Dinner at Jack's

by Rick R. Reed

  Dinner at Jack’s

  By Rick R. Reed

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2019 Rick R. Reed

  ISBN 9781646562206

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  In memory of my mother, Theresa Comparetto Reed, who taught me that cooking for someone is one of the best ways to show them love.

  * * * *

  Acknowledgments

  Long overdue, but this time, my public thanks go out to my readers. I can’t quite put into words how honored I am that you take me into your homes time and time again. I only hope I can live up to your expectations of thought, of entertainment, and of heart. A writer, some say, works alone. But actually, with each and every story I send off into the world, the truth is I work with you. Much like a play or a movie needs an audience to come to true life, I need you to conspire with me to bring my stories alive.

  And, especially for that last part, I thank you.

  “Anything that’s human is mentionable, and anything that is mentionable can be more manageable. When we can talk about our feelings, they become less overwhelming, less upsetting, and less scary. The people we trust with that important talk can help us know that we are not alone.”

  ―Fred Rogers

  “Deep connection is the antidote to madness.”

  —Stefan Molyneux

  “Outside, the sun shines. Inside, there’s only darkness. The blackness is hard to describe, as it’s more than symptoms. It’s a nothing that becomes everything there is. And what one sees is only a fraction of the trauma inflicted.”

  ―Justin Ordoñez, Sykosa

  “We call them survivors, but once the vampires get you, the person you were dies, like any traumatized part of you never leaves that room, that car, that moment, and you walk forward a ghost of your former self. You rebuild yourself over the years, but the person you were isn’t the person you become. The great bad thing happens, and you become a ghost in your own life, and then you become flesh and blood and remake your life, but the ghosts of what happened don’t go away completely. They wait for you in low moments, and then they wail at you, shaking their chains in your face and trying to strangle you with them.”

  ―Laurell K. Hamilton, Affliction

  * * * *

  Dinner at Jack’s

  By Rick R. Reed

  Prologue: A Missed Connection and a Memory

  Chapter 1: Cut & Paste

  Chapter 2: A Brand-New Life

  Chapter 3: The Bitch Is Back

  Chapter 4: Everything-but-the-Kitchen-Sink Minestrone

  Chapter 5: Meanwhile, Across Town: Grilled Cheese & Tomato Soup

  Chapter 6: A FROG and a Really Bad Job Prospect

  Chapter 7: Meeting Jack

  Chapter 8: Jack’s Dream

  Chapter 9: Sweet Potato Chili

  Chapter 10: I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas

  Chapter 11: Glazed Pork Chops and Smashed Potatoes

  Chapter 12: A Walk in the Park

  Chapter 13: Jackson’s Spicy Gnocchi

  Chapter 14: The Taste

  Chapter 15: Daisy Reveals a Hidden Asset

  Chapter 16: Emerging

  Chapter 17: White Trash Mac & Cheese

  Chapter 18: In Which Jack Remembers, Sort Of

  Chapter 19: The Not-So-Strong Silent Type

  Chapter 20: You Never Saw a Rabbit Wearing Glasses, Did You?

  Chapter 21: A Dream Wriggles It Free

  Chapter 22: Morning Has Broken

  Chapter 23: Ruth as Guide Dog

  Epilogue: A Picnic

  Glossary of Recipes

  Everything-but-the-Kitchen-Sink Minestrone

  Sweet Potato Chili

  Dark Beer and Beef Stew

  Glazed Pork Chops

  Jackson’s Spicy Gnocchi

  White Trash Mac & Cheese

  Fiesta Pot Roast

  Fancy-Schmancy Carrot Soup

  Sicilian Roast Chicken

  Prologue: A Missed Connection and a Memory

  December 20, 2008

  This memory rose up out of nowhere, so clear and vivid that I can’t help but think it must mean something…

  * * * *

  I stand at the corner of Pike and Miner, staring into his eyes. Odd how so much communication can pass between two people without even one word being spoken. Right now my eyes are saying to Jackson, this dreamboat I just met, “I love how blue and pale your eyes are. They remind me of ice, yet there’s a paradox there, because they exude such warmth. I love that your eyes are just slightly different in shape and size and the way one eyebrow cocks upward when you stare at me, as though you’re asking a question, issuing an invitation.

