PLAYER (21st Century Courtesan)

by Pamela DuMond

  “Meditate before I hit the game. Center. Get grounded. I’ll do it.” He pulls me tight to him and kisses me. “I’ll do whatever you say, Evie. I’m crazy for you.”

  My resolve to leave weakens. This man. This delicious man. “Ditto.”

  But the clock winds down and fear, my old friend, bubbles up. I’m hitting this game to support him and then I’m going home. No more random motel rooms. No more games. No more hot sex with my hot player. I lived without him before. I’ll build a damn wall and do it again.

  We wait in Baggage Claim for the carousel to dump off our luggage, his possessive, muscular arm draped over my shoulders. I text back and forth with Mom about what she thinks is going on with Ruby – when I sense someone’s eyes boring into me. A taller, ruddier, harsher version of Dylan, ambles toward us checking me out. He’s handsome in a rougher kind of way.

  “Dylan,” he says.

  My player swivels, and startles. “Patrick? How did you –-”

  “You told the human loud speaker.” Patrick hesitates then walks the rest of the way toward us, stopping short. They regard each other awkwardly. No shaking of hands, no hugging.

  “Of course, I told mom,” Dylan says. “Patrick -- meet Evie Berlinger. Patrick’s my older brother.”

  “Your only brother,” he says, reaching his hand out to me. “Any friend of Dylan’s is a friend of mine, Evie.”

  “Evelyn,” I say as we shake.

  “Glad to see Dylan’s got a girlfriend,” Patrick says.

  “Me too.” Dylan keeps his arm on lock down around my shoulders. “I told Mom to keep my visit quiet. Quick trip and all. Not a ton of time for family stuff.”

  “You need to re-think that,” Patrick says. “Shit’s going down.”

  Dylan frowns. “Mom didn’t mention anything.”

  “She doesn’t want to worry you. She wears her poker face with you because you’re her baby.”

  “What now?” My bag tumbles down the baggage chute and Dylan reaches for it, hoisting it onto the tile floor with a thud. “More bad test results?”

  “You could say that,” Patrick says.

  “I thought Mom’s thing was under control,” Dylan says. “Handled.”

  “The doctors told her that. But they don’t know everything.”

  Dylan grabs his suitcase from the carousel and sets it on the tiled floor. “We good?”

  “One more,” I say.

  “How bad is it, Patrick? This is a short trip, but I’ll make time--”

  “Her breast cancer’s back,” Patrick says.

  “Crap.” The color drains from Dylan’s face. He sways and I grab onto him, my fingers blanching on his arm. I’ve gotten into the habit of keeping this man standing and that’s not changing today.

  Patrick hoists my bag off the carousel and places it on the floor.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “No problem.”

  “What now?” Dylan shakes his head in disbelief.

  “Surgery. After that they run the lab results and figure out what comes next.”

  “When?” Dylan asks his face stricken.

  “Monday,” Patrick says.

  “Another lumpectomy?”

  “Double mastectomy. They’re not messing around this time.”

  My beautiful player’s resolve crumbles in front of me like stale cake left out on a plate for too long. “I’ll cancel the game.”

  “Good,” Patrick says. “That’s for the best. She wants to be with family this weekend. There’s the church event, and she’ll go, put on her game face, but she’s not telling a lot of people.”

  My stomach plummets and I make a snap decision. “I’m already here at the airport. I’ll book a flight back to Chicago.”

  “No,” Dylan says, a hand pinching that small space between his brows.

  Patrick nods at me as if we are suddenly in an unspoken partnership. Collusion. “I’m getting the car. I’ll be out front in ten minutes.” He grasps Dylan’s suitcase, rolling it behind him. “Whatever you decide -- nice meeting you, Evelyn.” He leaves through the exit doors at the same time the heat from summer in Texas bullies its way inside the cool, air-conditioned baggage claim.

  “Shit,” Dylan says, running a hand through his hair.

