The Someday Jar

by Allison Morgan

  I shrug.

  With a mischievous smile, he plops the remaining candy cane in his mouth.

  My shoulders give way to a tiny laugh.

  “Yes, as I was saying,” Evan continues. “Based on a thorough examination of recent sales in the area, factored with influx projections from the Arizona Real Estate Department and demographic studies for the Valley . . .”

  I chew on the inside of my lip. I know what Evan says is important, a necessary discussion, but I wish he’d make this presentation a little less boring. I collected the data and it’s interesting, but the way Evan speaks, all monotone and with the enthusiasm of a tollbooth operator, I find myself distracted and counting the circles on Evan’s tie.

  Hollis leans over and whispers in my ear. “How many times must I nod and smile, pretending like I’m interested?”

  “Pay attention.” I scold under my breath, and then a giggle leaks out.

  Evan glares at me. “Given the data—”

  Hollis stands. “Let me stop you there. I appreciate your approach and you clearly are on top of the market, but hell, son, I can read. Do you know how many years Bevy and I have lived in this house?”

  “No. I—”

  “Since the year after our first daughter was born. We’ve raised all six of our children here, three foster kids, and Lord knows how many hamsters, fish, and dogs. Bevy’s made forty thousand peanut butter sandwiches and kicked countless boys out of our teenage daughters’ rooms. I don’t want to talk about sales numbers or projections.” He points to the analysis. “I want to talk about why I should list.”

  Evan squirms in his chair.

  “This house isn’t just a number to us. It is us.”

  “Well, we . . . um . . . yes, let me just . . .” Evan flips through the analysis.

  Hollis stands. “Thanks for your effort, but I think I’ll just give Lanie her candy cane and call it a day.”

  Evan’s pissed. His knuckles are white from his grip on the report. He releases the paper and scratches his head before saying, “Candy cane. Of course.”

  Hollis hands me one. “Sorry to waste your time, kiddo.” He winks at me, then shuffles out of Evan’s office, leaving my fiancé speechless.

  That didn’t go well.

  Without looking at Evan, I jump to my feet and catch up with Hollis.

  He moans under his breath as he climbs inside his truck.

  I muscle shut the door and wait for him to roll down the window.

  “Hollis, I’m curious why you have such a sprawling mansion. It doesn’t seem like you.”

  Hollis smacks the door frame. “I’ve had this baby since it was brand new. Drove it off the lot with Bevy by my side. It hasn’t let me down once. Nor has Bevy. You’re right. I don’t care about fancy stuff.” Hollis leans closer. “It’s not always about me.”

  I cover my hand over his, rubbing my thumb across his thin skin, sprinkled with age spots and thick veins.

  “My Bevy.” His tender eyes soften as he says her name. “She wanted a home with bells and whistles, and every woman deserves a candy cane.”

  Tears build in my eyes as I think about how much Hollis loves his wife. Truly loves her. Down to the center of his being. She is his life. His greatest adventure.

  I can’t help but wonder if Evan feels the same about me. Or, more importantly, I about him. The mere question alone hints at my answer.

  Blotting my teary eyes, I watch Hollis’s truck grumble to a start and bellow black clouds of smoke as he drives away.

  I’m melancholy as I step inside the office, partially from the meeting, but mostly because I’m tired of trying to ignore the constant fog loitering around me that I can’t seem to shake. Is it allergies? The beginning of a cold? Mom? Dad? Or should I finally be honest with myself and admit it could be Evan? Will Evan share his candy canes with me? Do I want him to?

  His voice jars my thoughts. He tosses my report on my desk, scattering the pages, and paces back and forth. “Dammit, Lanie. We need this listing. That fancy house we’re about to live in, your wedding, this office, our life as we know it, takes money. A lot of money.”

  All the more reason to have consulted me before buying Orchid Lane.

  I’ve never seen him this upset. Not even after a valet mistook his Mercedes for a Kia.

  “That man has lost his senses. He doesn’t know what the hell he wants.” Evan throws his hands in the air. “That meeting was a complete waste of time.”

  “It wasn’t a waste of time, not in the least. It revealed everything. Don’t you get it? Hollis wants a handshake.”

