The Someday Jar

by Allison Morgan

  “Who?”

  “All the women.” I lock the car door.

  Kit rubs my shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous. No one is coming after you.”

  “I’m such a twit and good Lord, my hands are throbbing.”

  Twenty minutes later, after I drop off Kit and step inside the condo, I notice I still have Rudy’s gloves with me.

  That means I have to go back.

  At least my panic has worn off. After all, the women don’t know where I live. My shame over punching Rudy subsides enough to allow my knuckles to scream even louder with pain. The burning sensation tells me my skin must be scraped raw. If not for the padding inside the leather, I’m certain I’d see blood.

  Slowly, I slide off the gloves and cringe at the sight of my hands. Pea-sized circles of raw skin decorate each knuckle except one, my right pinkie. A trail of dried blood snakes along my index finger, and my thumb has a flap of skin still connected on one side.

  Yuck.

  I wince beneath clenched teeth and wash the blood away in the bathroom sink. After letting my hands air-dry, because even my 820-gram Pottery Barn luxury towel will feel cruel, I place a dab of oop-a-goop—Dad’s name for Neosporin—on each knuckle and lie down. I’m exhausted. My Someday Jar hasn’t started out that great. But I can’t feel sorry for myself. Imagine what Rudy’s eye feels like.

  “Where’s your ring?” Evan wakes me, the room dimly lit from the setting sun.

  “In my purse.” I yawn.

  He flips on the nightstand light and lifts my hand. “What happened? It looks like you got in a fight. And lost.”

  “Kit and I went to a kickboxing class.”

  “Kickboxing?” he says with a tone as if I cursed in church. “Why?”

  “It’s a slip from my Someday Jar.”

  He eyes me curiously. “Wouldn’t you rather focus on our future, not the past?”

  “This jar is important to me. These are my goals.”

  “Brutalizing yourself is a goal?”

  I peek at my shiny, medicated knuckles. “No. Learn something new is.”

  “Kickboxing sounds barbaric. What will the clients think sitting opposite a bloodied and bruised young woman?”

  “Today was my first time. My hands are just tender, that’s all.”

  His eyebrows knit together and the vein on his temple puffs out. He doesn’t like it.

  “I don’t like it.”

  See?

  He glances at his watch and shakes his head. “We have the Davenport signing in an hour.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot about that.” I swing my legs off the bed.

  “Hold up. You can’t be seen like this.”

  “I don’t have leprosy. It’s just a few scrapes.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “You know, it’s been nearly two days since Hollis picked up your proposal. Did you cover all the bases? Are you certain your data was comprehensive enough?”

  “Relax, Evan. It’s a lot of information to process.” I rub in a glob of oop-a-goop. “I’ll give them this weekend to discuss it, then call on Monday.”

  “All right. They’re close. I can taste it and I sure as hell don’t want to lose it.” He drapes a blanket over my legs. “Just so we’re clear, my fiancée likes to punch things.”

  “Kinda, yeah.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “No. Trust me; I’m not very good.” Rudy’s swollen eye comes to mind. “Rather a bad aim, actually.”

  “I’m glad you got it out of your system.” He steps through the door, threatening to disappear.

  “Wait!” I stop him. “What do you mean?”

  “Kickboxing. Now you know what it’s like, I’m sure you won’t do it again.”

  “I might,” I blurt before realizing how I feel. I was awful, but if Rudy and the women will let me in the door, I’d like to give class another try. Who knows? Maybe someday I will be strong enough to knock over the freestanding bag with one punch.

  “You can’t be serious?”

  “Yes, I am. It’s great exercise. Besides, it’s important for me to do this.”

  “Kickboxing is important?”

  “Not just kickboxing. It’s more than that. I made a promise to my dad. And myself. I want to honor that. I plan to fish out all the slips and give them a shot.”

  “Look, the jar is a sweet memory, but Hollis’s mansion is the deal of a lifetime, plus the wedding, and Orchid Lane. I need you sharp these next few weeks. On task. The jar is a likely distraction.”

