Evan glances at Wes. “Look at her. She’s completely surprised.”
As if on cue, Santo arrives with another bottle of wine and three clean glasses. “Celebration?” he asks.
“Indeed. I bought my bride a house.”
“Congratulations, miss.” Santo uncorks the bottle and after Evan’s protocol, fills each glass, starting with mine.
I smile at Santo, then ask Evan, “What about the condo?”
“You’ll list the condo tomorrow. I want it to hit the MLS first thing in the morning.”
“You said escrow closed today?”
“Yes, I’ve got the keys in my pocket. Did a good job of keeping this a secret, didn’t I?”
“I had no idea.” Trying to act nonchalant, I swirl my wine, but confusion weighs heavily inside me. He bought a house for us. Isn’t that an oxymoron or something? I had nothing to do with it. Not a thing. “Evan, I didn’t sign anything. How can it be ours?”
He puts his drink down. “Lanie, aren’t you happy about this?”
“Yes, I suppose I am. I’m just shocked.” I speak more softly, as if lowering my voice a decibel won’t allow Wes, sitting twelve inches away, to hear. “We discussed buying a home together and splitting the down payment. Remember? You know how important that is to me. If your name is on the deed, then technically it’s yours, not ours.”
“Lanie, can’t we discuss legalities another time?” He leans close. “I was quite excited to surprise you with this. I never expected this type of reaction.” He stares at me for a response.
Now I feel like an ass.
Okay. Stop. Think this through. I swallow another sip of Merlot and mull over the situation. Yes, I feel sidelined that Evan didn’t include me in this significant purchase. Yes, I’m disappointed that I’m not walking out of here a new broker, but as wine seeps through my body, invades my belly, and numbs my reserve, I decide that just because I’m caught off guard—totally off guard—doesn’t mean I should sabotage his special reveal. He did say we’ll discuss details later. Isn’t his word enough for now?
As far as the promotion goes, maybe Evan doesn’t appreciate how important becoming a broker is to me. Sure, once we’re married I’ll likely have claim to the business, but I don’t want it that way. I want to earn it. On merit. On my own. Have I ever told him that? I shouldn’t throw him under the bus for not promoting me when he didn’t know I wanted it in the first place. Come to think of it, the office is a better venue to discuss work anyway. I will ask about the promotion. At the office. Tomorrow.
I glance at Wes. She didn’t even appreciate the house he bought her, he’ll likely tell Evan’s parents. Did nothing but complain. Look here, she drooled on my leg.
For another moment I consider Evan’s perspective. He’s pleased with himself. Is it fair of me to sour his enthusiasm? Ruin the evening with my criticism and nitpicking? To a person looking in from the outside, a new home is hardly something to sneeze at. My mom will be thrilled.
What is more important, I won’t give Wes the pleasure of watching me quibble another moment.
“You’re right.” I raise my glass to him. “Thank you. The house sounds wonderful.”
“Quite the wedding present, wouldn’t you say? Wait until you see the place.” He smiles, then motions toward the menus. “Shall we order?”
A question plagues me as I scan the entrées. “So, Wes, I’m not quite sure why you’re here.” In other words, when are you leaving?
Before Wes answers, Evan folds his menu on the table and says, “I’m glad you brought that up. You know, Lanie, you’re the reason I called him.”
“Me?” I laugh a bit too loudly. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”
“You’re familiar with the City Core, yes?” Evan asks.
“Of course. It’s an incredible property. The seamless combination of steel and glass with acute angles is breathtaking.”
“Thanks,” Wes replies.
Wait . . . what?
Evan aims a thumb toward Wes. “He’s the architect.”
I don’t mention that my dad would’ve loved the City Core development with the tower’s penthouse balcony serving as an ideal zip-line post to the pool. Instead I manage, “I . . . I don’t understand. What does that have to do with us?”
“Orchid Lane needs an update, cosmetic as well as a few structural changes. Nothing major. I want to eliminate several walls, possibly open up the kitchen, restructure the dining room, add a Jacuzzi tub in the master bathroom. All of which requires an architect. Wes happens to be one of the best.”
