have lived there for as long as I can remember. Why would we want to sell it?”

  “I apologize. We just thought—” I pause. “Actually, Hollis, would you mind if I compiled a market analysis and gave you an idea of the value? Just for fun. You might be impressed with the numbers.”

  “Fun is slathering Vaseline on the handle of my neighbor’s mailbox. I don’t know that a market analysis is fun, but you’ve piqued my interest. Put something together and I’ll show it to Bevy. She’s the brains in the duo.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Evan’s face break into a satisfied smile.

  Yes. “Will do, thanks.”

  “Okay, I’m off.” Hollis waves good-bye with a slight tremor in his hand, and then the dear man shuffles out the door.

  “Nicely done,” Evan says. “Get a jump start on the analysis, okay?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll call the title company and order a property profile right away. That’ll get me started.”

  “You can’t imagine how badly I want this listing.” Evan straightens his tie in the mirror, then turns toward me. “No one else better get it.”

  six

  At four p.m., Evan and I step inside Stacee’s Boutique. Bells, wrapped around the handle, jingle as he closes the door behind us. The room smells of love and lavender. Yards of flowers drape along the windowsills and soft cream-painted walls rise behind comfy-looking couches with bridal books spread across the coffee table.

  Evan places his hand on the small of my back and guides me inside.

  Stacee, sweet and plump, looking sleek with ruby red lipstick, stands beside her desk in a loose blouse and one-size-too-tight black pants, nodding into the phone.

  A moment later she hangs up. “So sorry about that. I have the cutest bride you ever did see, but she can’t stick with a decision to save her life.” Stacee laughs, reaching for a long lacy veil. She waves it in the air. “We’ve gone from long veil, to short veil, to no veil, back to long veil again, at least a dozen times.”