“Mom, stop! This is my life,” I say with fire in my words. “Not yours.”
Her shoulders slump in defeat and she purses her lips. “You’re right. I haven’t made the best decisions. Who am I to tell you what to do?”
“It isn’t your fault, or mine, that you fell in love with a man who didn’t sign up for happily ever after.”
She sighs.
“I know what I’m doing.” I rub along her back. “It’s funny; since I caught Evan and Stacee, I’ve felt this relief, like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I feel carefree. Alive. I’m excited and I have a new sense of direction. Yes, it scares me to death to take on this adventure, deplete my cash savings, and jump into a new business, but I’ve never felt more inspired. This is the very feeling Dad wanted me to find. This is what the Someday Jar is all about. I have no idea what tomorrow may bring, but I’ll tell you what, I’m not going to fret about it, or let negative thoughts scare me away from my future.”
Mom reaches out for me and hugs me close, nearly choking me. “Mom—” I tap her shoulder. “I can’t breathe.”
“Oh, honey.” She swipes away a tear. “You’re much smarter than I am. Much, much smarter.”
“And another thing, I called Dad.”
Her eyes catch mine. “You did?”
“I did.”
“He’s flying here in a couple of weeks.”
“To see you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Lanie. I’m so glad. Distancing you from your dad was beyond incomprehensible. I’ve been a mess these few days, realizing what I’d done. Regardless of my feelings toward him, I had no right to take him away from you.”
“No, you didn’t. But let’s not focus on the past. Let’s focus on the future.” I give her hand a squeeze and say with a wink, “Besides, he asked about you.”
“Me?” Her face lights up.
“Yep.”
“Oh, my.” She laughs and we hug again.
When we part, I ask, “Can I stay here for a little while, just until I get things settled?”
She presses her palm against my cheek. “You stay as long as you like.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, and Tuesday is half price at St. Vinny’s. We’ll go shopping.”
Her enthusiasm is hard to resist. “Okay, sounds great.”
“You go upstairs and get yourself squared away. I’ll take some chicken out of the freezer for dinner. I’m so glad you’re here.”
Evan doesn’t call in the evening and I’m thankful for it. I don’t know what we’d say, anyway. Besides, I’ve been too busy to talk. I’ve scheduled a preview of the commercial space for the morning, submitted all my fees online for a broker’s license, and while Skyping, E and I came up with a fancy slogan for my business cards: Lanie Howard Realty—Making Your Someday . . . today.
Early the following morning, I meet the property manager at the office space on Twenty-fourth. Located within a strip mall, between a Whole Foods and a Chase Bank, it’s a perfect location with lots of foot traffic.
She invites me inside after unlocking the front door and flipping on the lights. “Go ahead, take a look.”
Filled with several desks and chairs, the space is large and bright. Near the front window is a reception area, and hidden under a sheet is a wingback chair, leather couch, and wood coffee table flipped upside down on top of the sofa’s cushions. The ceiling fans look new, the walls are painted a soft silver-sage, and the Berber-style carpet is cream-colored. Is that ecru or eggshell?
“Something funny?” she asks.
“No, nothing, sorry.”
“Well, what do you think of the place?”
It’s even better than I hoped. But without revealing my excitement, I saunter toward the glass-walled corner office in the rear. Lanie Howard could be etched on the door. My stomach flitters like a thousand butterflies took flight.
“A galley-style lounge area with a refrigerator and round table are opposite the bathroom,” the manager says, pointing in that direction.
“Interesting. Does all the furniture stay?” I ask with a nonchalant tone.
She refers to the listing. “Yes. All furnishings are included.”
“Something to consider, then.” I wonder how long I need to scan the ceiling for leaks or open several of the desk drawers before I can scream, I’ll take it! I’ll take it right now!
Luckily she puts me out of her misery and says, “It’s a steal at twenty-eight hundred dollars a month, and won’t be on the market long. In fact, I’ve got another showing at—”
“I’ll take it.”
