“You’re an amazing mom.”
“Thing is, I jumped into marriage and a family. Now I don’t regret it, but there is a part of me that wishes I’d taken a little time to explore life first. Found out who I am, you know? This is your chance, Lanie. Grab it. Do something for yourself.”
“My goals aren’t all that ambitious.”
“Who cares?”
“What if I screw up?”
“Then we’ll get drunk and laugh about it.”
Breaking a chip into pieces, I think about her words. I have wanted to fill the jar and accomplish my goals. I have wanted to broaden my boundaries, explore new challenges, and push myself toward adventure like Dad wanted me to do. But to this day, I haven’t. I haven’t done anything. Afraid to fail, I’ve made a decade of excuses and kept the jar corked, putting off my someday, and been disappointed with myself for doing so.
My insecurity isn’t the only reason I’ve kept the keepsake at bay. Twelve years ago Dad left. Walked out. Erased me from his life. Since then, the jar has been a painful reminder of my past. I’ve kept it tucked away, out of sight, out of mind, safeguarding my heart.
What does that say about me? That I’m a quitter? That I can’t handle adversity in life? That I cast aside my ambitions just because Dad found something greater? Bullshit. Don’t I matter? Don’t I deserve my someday?
And what about Evan? How can I move forward with him and uphold a promise to my future when I haven’t upheld a promise from my past? Maybe it’s crazy but tackling this jar, without Dad’s presence, is therapeutic, solidifying my independence. Solidifying that I’ve grown strong and healed. That I can color outside the lines.
Kit squeezes my knee. “Tackle those ambitions, honey. Close that chapter in your life; then you can start the next one.”
“The jar is with me now.”
Her eyes widen.
“As a kid, I only filled out a couple slips. Dad left and . . . well, I figured anything more was pointless.”
“Fill the rest out. Right here. Right now.”
“Swear?”
“Swear.”
I pull out the jar and set it on the counter between us.
Kit claps. “This is so exciting.”
My heartbeat pounds as I twist off the cork and dump the folded slips into my hand. The papers spot my palm like a flock of small white birds. I catch a glimpse of sweet-and-sour sauce on one paper’s edge and the youthful nature of my handwriting: Learn something new.
None too big. None too small. Create your own adventures. My dad’s words swirl through my mind.
Kit retrieves a pencil and shoves it into my hand. “Do it.”
I unfold a fortune, flip it to the blank side, and write. Broker. I drop the goal into the jar.
“Absolutely. What else?”
I don’t read the manufactured fortunes; I’m focused on shaping my own. My ambitions come to mind with ease. “Break a record.”
“You can cram a thousand hot dogs in your mouth,” Kit teases. “Or build the world’s largest igloo out of sugar cubes.”
I tap the pencil on my chin.
“Bungee jumping.” Kit squeals.
“Make your own list,” I joke. “I will scuba dive.”
“Close enough.” She adds the slip to the jar. “Okay, more.”
“Touch an official Cardinals game ball,” I jot. “Silly, huh?”
“None of these are silly.” She grabs and reads my next slip. “Make a sacrifice. My, my, Lanie. How very profound of you.”
“Yes, well, I’m a beautiful spirit.”
Kit chokes on her beer.
I slug her.
“What else?”
“Volunteer.”
“For what?”
“As a Big Sister or something.”
“Excellent idea.” She folds the slip and hands me another.
“This is so much fun. Why haven’t I done this years ago?”
“See? One more.”
I say as I write, “Laugh until tears run down my face.”
“Good one.”
She reads silently, the other slip I wrote as a kid. A soft, wholehearted smile spreads across her face. She waves the slip in the air. “This one is my favorite.”
I reach for it, but she quickly drops it into the jar.
“I want to read it.”
“Not now. You’ll know when the time is right.” She folds the remaining slips and before adding them to the jar, she slides me the Learn something new goal.
“Start with this one.”
“Wait. How many are there total?”
“Nine.”
“There are only three months until the wedding.”
“You better get crackin’, then.” She seals the cork tight and shakes the jar before handing it to me. “Okay, they’re all mixed up. The rest is up to you. Promise you’ll do this, Lanie.”
“I promise. I will empty my Someday Jar.”
ten
“Got it.”
“Got what?” Kit answers on the first ring.
“Kickboxing.”
“Kickboxing?”
“For my Learn something new slip.” I twirl it between my fingers. “Why not? I’m bored with running, and spin classes make my butt numb. On my way to work today, I spotted a boxing gym on Ray Road. They have women’s classes daily at four p.m.”
“I adore you, but let’s be honest, kickboxing requires coordination and you can barely walk across the street without stubbing your toe. Not to mention, you fell asleep during Rocky V.”
“Everyone did,” I protest. “It’s exhausting trying to understand more than three consecutive words from Sylvester Stallone.”
She laughs.
“So, you’ll go with me? Tomorrow after work?”
“What? Hell, no. These are your adventures.”
“C’mon, please.” I feed a purchase contract through our scanner. “Don’t you have a Maui vacation coming up soon? A little exercise might do you good.” This will touch a nerve.