  “The jar won’t interfere with any of it.”

  “Don’t tell me your hands will look like this at the wedding. We can’t have that. My clients and the food and the pictures—”

  “No, they won’t. I promise.”

  He looks unconvinced. “Are all the slips so violent?”

  “No.”

  Evan folds his arms across his chest. “For the record, I’m not happy about this jar. You beating things up doesn’t sound very ladylike. Lord knows what other hazards the jar holds.”

  “Don’t worry, there’s nothing too outlandish.”

  “All right.” He sighs. “Get some rest, Rocky.”

  twelve

  As if sinking into a too-hot Jacuzzi, I inch lower into my chair Monday morning. Not because I want to. Because I have to. Ever since Rudy’s class, every part of my body, except my eyelashes, screams with pain whenever I move a fraction of an inch. Never have I realized how much it could hurt to move my legs. Or arms. Or breathe.

  One hour and several ibuprofen later, a package arrives from FedEx. I sign for the parcel and notice the driver’s puzzled look at my knuckles. Afraid he’ll think I’m a weekend diesel mechanic, or do in fact have leprosy, I explain, “Kickboxing.”

  “Ah.” He nods. “Take it easy on those hands.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  The phone rings.

  Before picking up the receiver, I tap it and whisper, “Let’s hope you’re Hollis, calling to say you want to list your mansion with a brilliant agent named Lanie.” I press line one. “Evan Carter Realty.”

  “Hey, Lanie, it’s Larson.”

  “Larson. How are you?”

  “Great. You?”

  “Just fine, thanks.” I set my purse on my desk, noticing Wes and Evan inside his office.

  Larson and I met a few months ago when he toured one of my open houses. Even though he stands at six foot nine, his ego hasn’t stuck his head in the clouds. I pretend to like basketball because Larson is so nice, but let’s be honest, unless Larry Fitzgerald takes to the court, my heart forever lies with football.

  A couple of weeks ago, we showed Larson and his girlfriend a split-bedroom in Gilbert. I remember her well because her cleavage was pushed up high enough to brush the ceiling fans and she leaned close to Evan, touching his arm whenever she asked a question. She asked twenty-three questions.

  “Is this the pantry?” Touch. “Is that a guest house?” Touch. “Are these hickory cabinets?” Touch. Touch. Touch.

  Larson wrote an offer and I did some master negotiating, but the deal fell through a few days later. Little-Miss-Painted-On-Jeans decided the six-thousand-square-foot house was too confined and, dear God, she might see her housekeeper fold towels or scrub the toilets from time to time. Imagine the horror.

  “How’s the season so far?” I ask.

  “We’re in first place, but the Lakers are threatening.”

  “Well, Larson, try to remember the bouncy ball goes in the basket with the dangling white strings.”

  He laughs. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “No problem. Did you get the properties I e-mailed you?”

  “I did. Thanks for that. I want to look at a few of them, but I’m on the road the next couple of
weeks. So, when I get back?”

  “Okay. I’ll keep my eye out for any new listings you might like.”

  “Sounds good. Though I’m not calling about a house.”

  “Well, I can’t reveal my chicken tortilla soup recipe. It’s a family secret.”

  He laughs. “Listen, you’ve done so much for me the past few months and I wanted to express my gratitude. I know you’re a huge Cardinals fan and I’ve got four tickets to the next game, fifty-yard line, front row. They play the Forty-Niners. Know anyone who might want them?”

  “Are you serious? Front row? Larson, I’ll be inches from the players. I’ll hear the ice rattle in the cooler, smell the sweat of Fitzgerald.” Okay, that last part sounded creepy. “My God, this is amazing. The Forty-Niners are Evan’s favorite team. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say yes.”

  “Yes! Thank you so much.”

  “Here’s the catch.”

  “A catch?”

  “Yeah, I only scored one locker room pass. You and Evan will have to fight over it.”

  “Locker room pass? Like to the Cardinals locker room?” My knees wobble. I should sit. Oh, I’m already sitting.