Wes dips his head in gratitude.
“Meet the architect for Orchid Lane. You’re surprised again, yes?”
“Stunned.” I stare at Wes. He mentioned none of this last night. Not a single word.
“Wes bounces back and forth between here and Los Angeles frequently, so I contacted him and after a bit of pleading on my part, he agreed to the project.”
“I’m happy to do it.”
“Evan, I—”
He grabs my hand and says, “Wait, there’s more.”
Dear God. More?
“I haven’t run this by Wes yet”—he turns toward him—“but when I mentioned to my mother you were visiting, she dished me out a serious tongue-lashing for putting you up in a hotel. She says you’re practically family and family doesn’t stay at a hotel.”
“The Biltmore is fine, thanks.”
“Please, I insist. Help me get my mother off my back,” Evan says with a laugh. “Besides, we’d love to have you. Wouldn’t we, Lanie?”
“Um, well, if Wes is more comfortable at a hotel then he should . . .” Heat spiders up my neck as I glance at Wes.
He holds my gaze and offers that damn half smile. “You know, on second thought, I’d love to.”
“Great,” Evan says.
Santo walks by and I snag his perfectly crisp shirtsleeve and hand him my wineglass. “I’ll have a lemon-drop martini.”
eight
The next morning, a prickly sensation courses through my body. I scratch at my nightshirt’s itchy tag above my hip, but it’s not the problem. Could it be the tiny blister formed on my pinkie toe from Kit’s heels? There’s no way I’m still tired. I came straight to bed after dinner. Nor am I hungover. I drank less than half of the martini.
Evan has opened the blinds as he normally does once dressed and ready for work. Maybe it’s the morning light? I pull the blankets over my head. I’ve never grown used to daybreak in Evan’s bedroom as the sun casts rays on the north wall rather than the south like it did in my old apartment. Is that what makes me restless?
At once, Evan’s surprise, my lack of a promotion, and Wes’s face flash through my mind. I discover what this irritating sensation is: annoyance. Before I can stop myself, I slide toward the middle of the bed and kick my legs and flail my arms, wildly and erratically like a bouncy ball ricocheting inside a shoebox, until I’ve exhausted myself. Phew. That felt great. I remake the bed, shower and dress, then head downstairs.
At the table, Evan’s focused on the Arizona Republic with a steaming mug of coffee beside him.
Light peeks out from underneath the guest bathroom door. By the sound of running water, Wes is showering.
I’m tempted to flip off the water heater breaker.
“Good morning,” Evan says. “Sleep well?”
“Yes, thanks.” I pour myself a glass of juice and join him at the table.
“Take a look at this.” He taps the lower right-hand corner of the Lifestyle section.
Pictured with varying photos of a dozen or so other men is my fiancé, taken from a recent “Save the Libraries” fund-raiser we attended. He stands in a tux, one elbow on the bar, smiling at the camera while lifting a glass of champagne.
Sorry, Ladies . . . They’re Taken, the headline reads
, and a short article follows listing each man’s attributes and accomplishments along with the one thing Phoenix’s most-desired bachelors are afraid of. Evan’s answer was mediocrity.
“You’ve got good taste.” He takes the paper and regards the write-up for a moment longer. “Evan Carter, a young, attractive, and accomplished broker . . .” He continues to read aloud, but my mind lingers on one word. Broker.
“Evan, there is something I’d like to discuss with you at the office today.”
“Anything.” He tucks the paper under his arm. “First, let’s swing by Orchid Lane. I don’t have Kit’s number, but I already called your mom and gave her the address. I figured you’d want to share this with her. She’ll meet us there in a half hour. Ready to see the house?”
I’m eager to get to the office and discuss the broker situation, but equally anxious to see the house. There’s a wide grin plastered across Evan’s face. He’s excited. “Yes, let’s go.”
“Great.” He kisses my cheek. “I’m gonna make a quick call to Stacee because I changed my mind about the garnish for the entrée, and then I’ll be ready.”