“Wonderful. I brought a lease agreement with me. You’ll want possession when?”
“Right away.”
“Super. I’ll draw up the paperwork.”
“Thank you.”
As she fills in the blanks of the contract, I study the space. With a little elbow grease, a few plants and bright-colored pillows from Ikea—maybe burnt orange?—this place can be perfect. The desks are a bonus and they’ll save me a bundle of money.
“Okay, Ms. Howard. I need your signature here and here.” She points at two separate locations. After quickly reading the standard rental agreement, I sign.
“All right, let’s see what I need to collect from you today.” She punches numbers into her phone’s calculator.
My heart palpitates as I write out the check. Not only for the serious ding to my bank account, but because I’m doing this. I really am.
“Wonderful,” she says, handing me the keys. “I’ll e-mail you copies of the lease agreement. Anything else before I go?”
“No, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
“All right, then.” She heads toward the door. “Good luck to you, Ms. Howard.”
“Thank you.” My hands clamp over the shiny key.
After she leaves I jump up and down and let out a little shriek.
Holy hell, Lanie. You did it!
twenty-seven
Hollis Murphy regrets to announce the passing of himself. Born November 11, he kicked the bucket after living longer than some probably wanted and probably longer than he deserved, based on his diet of bacon, cream soda, and Three Musketeers candy bars—a surprisingly tasty combination. He hoped to have died from something exciting like a space-borne alien parasite, blown to smithereens after diving over a detonated nuclear device, thus saving the entire world from ruin.
Hollis enjoyed swimming in the nude (you’re welcome for the image); chasing his glorious wife, Bevy, around the house with a pair of snapping tongs; and turning wine into urine. His life on earth was splendid and, though he likely used all his luck married to his cream puff, he asks for a bit more. Bury him facedown and ass up so his grandchildren have a place to park their bikes.
A separate sentence followed.
The Murphy family has requested privacy in their grief.
I sit in the coffee shop near Mom’s house and read the obituary a dozen times, knowing full well those are Hollis’s own words and charm, but hoping I’ve gotten it wrong. Hoping it doesn’t say Hollis Murphy. Hoping Tucker’s phone call was just a dream.
But it wasn’t. Hollis will no longer hug me or tell me a funny story. He’ll no longer brighten my day. Hollis is gone.
Tucker left a message a couple days ago, inviting me to attend a celebration of Hollis’s life at the Hyatt Regency Club in Scottsdale.
“Lanie.” Kit waves from across the room.
“Kit!” I scream like a four-year-old on Christmas morning and rush into my BFF’s arms as she nears the table, thankful for her cheery face. “Look at you. You’re so tan.” She dances around, showing herself off. “Maui looks great on you.”
“Doesn’t it? We spent tons of time on the beach. Lanie, we had the best vacation.” She sits across from me. “You
should’ve seen my husband, all relaxed and spontaneous. Island Rob, I called him, and he was fantastic.”
“Sounds like a blast. You guys deserve it.”
“Thanks,” she says, and I swear I see pineapples flickering in her eyes. I already ordered and the barista calls out our drinks.
I return with our coffees and Kit says, “What’s with you?” She tosses her purse onto the nearby chair and studies me. “You look different. Have you changed moisturizers or something? You’re glowing. Oh my God, are you pregnant?”
“No, no, no.” I laugh at the thought. “Not even close. I did land a spinning back fist at Rudy’s the other day, knocked the bag over and everything.”
“Wow. I always knew you had a bad-ass in you somewhere. But that’s not it?”
“Nope. A lot has happened while you were drinking mai tais on the beach.”
“Mudslides.” She corrects me. “Go on.”
I count on my fingers. “I got in a whopper of a fight with Evan, spent the night in a church with Wes, lost a dear client, lost my broker promotion, caught Stacee wearing my veil while my fiancé was screwing her, broke up with said fiancé, quit my job, called my dad who, by the way, is flying out soon, made up with my mom, and fell in love with Wes.” Not sure where the last part came from. It sort of slipped out.