  “I love that we just managed to have dinner together—a first date at an Italian restaurant, Soldano’s, just down the street—and the whole time we talked to each other like old friends instead of the usual first date chatter. My first dates have always felt like job interviews, but with you, it was different. We opened our minds. We opened our hearts.

  “There was some flirting, sure, but the one thing I loved about you, Jack, was that you didn’t try to make this about getting me into bed. That’s the usual modus operandi for the series of first dates I’ve had over the course of 2008. Not that there’s anything wrong with hopping into bed! But when a guy makes you feel like he’s eyeing you as the next course, then you feel like an object, a piece of meat, like a cock connected to a body, a mind, a heart, a soul. And who needs that? You made me feel like you were interested in all of me.

  “And for that, I’m grateful. For that, I can’t wait for a second date.”

  As though he’s read my mind, Jackson leans forward, touches my cheek, and asks, “When can I see you again?”

  I laugh and feel heat rise to my face. “Are you a mind reader?” I tease. “That was uncanny, because that’s pretty much exactly what I was thinking.” I smile up at him, suddenly noticing the first few snowflakes falling. It’s a distraction, because we don’t get much snow here in the Pacific Northwest, and it seems like a sign. I look at the dark sky, at the snow almost dancing as it falls gently on Capitol Hill. “Wow,” I whisper, almost reverent, “would you look at that? Snow.”

  He cocks his head to one side, and his lips turn up in an almost unbearably sexy grin. “Are you trying to change the subject?”

  “What? Oh no, no! Not at all.”

  “Then how about tomorrow night? I have tickets for the men’s chorus and no one to go with.”

  “I find that hard to believe.” As much as I would love to make tomorrow night our secon
d date, I can’t. My flight to visit family for the holiday leaves bright and early out of Sea-Tac. “I wish I could, but family obligations beckon.” I give him a smile that I hope conveys my regret. “But I’m back on New Year’s Day.”

  “I don’t know if I can wait that long.” Jackson grins. “I just met you, and already I feel like I’d be lost without you.”

  “Sweet talker! I bet you say that to all the boys.”

  He just shakes his head. “No. Seriously, Beau. I had an amazing time with you tonight.”

  “Me too. I never thought exchanging a couple messages online would lead to this.”

  “And just what is this?” Jackson asks.

  I pause to consider. “Maybe the start of something?”

  “I think there’s very little maybe in it.” He sighs. He sticks out his tongue to catch a snowflake. “I guess I’m gonna have to wait.” He gives a little sniffle. “Shoot. I won’t see you now until next year!” he cries and stomps his foot, which makes me laugh.

  There’s so much we don’t know about each other. For example, where we both live never came up in conversation. “The time will fly by,” I assure him. At least I hope it will. “Hey, where are you in town, anyway? Because if you wanna share a cab—”

  “Is this your sly way of asking me to come home with you?”

  Actually, it wasn’t. But now that he mentions it…Before I can respond, though, he says, “Don’t answer that. I live just down the hill a ways. In Belltown.” He leans in and takes me completely by surprise by pulling me toward him and kissing me. The kiss isn’t openmouthed, but it’s warm, and my knees go liquid.

  The kiss is marred by a carload of what I imagine to be teenage boys passing by. One screams, “Fags!”

  I look up at him and shake my head. “Well, I guess if the shoe fits…”

  He laughs. “Anyway, as I was saying, if you were asking me to come home with you, part of me first would say I’m too full of myself for jumping to conclusions.”

  “Oh, you’re not jumping to anything.” I grin.