Evan heads into the den and I can’t help but sneak a peek inside Wes’s room. Thankfully, my bobblehead collection rests undisturbed on the dresser, but Wes’s suitcase is flung open on the unmade bed, a half-filled water glass rests on the nightstand—without a coaster—and there’s a sock on the floor. A sock.
Evan and Wes really are different. To think, he’ll be living here for weeks.
“Need something?”
Wes’s voice startles me. I spin around and see him step from the bathroom, dressed in dark gray jeans and a pale blue button-down shirt. Wes’s hair is slicked neat, his face clean-shaven, and damn him, he smells a bit like heaven.
“Uh, yes.” I glance at the den, then whisper, “Thank you for not letting on that we met at the airport. And for everything else . . .” My voice trails off in embarrassment.
“Don’t mention it.”
“Look, I want you to know, I don’t normally drink like that. And whatever I said, well, it was the martinis talking.” With a short laugh, I add, “Whoever said alcohol is a truth serum is an idiot.”
“Really?” He stuffs his hands in his pocket and leans against the door’s threshold. “You’re not an obsessed Arizona Cardinals fan?”
“I meant that part.”
“You’ve never been compared to a hundred milk cows?”
“I’m preferred to a hundred milk cows, thank you very much, but that’s not—”
“So Evan’s not afraid of hummingbirds, frozen yogurt, and polyester?”
Did I say that?
“Don’t tell me there’s no Someday Jar.”
“Of course there is.” I shift my feet and slide my hands onto my hips.
Wait a minute.
There’s a smile on Wes’s face. He’s enjoying this.
“Are you finished mocking me?”
“Not quite.”
“I’ll have you know—”
“What are you two hushed about?” Evan asks.
“Um . . . I . . .” I step back. “I . . . I was checking to see if Wes needed anything. You know, like towels, more pillows, a conscience . . .” I mutter the last word under my breath, then turn and hurry toward Evan.
Wes coughs in his hand, but I know it’s just to cover a smug laugh.
Fine, you little smart-ass. If that’s the way you want to play, then fine. Just fine.
“Lanie, is something wrong? You’re gritting your teeth.”
“Am I?” I relax my clenched jaw, slide into Evan’s arms, and say loud enough for Wes to hear, “Good thing your love always makes me feel better.”
“Let’s get going, shall we?”
We decide it’s best if Wes rides with Evan and I follow behind in my white Ford Flex, so afterward I can head straight to the office. After the fifteen-minute drive through the curved, mountain-lined roads of Paradise Valley, we turn into a cul-de-sac. Evan types in a code on the keypad and waits for the gate to swing open onto a semicircular driveway, lined with fist-sized copper-colored gravel and evenly spaced barrel cactus.
On my left is the house. I blink several times, trying to make sense of what I see. Heavy and ornate dark-iron outdoor lights with smoked glass decorate the stuccoed walls of the sprawling southwestern-style house, which is landscaped with tall palm trees and oversized boulders. A four-car garage sits at the far end. We park beside it.
Wes steps ahead and unlocks the double front doors.
“What do you think?” Evan asks as I step from my car.
I think this house is incredibly indulgent and how in the world will I afford my share? Especially with my current nonbroker salary.
We turn at the toot-toot of a horn and there’s Mom, parking her car behind mine. She climbs out, wearing her favorite light brown pants and tweed jacket she bought at the senior center for two dollars. “They’re Jones New York. Quality slacks,” she says every time she wears them. Her shoes clop-clop over the cobblestone walkway and she embraces Evan with a warm smile. “How’s my darling soon-to-be son-in-law?”
“Excellent, Jane.”
“Nice write-up in today’s paper.”
“Want me to autograph it?” he jokes. Sort of.
Mom beams at him and grasps each of his hands after a quick scan of the house. “Heavens me. My daughter is so lucky to have you. So lucky indeed. Lanie will have everything I didn’t. This is very different from the one-bedroom apartment I raised her in.” Tears pool in her eyes as she looks apologetically at Evan. “It was all I could afford raising a teenager as a single mother.” She returns to me and wags her finger. “Don’t screw this up, Lanie Howard.”