  “A what?”

  “Hollis is old school. He holds on to things made well, appreciates the value. He can’t be wooed by projections or data. His kids’ growth charts marking up the doorjambs are the only numbers he’s concerned with.”

  Evan folds his arms across his chest.

  “He doesn’t want a sterile, formal relationship for something so close to his heart. He’s a pat-on-the-back, I-take-care-of-you-and-you-take-care-of-me kind of man. A handshake mentality. Hollis cares about the type of person he works with more than anything else. And, remember, Hollis wasn’t certain he wanted to sell. Sure, I gave him promising projections, but it might take some time for them to decide. It’s a big deal. Maybe they want to consult with their family. Maybe they—”

  “What did you say?”

  “Well, first off, I don’t appreciate the attitude. And, what I said was, maybe they want to consult with their family.”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Shit. How did I not see this coming?”

  “See what coming?”

  “Timothy Bane.”

  “Who’s that?”

  He shakes his head in frustration. “And you want to be broker?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Bane’s a real estate developer in the Valley. He typically handles industrial developments, but for the size of the Murphy commission, I fear he’ll take on their mansion. Dammit. We blew our chance today.”

  “If he wanted to list with Bane, wouldn’t he have done so already?”

  Evan says nothing, just marches back and forth, and I fear he’ll wear a hole into the carpet.

  “Why would Hollis care about Timothy Bane?”

  “Bane is Hollis’s niece’s husband.”

  We are screwed. “That does suck. If Timothy is family, then I’m sure Hollis would rather—”

  “Bullshit.” He glares at me. “You need to find dirt on Bane. Suspicious deals, kickbacks, favors for investors, anything. I want to know if he’s so much as jaywalked in the last ten years. Given the types of developments he represents, I’m sure he’s stepped on a few toes and crossed a few legal lines over the years. If we’re lucky, we’ll find he’s been slapped with a fine or two.” Evan’s face lights up. “Maybe jail time. Or better yet, caught with a hooker. Embellish if you have to.”

  “What? No way.”

  “This is what I’m talking about. This is how the game works. You don’t become a top broker by playing nice.”

  “Well, you don’t have to be an asshole, either.”

  He inhales a deep breath and combs his fingers through his hair.

  “Forget it, Evan. I’m not going to dig around for ammunition against some guy I don’t know, then tattle to Hollis. I won’t stoop to that level.”

  His face relaxes and his voice turns sweet. “All I’m suggesting, babe, is prepare yourself. If he even hints at calling Bane, have some artillery to make Hollis reconsider. Won’t you agree that our job is to represent the Murphys the best way possible?”

  “Of course.”

  “Clearly, if his nephew-in-law operates with less than perfect ideals, Hollis should know that. You said yourself, Hollis cares about the type of person he works with.” Evan doesn’t give me a chance to resp
ond. “I’m telling you, this is the only way to coax Hollis our way.”

  “This is a bad idea.”

  “You got a better one? I’m all ears.”

  “No. I think approaching this professionally, yet with compassion and honesty, is the best tactic.”

  He leans over my desk. “I don’t care how you handle Hollis. Write the listing on a fucking napkin for all I care. Just get it.”

  twenty

  Phoenix averages 211 full-sun days per year. Today is no exception. If not for the condominium complexes and skyscrapers lining the view beyond my bedroom window, I could see unobstructed for miles. Wes’s City Core towers and the dominance they warrant poke into my distant periphery, but I quickly push them and him out of my thoughts.

  More than a week has passed since our meeting with Hollis. Evan and I have been pleasant to one another, sweeping the latest arguments, like the others, under the rug. It helped that we each had busy weeks, both at the office and with Orchid Lane. I went to a couple more kickboxing classes and Evan was out twice for dinner meetings. We met with Stacee on Thursday, and though Evan and I sat close and he slid his arms around me, planting a kiss on my cheek when I agreed to red velvet groom’s cake, I’m certain she sensed we’re a bit off.

