She’s teasing. I don’t know her all that well, but well enough to hear the lightheartedness in her voice.
I’m not like most girls. Sure, I’ve dreamed of getting married since my Barbie made out with Ken on the hood of her pink Corvette, but I’ve never been one to obsess about the tiny details. Not unnecessarily concerned whether we have three or four tiers on the wedding cake, custom labels on the wine bottles, orchids instead of roses for the centerpieces. As long as the man I love is waiting for me at the end of the aisle, the rest seems inconsequential. Evan enjoys the particulars. It’s cute, really. Watching him resolve the details like he’s negotiating a fair deal on a house. Evan is inviting many clients and investors to attend our big day. He wants things just right.
“Enough of that. Now, Miss Lanie, don’t you look beautiful.” She air-kisses both my cheeks.
“Thank you. Evan has special dinner plans for us.”
“How sweet is he? I must say, Lanie, you’ve got yourself a keeper.” She playfully squeezes Evan’s biceps, looks at me, and wiggles her eyebrows. “A definite keeper.”
Evan’s cheeks redden.
Stacee tosses the veil on her desk, then tiptoes—she once said a lady never makes noise with her shoes—into the back room, calling out, “I promise not to keep you long.” She returns with two flutes of champagne. “Cheers to love.”
We take our drinks and clink glasses.
“Three months until the big day. Let’s see how we’re doing.” Stacee sits on the desk’s edge and, referring to notes in front of her, she rattles off details quickly. “Okay, invitations will go out next week. I’ve ordered the china and charger plates, glasses, flatware, and we finally decided on a writing style for the hand-scripted place cards. Evan, wasn’t that a chore?”
She leans toward me. “Who knew the letter a could be written so many different ways?”
Evan shrugs.
“I’ve made Lanie’s hair, makeup, and nail appointments. The photographer and wedding album designer have been coordinated,” she says to herself as she marks off the items on her list. With a little huff, Stacee sets her notes down and frowns at me. “Lanie, when will you pick out your dress? We’re running out of time.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Kit and I plan to come very soon.”
“You’re lucky you’re so adorable and anything will look gorgeous on you, but all the same, you’ll likely need alterations. We’re cutting it close.”
“Agreed,” Evan says. “Now, love, I hope you don’t mind, but Stacee and I decided on white chocolate hand-dipped cranberries as table snacks rather than almonds because my aunt Diane has a nut allergy.”
“Okay, that’s fine.”
“The cellist confirmed.”
“Excellent,” Evan says. “I was worried he’d already be committed elsewhere.”
“I pulled a few strings,” Stacee jokes. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She grabs two linen samples from a nearby table. “Ecru or eggshell?”
Evan weighs a napkin in each hand, baffled, as if choosing which of his dying twin children gets his pancreas.
“Which one, Lanie?” he asks. Honestly, they look exactly the same. Without reason I point at the eggshell napkin.
“Are you certain? Because I fear the hint of beige overpowers the cream.” He throws his arms in surrender and with a smile tosses the napkins onto Stacee’s desk. “Lanie says eggshell, so eggshell it is.”
“Okay, then. That should do it for now.”
Evan stands and I join him. He wraps his arms around me.
Stacee’s right. He has amazing biceps. Almost as amazing as the man from the bar. Whoa! What the . . . ? Instinctively, I peek at Evan with hopes he can’t read my thoughts. Although, really, what’s the big deal? If Evan saw the guy’s biceps, he’d be impressed too. But still, why does that guy from the bar keep prickling my thoughts like a rash?
“We’ll talk soon,” he says to Stacee.
“Sounds good.” She wags her adorable pudgy finger at me and scolds, “Pick out your dress.”
“She will.” He plants a quick kiss on the top of my head. “Won’t you?”
“Of course. Actually, I like that veil. Will you order me one?”
“I’d love to. Oh, Lanie, it will look stunning on you. Just stunning.”
Outside, Evan presses his car remote and starts his Mercedes. The alarm responds with a beep-beep and the engine roars.