Hi, Mom. Yes, it’s good to see you, too. Fine, fine. I’m fine. You?
Mom notices Wes, who now stands beside Evan. “Who is this handsome young man?”
“Wes Campbell.” He extends his hand.
“Wes is an architect and offered his expertise with the remodel,” Evan says.
“What is there to remodel?”
I wondered the same.
“A few things,” Evan assures.
“Well, Evan, you know best. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Wes.”
“You as well.”
Mom steps toward me. “Evan bought you a palace. Can you believe it?”
Did he mention he bought it without me?
“Shall we?” Evan motions toward the house.
Mom eyes me for a moment, then reaches for my arm. “You boys go on ahead. We’ll join you in a minute.”
“All right. Don’t keep her long.”
She grabs my hands. The safety chain on Grandma’s white-gold watch swings underneath Mom’s wrist, and I smell White Shoulders perfume. She twists my ring straight and wipes the diamond clean with the cuff of her jacket. “Honestly, Lanie, you’re not doing justice to this ring. When’s the last time you had a decent manicure?”
I jerk my hands from her grasp and say with a biting tone, “What did you want to talk about?”
“Do you remember when you were nine years old and asked me for the truth about Santa Claus? After I told you, you cried for two hours.”
“Yes, because I didn’t know that was the truth.”
“Well, on that day you had the same look on your face as you do now. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
She raises an eyebrow in disbelief.
I chew on my lip and stare beyond her at a palm frond waving in the breeze. Yes, I decided not to make a fuss about Orchid Lane, but that was before I saw it. Now, standing beside this expansive house reminds me that I contributed nothing. No capital. No viewpoint. Not a single thing. I can’t help but feel a bit left out, second-class. Controlled.
“Honey?”
“It’s just . . .
I know this house is really something, most girls would kill to live here.”
“I’ll say. It’s the grandest house on the street.”
I nod. “I didn’t know anything about it. I didn’t help pick it out, didn’t assist with the down payment, didn’t sign escrow docs. Nothing. Evan knows I wanted to buy our first property equally. If his name is solely on the deed, how can it really be ours?”
She grabs me by the shoulders. “You stop right now. There’s a man inside that house, a loving man, who adores you. He adores you so much that he bought this house to share your lives together. Financially, you’ll never have to worry, so stop your brooding.”
“I’m not brooding. There’s more to a relationship than a man’s tax returns. I want to be equal, in all ways. Kept out of the loop makes me feel like my opinions don’t matter, like they aren’t important, like I’m not important. Besides, given how you’ve always said Dad left you with nothing, I’d think you’d want me on the deed, protected.”
“Evan is nothing like your father. That man couldn’t keep his feet on the ground. Dashing off here and there, always chasing the next adventure. He was unfocused and I will not let you make the same mistakes I did.”
“Mom, I’m not—”
“Don’t tell me this is about that ridiculous Someday Jar. Has it gotten you discombobulated already? Damn that man.” She pats underneath my chin. “Listen to me, Lanie. Evan is a solid man. He’s good to you. He wants to take care of you. Let him. Stop asking for more; you’ll wind up alone. Trust me, I know.”
My eyes drift toward the house. Evan stands behind the front window. He waves me inside. Maybe Mom’s right. Maybe the stress of the wedding, Wes, work, and stirred memories from the Someday Jar have gotten me flustered. Maybe I am making too big a deal out of this. I mean, honestly, Evan isn’t peddling heroin to Girl Scouts. It’s just real estate. Lumber and tile.
“How many men buy their fiancées houses as wedding gifts, Lanie? How many? I bet most buy a necklace or a bracelet, if anything at all. Your father bought me a spoon.”
“Are you coming?” Evan slides the window open and pokes his head outside. “I want you to see inside.”
Yes, I wish he had included me in the house decision, in any decision that affects us, but he will in the future. I’m certain of it. Evan’s heart is in the right place. He did this for us. That’s what matters.
The Someday Jar Page 6