  I can’t shake Evan’s reaction to Hollis’s listing. Soiling a competitor’s reputation? Who does that? We’ve been together for three years and this is the first I’ve seen him act this way. The only way I can make sense of our bickering and his motivations is to chalk it up to stress and anxiety and the weight Hollis’s listing carries for his future. Evan doesn’t truly mean to play dirty. Right?

  The sound of SportsCenter on the TV downstairs convinces me to forget about Evan’s actions and reactions. Today is not the day for worries.

  I reach for my Someday Jar. With a pop, the cork falls into my hands and I dump out a slip.

  But it’s not the slip I expected. My stomach twists into a knot as I stare at my childish handwriting. It’s Kit’s favorite slip again. Damn. I shake my head, drop the fortune into the jar, and thumb through the remaining slips until I find the right one, the one that reads: Touch an official Cardinals game ball.

  My mood lifts.

  Today, not only will I spend the day with Evan, as a committed and supportive other half, but it’s Sunday. The Sunday. A sweet blessed Cardinals football Sunday. I’m super excited.

  After one last brush through my hair, I’m about to head downstairs when my cell phone rings. Mom. It’s the nineteenth time she’s called. I have nothing to say to her, not sure I ever will. I switch the phone to silent and grab the game tickets. I can’t help but wonder what Dad is doing at this very moment. Sipping coffee? Whipping up a batch of blueberry pancakes? Flipping through the sports section of the . . . Arizona Republic, Boston Globe, Miami Herald? Which newspaper and whether he reads it with the desert sun at his back or beside a fireplace under a cloudy East Coast sky, I haven’t a clue. Tears blur my eyes, but I force them away. Not now. Not today.

  I stuff the game ball goal into my pocket and head downstairs.

  Evan opens the door for Paige when she knocks at five minutes to ten. “You’re prompt.” He smiles as if punctuality is equivalent to a cure for cancer.

  “Well, I’m excited to be here.” She reaches toward Evan for a hug, then turns to me. “Hi, Lanie.” She tugs at the sleeve of my oversized and overworn Fitzgerald jersey hanging loose over my favorite pair of jeans. “Aren’t you spirited.”

  I cram the dish towel I’m holding into her mouth.

  Okay, I don’t.

  But I should.

  Even though the denim skirt she wears is short enough to spot her ovaries, I refuse to let her spoil my day and I greet her with a smile. “Hi, Paige.”

  Wes steps from his room in jeans, a brown leather belt, and a silver-blue T-shirt. “Morning, Paige.”

  Evan, dressed like the team’s owner, twists his cuff link and asks, “Everyone set to go?”

  We pile into Evan’s car and jitters flutter inside me like popping corn kernels as we near the arena. I have Cardinals tickets and a locker room pass in my hand. I clutch them close to my chest.

  Evan laughs. “You aren’t holding the Hope diamond.”

  “This is better.”

  After twenty painfully slow minutes stuck in traffic outside the stadium, we finally pull into our designated parking spot. We cross the asphalt lot toward Westgate, an outdoor shopping center full of restaurants, souvenir vendors, and game-day fun.

  Along our path, we pass dozens of tailgaters barbecuing chicken, burgers, and ribs beside tables full of chips, bowls of dips, and coolers full of beer. Heaven on earth.

  “Look at these guys.” I point to a group with three operating TVs under a Cardinals EZ-Up. They sit in Cardinals fold-up chairs, dressed in Cardinals jerseys, holding Cardinals coolie cups behind a red Ford truck plastered with yes, Cardinals stickers. I offer a supportive nod. Good people. My people.

  A few minutes later, we’re seated at a table in the crowded Yard House restaurant and order four beers (light beers for Paige and Evan, Guinness for Wes and me), three burgers, and a spinach salad without dressing (also for Evan).

  Our conversation is light and breezy as we talk about the game and how the Cardinals fare for the postseason, Orchid Lane, and Paige’s recent trip to Cozumel where her bathing suit top “kept falling off while surfing.”

  “No tan lines,” she joked.

  She’s adorable. Like a rash.

  The moment our waitress clears our plates, I scoot back in my chair and say, “Ready?”

  Evan chuckles and taps my hand, which is the teeniest bit sensitive from punching Wes. Thankfully Wes doesn’t have a noticeable bruise. “Paige and I still have half a beer.”