Before pulling away from the boutique, I watch Stacee replace the veil on a mannequin, smoothing the lace. She and Evan have worked hard on the wedding, ensuring an impressive ceremony. Mr. & Mrs. Evan Carter. I’m very lucky. Very lucky indeed.
So why am I feeling unsettled? What’s with this underlying current that my Someday Jar has sparked? Then it hits me. My wedding day. I’m surprised I hadn’t thought of this earlier. Coupled with the fact that I promised Dad I’d finish the jar before I married, his absence seems heightened as the biggest day of my life approaches. The emergence of the jar reminds me that my dad won’t be dressed in a tux, fidgeting with his stiff bow tie and blinking away tears he’ll pretend aren’t forming in his eyes, as he grabs my hand and says, “Ready, kiddo?” He won’t pat Evan on the back or shake his hand with a firm take-good-care-of-my-daughter grip. He won’t be there to fold his hand over mine and walk me down the aisle, hold me for the father/daughter dance, or offer last-minute advice to me, his little girl. Seeing the jar again reminds me how far away I am from my youth. How far away I am from him.
“Now about that surprise.” Evan pats my thigh, jarring me to the present.
I inhale a deep breath, erasing all other thoughts except what’s ahead. “Yes.” I clasp my hand around his. “About that surprise.”
seven
Under the oxidized-steel-and-wood porte cochere of The Hill, the valet opens my door and I step onto the stamped concrete. A 1950s converted mansion, Scottsdale’s most exclusive restaurant sits above the city at the end of a curvy torch-lit drive. Most of the waiters are Italian and speak with the most charming accents, saying things like “buona sera” and “il piacere è tutto mio,” which could mean your hair looks like shit or there’s risotto stuck in your teeth, but I don’t care. I love the sounds. People wait three weeks for a reservation. Evan sure has connections. We sold a house to the executive chef and his wife last summer.
Evan and I head toward the double-door glass entrance, passing under cascading sheets of water that drape off either side of the porte cochere’s roof and splash into ponds filled with large koi and bordered with smooth boulders.
We walk inside, greeted by the chatter of diners, clinking wineglasses, and smells of garlic, tomatoes, and pasta. Is there anything better? What a perfect place to unveil a surprise, especially a surprise for me.
Lanie Howard, Broker. I never compared myself professionally with Evan before, but as I stand here thinking of my efforts at the office, I don’t know why not. Haven’t I researched, previewed, and shown property after property, spent countless hours in negotiations, perused pages of contracts and escrow documents, salvaged broken deals, and managed all the small yet immeasurably important details? Haven’t I done as much work as Evan—arguably more—over the years? Come to think of it, why haven’t I become a broker already?
He must’ve known this all along. Silently, he’s recognized my contributions to the business, appreciated my results, and tallied them in his mental vault, realizing that I deserve to stand side by side with him. That I’m worthy of his love and a promotion.
We are a great couple. Totally in sync. He thinks of things before I realize I want them. This is right. This is real. Though I’ll never admit it, I worried there was a fraction of truth to my rambling and flirting last night. Worried that my life might be the slightest bit insipid with Evan. And okay, part of me was excited about uncorking the jar and the notion of learning something new. Severa
l times today I caught myself bouncing ideas around in my mind, like scuba lessons or parasailing. But just as dust has settled in the cracks of my Someday Jar, awareness has settled in me. I’ve grown up. My childhood is no more reclaimable than melted snow. Though there’s beauty in my youthful dreams, Evan is the next chapter of my life.
“Lanie, lips.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you.” At the bottom of my purse, I find the Dior lipstick he bought me and spread Bright Amber #24 on my lips.
Within moments we’re escorted toward our table, and after I sit our waiter drapes a linen napkin in my lap. Unfortunately, it’s not a secluded table for two and our waiter leaves behind the third place setting, but I don’t complain. I smile broadly as he hands me a heavy leather-bound menu.
“Good evening. My name is Santo and I have the honor of serving you.”
“Good evening,” Evan and I say in unison.