Kit stares at me with her mouth half open.
I take a sip of coffee and let her process.
“Jesus, Lanie. I was only gone a week.”
“I’ve been a busy girl.”
“I don’t know where you should start.” She shakes her head, and then, in a moment of decisiveness, points at me. “Wes. Tell me about him first.”
“Aren’t you curious about Evan?”
“Nah, he’s a schmuck.”
“You never told me that.”
“Looks like you figured it out on your own, sweetie.” She blows on her coffee.
“Well, it doesn’t matter how I feel about Wes. He’s gone, back to his family in California.” I pause for a moment, flick a piece of lint off my sleeve, let out a deep sigh, and blink away the gathering tears in my eyes.
“You know, I’ve learned that you can’t make someone love you. All you can do is stalk them, hope they panic, and give in.”
“You always know how to make me feel better.”
“It’s a gift.”
I dig into my purse. “There’s more.”
“More?”
The key catches the sun as I dangle it between my fingers. “You’re sitting across from a business owner. Lanie Howard Realty.”
“Swear?”
“Swear.”
Kit rushes toward me, practically tackling me with a hug. “Lanie, I’m so proud of you.” Her voice mumbles and tickles my neck. “So damn proud of you.”
I rattle off all the details, and bless Kit’s heart, she sits and listens to every word as if I’m explaining the location of the coveted Holy Grail. She asks about the unit, the color of the walls, and Evan’s face when I told him. We leave the coffee shop and Kit insists on driving me over to pick up the box of my business cards from Kinko’s.
She takes the first one.
twenty-eight
“Hold it together, Lanie,” I whisper while staring at my image in the elevator’s mirrored paneling. “Hollis wouldn’t want you sad.”
“Regency Pool Level,” chimes the elevator voice as the doors whoosh open at the top level of Scottsdale’s Hyatt Hotel.
“Welcome. Thank you for coming.” A suited gentleman in black tie stands outside the elevator. He smiles, then motions beyond the covered walkway, lined with flowers and various pictures, black-and-white framed photos of Hollis in his younger days. I stop and look at them, enjoying the glory of the old man. A couple in particular catch my eye.
One is a side shot of a younger Hollis, probably early twenties. He wears a pair of high-waisted bathing shorts; sand sticks to his shins. He points at a pier stretching into the ocean.
There’s another from the same beach. This time, it’s taken from behind as Hollis, and presumably Bevy, walk along the shoreline. She wears a floral swimsuit and large straw hat with one hand holding it from taking flight. Hollis’s arm is wrapped around his wife’s waist.
I think of Wes and his arm draped around me while we slept in the chapel, heavy and warm. I miss him.
The elevators chime open and other guests arrive.
Quickly, I trace the curve of Hollis’s smile before moving outside toward the gathering, and once through the walkway, I join the large crowd.
Women dressed in heels and men in suits and ties quietly sip white wine and speak in soft tones. Several waiters with black shirts and ties meander about, offering appetizers and square napkins from silver platters. The poolside lounge chairs and tables have been stored and replaced with white wood folding chairs positioned toward the imminent sunset. The stickiness from spilled daiquiris and the smell of sunscreen have been washed from the flagstone ground, the pool towels folded and hidden from view. A few people part and between the bodies, I see the long, rectangular pool glisten in the sun. A beautiful reminder of a beautiful man.
I marvel at the serenity of the afternoon and accept a glass of wine. Without trying to stare, I look for Bevy. I’d love to see the woman who captivated Hollis.
Within moments, a man with a hint of gray hair sprinkled above his temples stands on the far end of the pool and commands our attention. He smiles and his face shapes into a younger version of Hollis. “Ladies and gentlemen.” The crowd suddenly quiets. “Thank you all for coming today. I’m sure my dad is looking down at us right now, pleased that so many showed up.”