  I stare up at my beautiful player. “You need to be with your mom. You need to hang out with family. The last thing you need is me here.”

  “That’s not true.” He shakes his head. “I need you here, Evie,” he says, whisking my suitcase away with one hand, placing his other on my arm. He hustles me away from the carousel, away from the thinning crowd of passengers to a side wall.

  “I’ll be in the way.”

  “Is this your empathy talking?” He drapes both arms over my shoulders, leans me back against the wall, boxing me in.

  “No. It’s my practicality.” I twist a lock of hair around my fingers, pulling it taut, trying to think this thing through.

  “Your practicality doesn’t get to tell me what or who I need. I need you.”

  “This is so intimate. It’s your family. They’re not going to want a newcomer in their midst during a tough time and I don’t blame them.”

  “You calm me. You center me. Stay the weekend,” he says prying open my fingers open, my hair falling. “Just a few more days. Stay the weekend and then I’ll get you on a plane back to Chicago before Madame Marchand sends out her storm troopers and has me arrested.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She figured out what your ‘personal problem’ was. Why you’re ‘calling in sick’,” he makes finger quotes in the air. “She’s been texting me since we landed in Dallas.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry. She’s so smart.”

  “She’s not going to can you for one more weekend. Besides, my mom will love you. I want you to meet her. Actually, I need you to meet her.”

  “Think about what you’re saying.”

  “I know what I’m saying. Everyone will rally around Mom. Patrick’s wife will be there for him. Even though most of them won’t know about her surgery – the congregation will be there for Dad. Who’s going to be there for me? Mom normally does that, but I can’t really ask her to do that right now.”

  My heart travels full circle and aches for him.

  “Who’s going to be there for me, Evie?”

  “Everyone, Dylan.” I blink back tears, unsure if they’re mine or his. “Who wouldn’t want to be there for you?”

  “You mean -- who will be there for me because of the come to Jesus money? There’s an awful lot of power and prestige partnering up with a famous preacher’s prodigal son.”

  Crap, he’s right. Who really will be there for Dylan because he’s lovely and amazing versus who will want to be with him because of God’s dazzling dollars?

  “I told you the pretty story, not the shitty story.”

  “What’s the shitty story?” I ask.

  “I’m the black sheep of the family,” he says. “I didn’t fall in Dad’s footsteps. Didn’t take on the family business. I took the love of the game we played around a kitchen table to the next level and when my marriage tanked, I left town.”

  Out of nowhere anger sparks like a brush fire in my chest. It starts small, burns faster, hotter, quickly out of control. It’s Dylan’s rage. It’s spitting lava, a volcano threatening to erupt. Its tentacles root deep down in this man but its branches are stuck in his throat in the form of words that need to be spoken. Words that must be spoken or screamed out loud.

  “Home was stifling me. Home was killing me. But I tried,” he says, breaking away from me, pacing back and forth like a fighter gearing up for the big match in the ring. “I tried, I gave it my all, but then the shit hit the fan and I blew out of town, left the church. And now I find that there are only two places -- make that three -- that I call home anymore.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “A poker game. Hanging with Mom. And being with you. Home is three things and right now, two are dying
.” The cold wind blows through Dylan’s life and I shiver. Can I help him? Can I save him?

  “You don’t know that. Not about your mom. Not about the game.”

  “What about you, Evie?” He trains those blue eyes on me.

  “I came here for you, Dylan,” I say. “I’m just here for you.”

  “Then stay the weekend.”

  “Yes.” I don’t even draw a breath. “Absolutely yes.”

  10. God’s Money

  GOD’S MONEY

  I sit in the back seat of Patrick’s enormous, red, shiny pick-up truck as we blow past the Lighthouse Cathedral on the way to the family’s spread. The cathedral is Je-fricking-enormous, bright, and shiny under cobalt blue Texas skies surrounded by black topped parking lots that take up more real estate than the ones surrounding football stadiums. If I were God, I’d dress up in my finest suit, slick back my hair, and shave twice before I walked into this place – it’s intimidating.