The two men compare a 2005 Pahlmeyer Merlot and a 2008 Spottswoode Cabernet, while I envision my name etched alongside Evan’s on the office door.
When will he tell me? After Santo pours our glasses of wine? During a comfortable and relaxed discussion over entrées? Will he tease and hold back until dessert? God, I hope he doesn’t wait that long.
Evan decides on the Merlot, and Santo disappears with the wine order. Reaching for my hand, he says, “You look pretty tonight. I like your hair that way.”
“Thank you.” I fiddle with the end of my low-slung ponytail.
“Lanie.” His eyes glow in the candlelight, and I hope mine do the same. I’m glad I painted my lips and bought that twenty-seven-dollar tube of mascara, because Evan’s entire focus is on me. Just me. Other diners and hurrying waiters have grown misty in my view. The smells and the chatter have dissolved. All I see is Evan.
This is it.
He pauses.
I slip my other hand, supportively, over his. “Go on.”
“You know as well as I do that the success of our relationship is because we blend well and work hard.”
“Yes.” My stomach tickles with anticipation.
“Because of that, I—”
“Excuse me.” Santo presents his wine.
“Wonderful, thank you.” Evan leans back, allowing Santo to uncork the bottle and pour a taste in a glass. Evan swirls the wine and watches the liquid flow down the sides. Particular about his grapes, he once returned a $250 bottle of vintage Mosel Riesling after a couple of sips because it didn’t pair well with his trout fillet.
While I wait, my eyes dart around the room, taking in the sights and smells. Waiters rush from table to table; diners laugh and spoon into their desserts. A tall man in a navy blue button-down shirt walks toward us, a mother links arms with her—wait, I’m drawn back toward the man. My eyes squint for clarity. Is that?
He sure looks like—no, it can’t be.
He comes closer and without any doubt, I know exactly who it is. The same quiet confidence. The same dark eyes. The same scratch on the tip of his nose. It’s him. It’s definitely him.
The man from the bar. He’s getting closer.
Oh, God.
What’s he doing here?
“Lanie?” Evan asks. “Do you like your wine?”
There’s a full glass in front of me.
“Um . . .” What if the guy recognizes me? What if he stops and says, “Hey, aren’t you the drunk I brought home in a cab?” I snake a menu from underneath Evan’s hand and duck behind it, nose to nose with the seafood specials.
Sweat seeps under my arms. Why did I wear that god-awful aluminum-free, organic deodorant Kit raves about? Sure, doctors say aluminum gives you cancer, but the deodorants without aluminum are crap. Total crap.
Evan barks at me, something about embarrassing him, but I disregard his words. It’ll be a lot more embarrassing having to explain how I know this man.
A quick peek over my menu.
The guy smiles.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Okay, no problem. It’ll be fine. Totally fine. Just don’t come over here. Please Jesus, Buddha, Gandhi, witch doctor, Tom Cruise, anyone, please, please, please, don’t let him come over here. Please don’t—
“Evan,” a familiar voice says, “it’s good to see you. How long has it been?”
Huh?
Evan stands and shakes hands with him.
They know each other?
“Too long. Glad you made it, Weston.”
I stare at him in disbelief. So much for my fat Irish farmer theory.
“Thanks,” Weston says. He glances at me and his eyes flicker with recollection.
Oh, this will be awful. Just awful. Weston will spill everything.
“Lanie?” Evan tugs the menu from my death grasp. “What are you doing? Say hello to Weston.” Evan turns toward him, nodding in my direction. “Again, our apologies for the mix-up last night.”
“No problem.” Weston extends his hand toward me. “It’s nice to meet you, Lanie. Call me Wes. I dropped the ‘-ton’ years ago, right after my boy band fell apart.”
He’s joking.
“Hello,” I say, filled with amazement. He’s not ratting me out. He’s not letting on one tiny bit that we met last night.
“Excuse me, I’m going to grab our waiter’s attention.” Evan disappears around the corner.
“The girl with the Someday Jar. How’s your throat?”
“A little sore.” I stare at him, puzzled.