  “I thought you’d be happy, even though I’m completely offended you never want to come to my games.”

  “Oh, I do. I totally do. I’m your biggest fan.”

  “Liar.” He jokes. “I better run. I’ll messenger the tickets over soon.”

  “Thanks again, Larson.”

  “My pleasure. Talk to you when I get back.”

  We hang up and it takes all my decorum not to tumble back handsprings around the room. That, along with the fact that I don’t know how to tumble back handsprings.

  “Evan.” I rush into his office. “Guess what?”

  He lifts his gaze from an outstretched set of house plans spread across his desk and eyes me with a curious face.

  Okay, I’ll admit, I sound like a crazy person, but I’m just so damn excited. Never have I sat in the front row. Never have I been inside the locker room. I’ll hear the slam of metal lockers, the tap of cleats on the concrete floor, and the pregame smack talk. I love smack talk.

  Wes stands a few feet away and talks on his phone. Though I try my best to ignore him, by his gentle tone, I infer he must be talking with that Julie girl again. Well, good for him. Very good indeed.

  “What are you so excited about?” Evan asks me.

  “Larson called and offered four tickets to the Cardinals-Forty-Niners game. On the fifty-yard line. And a locker room pass. Can you believe it? This is a chance of a lifetime. In all the years of watching football with Dad, we used to fantasize what it’d be like meeting face-to-face with the NFL’s greatest.”

  And the icing on the cake? I’ll complete another Someday Jar slip. There’s bound to be a game ball in the locker room.

  “That’s very generous of him,” Evan says, straightening his burgundy tie. “I know you’ll enjoy that. My Forty-Niners are tough this year. Your Cardinals have their work cut out for them.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “Did Larson express interest in the homes you sent him?”

  “Yes, we’re going to view some in a couple weeks.”

  “Good. Keep after him about the house.”

  “Yep.”

  “Any word from Hollis?”

  “Not yet.”

  Evan taps his pen on the desk. “Keep on him as well.”

  “Will do.”

  Wes hangs up and walks toward Evan’s desk. “Hi, Lanie.”

  I nod, still puzzled about him and even more puzzled why I regret not swiping a brush through my hair.

  “Listen, while you’re here.” Evan points at the blueprints. “The previous owners of Orchid Lane let me forward a set of plans to Wes a couple of weeks ago. He’s completed a preliminary revised set. Come take a look.”

  I step close.

  Wes points on the page, the scratch on his nose all but healed. “If you knock out this wall, you’ll have to reroute the drain lines for the kitchen. They run along here.”

  “What about relocating the vent?” Evan asks.

  “You’ve got ceiling joists and I’m sure a strong-back tied on here. This is likely a knee wall, which poses more of a challenge.”

  I wish I understood half the shit they’re saying. Note to self: Study architecture terms.

  “Of course, you could eliminate the second dishwasher and move the vent here.” Wes draws a box on the page.

  “Yes, that’s agreeable.”

  Wes taps at another section of the prints and alternates glances at each of us. “Lanie might like the dining room area opened up here, as it will bring in more light.”

  “Yes, the more light the better.”

  Wes starts to X the wall, but before he does, Evan lifts his hand. “Let’s not make a hasty decision. We’ll give it some thought.”

  “What’s there to think about?” I ask.

  He pats my shoulder patronizingly like one would a bemused grandmother. “I’ve got a million things on my mind. We’ll talk about this later?”

  “Why later? I’d like more light.”

  There’s an uncomfortable silence between Evan and me. A nun in full habit with one leg on the bar chucking down shots of whiskey would be less awkward than the heaviness in the air.

  I peek at Wes.

  Crap.

  What sort of impression have I given him? Other than the minor squabble with Evan at the restaurant when he surprised me with the house, the day at Orchid Lane with too-perfect Paige, and now the discussion over plans, Wes and I have hardly seen one another. Those less-than-ideal encounters, mixed with my behavior at the bar, don’t give Wes the best perception of me.