The crowd laughs.
Instinctively, my eyes glance upward as if perhaps I’ll see Hollis peeking through the clouds like a mischievous boy with a candy cane tucked behind one ear.
“My dad loved to swim,” Hollis’s son continues, focusing on the pool with a thickness in his voice. “It was a ritual to him, an activity he enjoyed nearly every day of his life. He taught my brothers and sisters and our children how to swim. As a family, we spent countless hours in the water. Since Dad wouldn’t want us to drone on and on about his life in a dark and dreary church or funeral home, we thought it only fitting to remember him here, outside in the sunshine, beside a pool.”
Several other family members and young children encircle the son. None are dressed in black. They wear cheerful-colored dresses, button-down shirts and ties, linking their arms and nodding in agreement with his words. A man with tear-soaked eyes and a similar jawline clutches what I assume is his brother’s shoulder.
The brother speaking covers the man’s hand with his own and squeezes tight. “He’d want us to celebrate and enjoy the moment. With that said, we won’t recite a long speech, but rather, we ask that you join us for a moment of silence in our father’s honor.”
The crowd is hushed, most with clasped hands and bowed heads.
My eyes shift toward the shorter, older woman standing in the middle of the family. Her children and grandchildren surround her like the peel of an orange protecting its fruit. Dressed in a pale pink pantsuit and cream blouse, she grips the strings of a satin bag. Her face is hidden beneath a lace-canopied hat, but I can see her lips pressed together into a frown.
Bevy.
The son closest places his arm around her.
After a moment, the woman nods slightly, and then with a trembling hand opens the bag by the drawstring. She offers the bag to each of her sons, daughters, and grandchildren who stand so close to one another, barely any light slivers between them. Each person silently takes a handful of something, but I can’t tell what it is. The smallest granddaughter, probably two or three years old, bounces up and down, then tosses her filled hand in the air. White rose petals cascade down around her. A couple stick in her hair. She laughs and does it agai
n, quickly scolded by her mother’s harsh whispers.
Hollis would’ve loved it.
“Father, we love you and are thankful to have had you in our lives. We will forever honor your memory,” says the eldest son, swallowing his tears.
In unison, the family tosses the rose petals high in the air. The grandchildren point and laugh as the soft breeze catches some of the flowers and dances them through the air before they land softly in the pool. The grandchildren hurry, collecting petals that landed on the concrete and toss them into the air again. Bevy twirls a petal between her thumb and finger, keeping her head low.
Hollis’s daughter rests her head on her brother’s shoulder. He kisses it. With Hollis’s family linked in each other’s arms, sharing knowing glances of love and memories, and the mountains and lacy clouds in the background, it’s one of the most beautiful moments I’ve ever witnessed.
The family hugs and cries together and even though they are standing amid a hundred people, I feel intrusive, watching their sacred moment. I’m about to turn around and leave when Beverly Murphy lifts her veil, leans over, and kisses her grandson on the cheek. Her hat threatens to slide off, and in the midst of reaching for it, she glances across the pool.
Our eyes lock.
“Howie?”
Underneath the veil isn’t Beverly Murphy. Well, technically it is, but to me, it’s Blue. Beverly Murphy is Blue. My heart skips a beat and a smile spreads across my face. All this time I knew her and didn’t even know I knew her.
“Howie, my goodness, how kind of you to come,” she says a few minutes later, walking toward me with open arms. We hug and then she asks, “Is Kitty-litter here also?”
“No. Just me. Listen, I’m truly sorry for your loss. Mr. Murphy, he . . .” My voice trails off and tears seep out. She blots my tears with her fingertips and hugs me as if my husband of fifty-four years were the one who just died.
“My apologies, Howie, but I didn’t know you knew my husband,” she says after we separate.
“I didn’t either. You know me as Howie but my real name is Lanie—”
The Someday Jar Page 25