“I bet.” He releases my hand.
“Hold on a second. You mean that whole time at the bar, you knew who I was and you didn’t say anything?”
“You were snockered on martinis. Lemon drops, I believe.”
I shudder at the thought. “Still, you could’ve said something.”
“Yeah, I could’ve.”
“All right, then.” Evan rejoins us. “Santo will be right over. Wes, have a seat. Lanie, your cheeks are flushed. You okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” I wring the napkin over and over in my lap. My brow creases with wariness. Who is this guy? Sure, he didn’t divulge that we met or broadcast to Evan my moronic display at the bar, but he played me for a fool. Okay, yes, I helped in the “fool” department. But still. Why not tell me who he was? After a long sip of wine, I say, “Tell me again, Evan. How do you know Wes?”
“Well, he’s worked with my parents on various projects, so we’ve met many times over the years, spent that one New Year’s in Park City with my folks.” He turns toward Wes. “Remember that double black diamond, east side?”
“That wasn’t a ski run, that was a suicide attempt.”
Evan laughs. “Those moguls were insane. All the same, my parents can’t speak highly enough about you.”
“Thank you, I enjoy them as well,” Wes says.
Oh, no. A thought paralyzes me with fear. He’s an associate of Evan’s parents. A likely confidant. Does he plan to expose me to them? Make known my behavior and save their son from marrying a loose-lipped drunk, garnering himself an even closer alliance with them and their rich real estate developer friends? Oh, God, they’ll hate me. They’ll think I’m an awful match for Evan.
I can imagine it now. At the wedding, his parents will shake their heads in disapproval and whisper to friends and flown-in family members that I’m the daughter-in-law who flirts with random strangers. “Likes to get drunk at airport sports bars,” they’ll say with a certain tone. Except they won’t refer to me by name. I’ll simply be known as her.
Evan continues, “You know, the last time I saw you, Julie was with you. How is she?”
“Fine, thank you.”
Instinctively I glance at Wes’s ring finger. No ring. Ha! This explains a hell of a lot about his character. Typical Southern California guy slips off his wedding band when he’s out of his wife’s sight. Such a schmuck.
I’m about to call him on this, point out that his relationship isn’t perfect and who is he to make assumptions about mine? And, now that I see clearer, his sideburns definitely need a trim.
Evan asks, “And the boy?”
Wes’s face lights up like it did at the bar. “Trevor’s seven already, can you believe it?”
“Already?” Evan shakes his head.
“He’s a good boy; still struggles a bit. Julie’s really great with him.”
“I’m sure,” Evan says.
“Um, speaking of surprises.” Even though we weren’t. I mean, enough about Wes. I’ll worry about him and his motivation later. Tonight is about me.
“Right, right. That’s what tonight is about.”
See?
Evan reaches into his jacket pocket.
Paperwork for me to sign? A little formal at dinner, but that’s okay, let’s sign, seal, and deliver this partnership. We can borrow a pen from Santo.
Evan doesn’t pull out an envelope full of tiny-worded documents with my name in capital bold letters underneath a Sign Here line. He doesn’t pull out a business card with Lanie Howard, Broker scribed in fancy font. Nor does he pull out an etched nameplate for my desk. He pulls out a baggie of . . . dirt.
“Surprise.” He sets the clump of rocks and sand before me.
What the hell does a bag of dirt have to do with my promotion? “What is this?”
“I bought it.”
“A pile of dirt?”
Merlot laces his breath as he laughs. “I bought the house that accompanies the dirt. Twenty-eight ten Orchid Lane.”
Orchid Lane? I rack my brain for an answer. Nothing comes to me. This is payback for drinking myself silly when I should have reviewed the market inventory. Damn karma. “What house on Orchid Lane?”
“You’re going to love it. It’s located in a prime area of Paradise Valley. I bought it before the listing went public, closed escrow this afternoon.” He leans back in his chair. “Consider it an early wedding present.”
My brain is abuzz. A house? By house does he mean broker promotion?
The Someday Jar Page 5