“Bitch,” she moans. “Fine. Sign us up.”
“You’re the best. Now wish me luck. I’m on my way to talk to Evan about the broker promotion.”
“Go get him.”
“Thanks.”
After we hang up, I retrieve the contract and jot myself a note regarding the grading permit. Then, with confident steps, I head toward Evan’s office feeling good about myself for pulling a slip from the jar. Granted, I haven’t accomplished anything yet, but I like the fact that I’m moving forward. Kickboxing. Why, Lanie Howard, you’re a bit of a bad-ass, aren’t you?
“Hey, there.”
“Hi.” I slide into one of the barrel chairs opposite his desk.
“Is that the blouse my mother sent last month for your birthday?”
I glance down at the ivory lace cap sleeve with pearl buttons. “Yes, it is.”
“She’ll be pleased you like it. Tell me: How’s the Murphy proposal coming along?”
“Done.”
“Already? You’re incredible.” He leans on the desk’s edge. “What’d you come up with?”
Mentally I review the proposal, optimistic with the thorough package I put together. Resting on ten acres, the Murphys’ home spreads over fourteen thousand marble and Calamander-wood-floored square feet. With twelve bathrooms (a lot of toilets to clean), two theater rooms (one in each wing), and a garage larger than Home Depot, the hilltop property boasts a killer view overlooking the East Valley.
I spent yesterday analyzing recent sales, pending escrows, price-per-square-foot comparisons, median days on the market pre-sale, and replacement construction costs. I explored every shred of pertinent information available, leaving no fragment of data untapped, no statistic unaccounted for, and, hopefully, no questio
n unanswered.
“Considering my calculations, my instincts were spot on. The market is strong for their price point and the Murphys are poised for a sizable profit. All they need to do is agree to sell.”
“And agree to sell with us,” Evan says.
“Absolutely.” From the corner of my eye, I see the tip of Evan’s latest commission check peeking out of the top pocket of his jacket. I secured the buyer for that sale, showed her several properties. Three weeks later she closed on a triplex in Tempe. Cash. No contingencies. A nice sale. Evan gets the credit. And the bigger paycheck.
“Did you get the condo listed?”
“Yes. I also finished the listing packages for the two lots in Chandler.”
Evan tosses his hands in the air as he returns to his chair. “What would I do without you?”
“Curl up in the fetal position and cry.”
“Without a doubt.”
I glance at the check again. This is a perfect opportunity. As Dad used to say, “You can’t learn how to swim on the kitchen floor.”
“Evan, remember I mentioned wanting to discuss something with you?”
“Yes. What is it?”
I clear my throat. “Well, I’ve worked very hard for our clients for some time now. Although I haven’t minded managing the paperwork, cleaning the office—okay, I’ve minded that a little—and helping you establish the firm, you promised that was a temporary situation. It’s been over three years. I have my broker’s license. I have the knowledge and fortitude. I deserve to be named co-broker. I’ve earned it. It’s time.”
Phew. That feels good to get off my chest. Now Evan knows, without a doubt, how I feel.
“You’re right.”
Wow, that was easy. In an attempt to maintain composure, I force away my enormous smile and say with a professional voice, “Great. Let me get the paperwork.” Once through his door, I hurry toward my desk and retrieve the change forms while my mind floods with ideas. First, I’ll call my friend Chett at the real estate department and have him implement the change. Second, business cards and letterhead will be ordered. Third, the logo will need a rework, and so will all of our advertising, including the website, brochures, and signs. They all need to read Lanie Howard, Broker. Holy hell, this is fantastic. I can hardly stand it.
Never have I been more excited about my future. Never.
Guilt pours through me. Except my future with Evan, of course.
A moment later, I hurry into his office, place the documents on his desk, and spatter my words like a loaded semiautomatic rifle. “Okay, it’s only a matter of initialing these few forms where I’ve marked and signing this check for eighty-five dollars, which Evan Carter Realty graciously agrees to pay for filing and licensing fees. I’ll call Kinko’s and order letterhead and business cards. I’ll—”
“Whoa!” Evan raises his hands in surrender and says with a short laugh, “Slow down. Let’s talk about this for a minute.”
“Okay.” I slide into the leather chair and ignore the tiny voice in my head whispering that Evan will attempt to bow out of the promotion.
“Lanie, there is no question how invaluable you are to this firm. No question at all.”
Besides, expecting him to make excuses is an awful assumption about the man I plan to marry.
“I’d be a mess without you here.”
He probably wants to iron out a few minor details. Like health insurance or a 401(k) plan.
“You’re extremely integral to the success of this firm.”
Or vacation days.
“I can’t imagine a more qualified person to shoulder my responsibility with.”
There’s a but in there somewhere.
“But.”
There it is.
“This is a tough, fierce game we play. They don’t call us real-a-sharks for nothing.”
“Snakes,” I correct him.
“Pardon?”
“Snakes. They don’t call us real-a-snakes for nothing.”
Evan evens his laptop with his desk’s edge. “Lanie, I’m ready. I’ll sign the paperwork today.”