  Kill me. Kill me now. It took every bit of patience I had to sit and enjoy lunch. If I stay here any longer, I will explode. “I don’t want to miss a single second of my tour. How about I go on ahead?”

  “We should probably stick together; it’s crowded out there,” Evan says.

  Wes swallows the rest of his beer in one gulp, tosses his napkin on the table, and says, “I’ll walk her.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, knowing I’m smiling.

  “Well, I guess that’d be okay. Thanks, Wes.” Evan lifts his beer.

  “I’ll meet you both at our seats.” He turns to me. “Let’s go.”

  “Enjoy yourself.” Evan stands and kisses me on the cheek. “Have fun.”

  Wes holds the door and I step outside into the warm air. We pass restaurants and sports shops, dodging between other gamers and beer kiosks. With my swift steps, Wes falls behind.

  “You’re a freak about football, you know that?” He quickens his pace. “Most girls would rather shop or do just about anything than watch a game. Heck, Julie can’t stand football.”

  My stomach clenches at the mention of her name. “Well, I’m not like most girls.”

  “No, Lanie. You’re not.”

  We approach a narrow walkway between several restaurants, each with TVs over their outdoor bars. A jumbo screen mounted on a neighboring rooftop airs other football games. A large crowd has gathered, slugging their beers, slapping jersey-clad backs, spouting complaints at referees for botched calls. All at once, the mass cheers and a hundred or more beer bottles lift in unison toward the jumbo screen.

  I glance at the TV. With seconds left in the fourth quarter, the Packers score a touchdown, tying the game.

  More people hurry close, elbowing for a better view, circling behind us. The crowd packs even tighter. Within seconds, Wes and I are separated. I’ve lost sight of him, too. All I see is a sea of heads and the nose hairs of the man beside me.

  I’m stuck in the middle of the anxious group, which cheers again, presumably for the extra point. In the midst of the celebration, I’m nudged and bu
mped, pressed into the back of the guy beside me. I nearly lose my footing.

  Don’t panic. Just worm your way out of the pack. You’ll be fine.

  “Excuse me,” I yell, though no one pays me any mind. Stepped-on toe after stepped-on toe, I inch my way through some people, pushed and bounced like a pinball.

  After a few steps I’m stuck, wedged between a man with a 49ers jersey stretched taut over his can’t-say-no-to-a-plate-of-potato-skins belly and a Cardinals fan with a faded skull tattoo on his right bicep.

  Beer drips off the 49ers fan’s hand. “Watch it, fucker!” he says.

  “What’d you call me?” The Cardinals fan anchors himself strong like a concrete pillar.

  “Hello, boys,” I squeak, bracing my palms on each man’s chest. “Let me just make my way—”

  “You wanna go a round?” The 49ers fan widens his eyes and spits on the ground. He doesn’t take his eye off the Cardinals guy, whose chest is now puffed out like a baboon’s.

  Okay, panic.

  This is bad. Very bad. If one of these brutes starts swinging, I’m toast. Somehow I slither out from between them, but bump into people holding themselves steady and eager for the impending fight. I’m inched back toward the men when the fist-pumping crowd shouts, “Fight. Fight. Fight.”

  “No fight!” I shout, and place a hand on each guy’s arm. “He’s sorry. You’re sorry. Let’s calm—”

  “Shut your piehole, bitch.” The 49ers fan flicks my hand away.

  What did he call me?

  “Bring it,” says the Cardinals guy, who I’m now totally rooting for.

  “Kick his ass!” I yell.

  Beer splashes my ankles as both guys drop their drinks on the ground.

  Oh, shit.

  “Fight. Fight. Fight.” The crowd roars louder.

  With hands protecting my face—thank you, Rudy—I lean away from the beasts as they push, punch, shove, and call each other all sorts of names I’m certain they didn’t learn in Sunday school.

  What is a cocksack, anyway?

  I duck as the 49er’s left hook narrowly misses my cheek and breezes through my bangs. His next swing is a direct hit, and blood spurts from the Cardinals fan’s nose. Upon realizing this, he lunges toward the 49ers guy with the speed of a freight train. Rage swells in his eyes.