  I text Amelia.

  Evie: Plans changed. I’m staying through Sunday. Medical emergency.

  Amelia: You okay?

  Evie: Yes. Not me.

  Amelia: Good.

  Evie: If you wouldn’t mind, could you check my place?

  Amelia: No problem. I’ll take Victoria with me in case creepy stalker Fan is there.

  Evie: Don’t say that.

  Evie: Take a guy.

  Evie: A big guy. You’ve got a set of keys, right?

  Amelia: I think you gave them to me a while back.

  Evie: There’s an extra mailbox key hanging on a hook next to the front door. It’s blue.

  Evie: Check the box okay.

  Evie: I get this weird feeling that something’s not right.

  Amelia: I’m sure everything’s fine.

  Evie: Let me know.

  Amelia: Soon as I swing by.

  The McAlister home’s a few miles down the road from the church. We stop at a gated community guardhouse for the few seconds it takes a guard to salute Patrick and wave us through. We motor past gated estates with expansive lawns, not that many trees, each lot situated on twenty or so acres circling around Lake Grapevine.

  The guys exchange measured pleasantries but the vibes traveling through the air aren’t all that friendly. Patrick pulls into the driveway of a ranch style estate, punches in a code on a security box and waits as the gates open, driving inside. A large house is the hub with an attached five car garage, and four cabins scattered on the periphery.

  “It looks the same,” Dylan says, opening the passenger, stepping out and holding his hand out to me, helping me step down from the truck.

  “Not much has changed,” Patrick says.

  “Fresh coat of paint. The house is yellow now, not white,” Dylan says.

  “Mom wanted something bright and cheerful after her last bout with cancer. You haven’t been back since then?”

  “Of course, I’ve been back since then,” Dylan says. “I arrived at night. When you weren’t here.”

  “Right,” Patrick says. He lifts our suitcases from the truck bed onto the pavement and they split up the bags wheeling them up the driveway.

  I accompany them into the main house expecting marble floors, gilded mirrors, and giant statues of Jesus. Instead there are honey colored hardwood floors, framed photos on the walls of laughing, smiling kids of all colors.

  A thin sixty-something year old woman with sunshine yellow Doris Day hair moves into the kitchen’s entrance, sees Dylan, and stops dead in her tracks. She squeals in excitement like a teenage girl, her hands flying to her face. “My baby’s home!”

  “Mom,” Dylan says, dropping the bags, walking the few yards toward her, pulling into a careful hug.

  “I’m not china.” she says and smacks his arm. “Give me a real hug.”

  His arms circle her waist more securely. She stands on tiptoes, planting a kiss on his cheek, tearing up.

  It’s love I see around me. Love and warmth. An older man who could be a shorter, silver haired version of Dylan walks down the stairs toward me: his dad. There’s no judgment in his eyes, simply curiosity. “Welcome,” he says, extending a hand. “I’m Pastor -- ”

  “Dad,” Dylan says. “Meet my girlfriend, Evie Berlinger.”

  “Honored to meet you, sir,” I say as he grips my hand so hard I fear it might fall off. “Dylan’s said so many nice things about you.”

  “Apparently, you’re a miracle worker because he talks to you,” he says. “How’d you get him to do that? I’ve been trying to get him to talk to me for thirty-eight years.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t talk to you, Bill,” Dylan’s mom says, “because you’re always lecturing him. Hi, Evie. I’m Rosemary, Dylan’s mom.”

  “Mom! Give me a half second to make the introductions, please.”

  “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. McAlister,” I say.

  “Call me Rosemary. Come with me,” she motions. “We’ll let the boys catch up on boring guy stuff. Besides it’s cocktail hour somewhere and I need a drink. I bet you could use one too after being stuffed in that airplane for – where were you flying from?”

  “Memphis.”

  She grabs my hand and leads me into the kitchen.

  Bill frowns. “Are cocktails prudent Rosemary? You know what the doctors said --”

  “Screw the doctors,” she says as I follow behind her. “I’m having fun before the cancer games start up again.”