“Great.” I perk up, ashamed with myself for misjudging him. “I’ve highlighted where you sign. It’ll only take a minute.”
“I don’t think you’re ready.”
My breath catches before I respond. “What? Why not?”
“You’re so kindhearted and slightly naïve,” he says with a wink. “I don’t want my sweet future wife corrupted by the dog-eat-dog mentality of this business. I don’t want it to change you.”
“Change me? Why would it change me? It hasn’t yet.” I can’t help but recollect that I, more than he, negotiate with the so-called dogs on a daily basis. Or are they snakes? Or sharks? It’s a friggin’ wild kingdom. Okay, deep breath, Lanie. Don’t lose focus. Center. Nothing is gained from a temper tantrum. “You agree my name belongs on the logo?”
“I do.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
“You’re upset.”
“Damn right I am. I deserve this. You know I do.” I rise and prop my hand on the edge of his desk, surprised by my own resolve. I’m so ticked I may not even wipe off my fingerprints. “This makes no sense. I don’t need to be sheltered from life. I’m fully capable of tough negotiations.” Go, Lanie, go. “Frankly, I’ve done more of the tough negotiating over the years than you have.”
Evan frowns, and irritation laces his words. “I’m shocked. You more than anyone knows this company isn’t about whose name is on the door. It’s about assisting people with the largest investment of their lives. We smooth a pathway for their dreams.”
That’s my line. I used it on the web page.
“It’s bigger than us, Lanie. I must admit, I’m a little taken back with your adamancy. Have you lost focus on who matters? Forgotten about our clients?” He shakes his head. “Life isn’t always about you.”
There’s a familiar pang in my chest. Aren’t those the exact words Dad spat at Mom before he slammed the moving-truck door and drove away? Life isn’t always about you. Perhaps I’ve pushed too far. Perhaps I’ve demanded too much from Evan. From my dad. Perhaps my worries and concerns have always been self-absorbed, one-sided. All in vain. My dad left. What am I doing? Trying to chase Evan away, too?
His voice softens as he invades my thoughts. “I didn’t want to bring this up again, but the other night you completely dropped the ball at the airport. We’re fortunate Wes was so understanding, but had it been someone else, a new client, you could’ve blown a deal.”
“I told you, that won’t happen again.”
“I trust you want to keep our personal relationship out of this broker arrangement?”
“That’s right. I want to earn it on my own.”
From behind me, a loud pop jolts us both. Evan squints, and following his gaze, I turn around and look through the front window of our office. Hollis’s truck swings into a parking spot. It backfires again before the engine sputters and shuts off.
Mr. Murphy doesn’t travel in a black tinted limousine or obnoxiously pretentious helicopter, which he surely can afford. Rather, the driver’s-side door wrenches open and the old man totters from a lime green 1980s Chevy pickup truck with a cracked windshield, torn upholstery sagging from the ceiling, and a dent near the rear fender—made by some adorable and charming distracted shopping cart driver—toward our office.
“Tell you what.” Evan regains my attention. “I’ll make you a deal.”
“A deal?”
“You have a way with Hollis. He likes you. He trusts you. Get me the Murphy listing and I’ll make you partnering broker.”
“He doesn’t even want to sell.”
“He wants to sell. He just doesn’t realize it yet. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been curious about the value. Acquiring Phoenix’s most coveted property wil
l, without a doubt, escalate my firm into the number-one slot in Phoenix. Evan Carter Realty will be the most sought-after company in town. I want that listing. Nail Murphy down and get me the deal.”
“Evan, I—”
“I know you care for the old man.”
“Of course I do.”
“If he lists elsewhere, Lord only knows what type of attention he’ll get. Can you live with yourself if he’s misrepresented by another firm when you had a chance to prevent it?”
“I know what you’re doing, Evan, pulling at my heartstrings, but Hollis is a strong man, perfectly capable of handling himself.”
“Is he?” Evan peers over my shoulder.
I turn and see Hollis struggle with the weight of our office door. He appears frail and weak—more so than the other day—trying to hold the door open and balance his steps at the same time. I spring from my chair and rush to help.
He manages to get through the door before I reach him. “Lanie,” he says, slightly winded.
“Hollis, what a lovely surprise.”
He embraces me, then steps back and says, “Man walks in on naked mother-in-law.”
“Oh, no.” I press my lips together.
“The sight scared him into cardiac arrest. True story.” He laughs, which turns into a cough.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. My youngest boy insists I get a flu shot. Damn thing makes me sick every year. Mind if I sit?” He motions toward the couch.
“Please do.” I hurry and fluff the pillows for him. “Can I get you some water?”
“No. I don’t need anything.”
I slide in beside him and pat his knee. “Maybe you should lighten up on the morning swims.”
“You sound like Bevy.”
“Thank you.” I smile.
“You know why I exercise early in the morning?”
“Why?”
“So my brain doesn’t have time to figure out what the hell I’m doing.”
“Good plan.”
“Have you treated yourself today? Had anything sweet?”
The Someday Jar Page 8