  Yes, fine. I realize he hasn’t given me any reason not to trust him.

  My dad didn’t either until he was gone.

  I wish Wes had seen Evan and me under better light. Not that I want him underfoot. Obviously. It’s just that the past few days have been sprinkled with tiny spats and I don’t want Wes to think that’s all there is to Evan and me.

  “I promise, I’ll add this to my list of things to consider.” Evan squeezes me close.

  “We don’t have to decide this second.” Wes marks a ? in the box.

  “Um, okay.” I calm myself, ignoring the voice in my head that screams, What the hell? Why can’t I make a decision? Isn’t this my house, too?

  The phone rings.

  I excuse myself to answer it. “Evan Carter Realty.”

  “Hey,” Kit says. “Are we still on for four o’clock? This time I insist on grabbing a drink afterward.”

  Four o’clock? What is she talking about? Does Dylan have a school play? A soccer game? I scramble for my phone and check the calendar. Nothing is listed. Not even a hint of what I’ve forgotten trickles through my mind. Good Lord, I’m a terrible godmother. I probably agreed to something really important and I can’t ever remember what. Bake sale? Car wash? Field trip?

  Then it comes to me.

  Wedding dress.

  Kit and I are supposed to try on wedding dresses today. Jesus, Lanie. How could you forget that?

  “Yes, of course. I can hardly wait.”

  “Right.” Kit’s voice sounds unconvinced.

  Okay, so maybe I laid my enthusiasm on a little thick.

  “Stacee’s shop. Four o’clock?”

  “Sounds good.” I scribble a note and paste it firmly on my monitor’s frame.

  “This is a train wreck.” I stand on a platform in a wedding dress and examine my reflection in a three-way mirror. Even the boutique’s flatteringly pale lights, well placed to highlight a bride’s features, can’t hide the fact that a hideous A-line floor-length gown with a drop waist stares back at me.

  “It’s n
ot that bad,” Kit says. She steps onto the platform and fluffs the large bow tied at my hip, which doesn’t quite puff in the right place. It droops toward the floor. “Okay, you’re right; it’s awful.”

  “What about the empire style with pink sash? That was pretty on you.”

  “No, it made me look pregnant. I don’t want guests whispering, ‘Is Lanie knocked up? How far along is she? Three . . . four months?’”

  “Pregnant my ass.” She pats my flat stomach. “What I wouldn’t give for your body. You know, if I didn’t love you so much, I’d strangle you with a veil.”

  “Then you’d have those pesky murder charges to deal with.”

  She waves her hand. “A minor technicality.”

  “How are we doing, girls?” Stacee strides toward us with a napkin draped over her cupped hand and a clipboard tucked under her arm.

  “Hi, Stacee. You remember Kit? We came here right after Evan proposed and thumbed through bridal catalogs.”

  “Of course. Who could forget that beautiful skin?” Stacee smiles at Kit. “It’s nice to see you.”

  “You, too.”

  Stacee extends her hand toward me, revealing a small paper cup. “The white chocolate cranberries arrived today. I thought you might like a sample.”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  I step off the platform and with each step, tulle swish-swishes beneath my skirt. I pop a cranberry in my mouth and nearly choke with disgust. Blech. They taste like chalk. Evan likes these? They’re revolting.

  Stacee lifts her eyebrows, waiting for my approval.

  “Yum,” I say, trying not to gag.

  “Kit?” she offers.

  Kit grabs a couple and, by the squint in her left eye, I can tell she feels the same. She thanks Stacee, then heads back toward the rack of dresses and along the way, spits the cranberries into a nearby potted ficus.

  Stacee doesn’t notice. “In case you want more.” She sets the remaining berries on the table, then refers to her clipboard and runs a pen along her list. “Tell Evan his tux will still be a few weeks. Armani hand-cuts each tuxedo, so they take a while, but trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

  “Sure.”

  “We’ve decided on lilies and pussy willows for the centerpieces?” She glances from her sheet.