  “It’s gorgeous here,” I say. “Is this where Dylan grew up?”

  Rosemary and I are sitting next to each other at an intricately carved Spanish dining room table in the kitchen. The French doors are open onto a terracotta tiled back veranda. Flowered vines twirl around columns bolstering the portico. Potted herbs: basil, sage, oregano smell delicious.

  Rosemary snaps open an old-fashioned silk fan and waves it in front of her face. “This house? Oh, no, honey. This is the house that God’s money bought.”

  A Latina maid dressed in jeans and a T-shirt sets stainless steel bowls on the patio. Three dogs abandon the guys lounging around the swimming pool and race toward the food, gobbling it down like they haven’t eaten in days. The green lawn is deep and ends abruptly where it drops off into Lake Grapevine. A boathouse is tucked in a far corner of the property. Crickets croak as the sun sets in a hallelujah chorus of reds, oranges, yellows, and purples.

  “We lived in an 1100 square-foot yellow wood-framed home in a poor part of Dallas for the first seven years of Dylan’s life,” she says. “Life wasn’t always green lawns, margaritas, and French manicures.”

  She’s so down to earth it’s impossible not to like her. “What was that like?” I ask.

  “Long hours for Bill in seminary. Even longer hours ministering at our first church. There was nothing fancy about that parish, the parishioners, or us for that matter. I cut coupons and we ate a lot of chicken casseroles. I have recipes for twenty different kinds stuffed in a box somewhere.”

  “I loved the one with the taco chips on top.” Dylan peers in at us from the portico, and tips back a beer. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine, Dylan. No need to hover. I’ll keep Evie safe.”

  “I’m not hovering.” He makes his way to the fridge. “Did Maria make her famous guac?”

  “Is it Friday?” his mom asks. “Third rack down. Bring us some and the home made chips while you’re at it.”

  Dylan sets a tray of food on our table. “Holler if you need anything,” he says and heads back out to the pool carrying his own stash.

  “You like him, don’t you?” she asks.

  “Guilty.”

  “What do you like about him?”

  “His honesty. The fact that he works so hard at everything he does. His sense of humor. His kindness. He’s so real, so down to earth.”

  “Hallelujah.” She lifts her glass in the air and I take that as a prompt to lift mine. “A toast.”

  “A toast?”

  “Here’s to someone finally liking Dylan for who he really is.�
��

  We toast and toss back our drinks.

  “Dylan needs someone to like him just for him.” Rosemary sighs and pushes herself up from the table. It’s then I see the tiredness wearing on her. She takes a bit longer to walk to the oven and open it, the smell of comfort food wafting through the kitchen.

  “Can I help?”

  “Casseroles are almost done, honey. I’m making one for tonight and three for the potluck tomorrow. I’m not going to do the vegetables until tomorrow ’cause they’ll just get soggy if I make them too early.”

  Amelia’s words echo in my brain, ‘Tell his mother you love anything she cooks.’

  “I bet your cooking is great,” I say.

  “My cooking sucks. Tell me about your upbringing. Where’d you grow up?”

  “Wisconsin. Illinois. Iowa for a short stint. We moved a lot.”

  “Military brat?”

  “Nope. Mom, my sister Ruby and I bounced around a bit. The houses were small. The apartments dingy. Not very many chicken casseroles.”

  “Sounds interesting.” She removes the baking dishes from the oven with fat potholders and places them on racks on the large stove. “Was there love?”

  “Yes. I just never knew how it would present itself.”

  “Did your parents have a drug problem?”

  “Mental health.”

  Rosemary dips a tablespoon into the casserole, scoops out two generous helpings and clack-clacks them onto plates. “That’s tough, honey,” she says. “Look, I know coming here is a change in Dylan’s plans. Patrick intercepted you at the airport and laid some guilt trip on him. I wish I could tell you I wasn’t happy to see him, but honestly, I am.”