  He grins back. “Second, if you are asking me to come home with you, part of me really, really wants to, and that part’s head is up right now, sniffing the air.” He chuckles. “But the part of me that goes along with your assessment that this, tonight, is the start of something, wants to put off getting to that stage just yet. I want to build up to it. Make it special.” He eyes me carefully. “Does that make me weird?”

  “It makes you one in a million, sweetheart. And as much as I’d love to rip your clothes off and ravish you, I really respect that. And want the same,” I say softly. “I’m up in Green Lake. We could still share a cab. No strings attached.” Really? I ask myself. In spite of all my good intentions, there’s still a very large part of me (not that part! Get your mind out of the gutter for once) that would like to wake up with him tomorrow morning, even if I do have to rush off to the airport before it’s even light outside.

  “Yeah, thanks, Beau. But I think I’d just like to walk home in the snow if it’s all the same to you.” He peers up, and I notice then how the snow seems to be coming down even harder. Maybe we’ll even get some accumulation? “The snow’s really magical, if that doesn’t sound too cornball to say.”

  “It does sound cornball,” I tell him, “but I totally agree. If I wasn’t so far, I’d walk with you. I love the quiet of a snowfall.”

  He casts a quick glance around and leans in to kiss me again. This time there’s a flick of his tongue, and I can taste, just for an instant, the cinnamon from the panna cotta we shared for dessert. He pulls back and grins at me like a little boy. “That’ll have to hold ya until you get back from wherever it is.”

  “Ohio,” I moan. “The sunshine state.” We both laugh.

  “I know Ohio,” he says, his gaze far away. Then he returns those blue eyes to me, their rightful owner. “I’ll see you when you get back.” He pulls a receipt and a pen from his coat pocket. “Turn around,” he instructs.

  “You dog!” I say, complying.

  He makes a tsk sound and uses my back as a surface upon which to write his phone number. When he’s finished, he turns me back around and presents me with the number. “Call me as soon as you get back. We’ll set up our second date.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Oh, honey, wild horses…”

  He turns, and I watch him walk away down the hill. His blond hair, his broad shoulders, and his black coat grow smaller as he descends Pike Street, headed toward the arch of the convention center. And then the snow swallows him up.

  * * * *

  I thought I’d see him again in a few days. I was wrong.

  Chapter 1: Cut & Paste

  Present Day

  I lost my husband because of cut and paste.

  Now, that may seem like a strange happenstance to you, but it’s true. Here’s what happened.

  Every morning, like many of us, I get up, brew myself a little pot of French press dark roast, and sit down at the computer to check Facebook. One of the things I always do, because I’m a giving kind of guy, is look at whose birthdays are today. Then I proceed to wish the people on my friends list a happy birthday on their special day.

  But what about losing your boyfriend due to cut and paste? you ask, tapping your foot impatiently and maybe glancing down at your watch.

  I’m getting there! Sheesh. Patience is in such short supply in this age of social media, instant streaming, and the like.

  So to make things easier on myself, I copy my first birthday greeting and paste it on the others’ pages, with their name inserted to personalize it. I know it’s a little lazy, but it’s well-meaning…and I have a ton of Facebook friends.

  So this one morning, about a week ago, I neglected to first copy my birthday greeting and simply pasted what was in the computer’s memory to my Facebook friend Ana’s page. It’s important to remember here that my husband, Ross, and I shared this computer, just like we shared everything else in our three-bedroom Craftsman house in the Wallingford neighborhood of Seattle.

  Anyway—I’m getting there! I’m getting there!—I pasted the following onto Ana’s page:

  Saw your ad and liked what I saw! Handsome, in-shape, masculine guy. Need to be on the down low, and encounters must be discreet! Already have a husband, so this would be strictly a sexual arrangement: FWB. Get back to me and let’s make this happen!

  Well, the first thing I was glad about was that I did not post this on Ana’s page in lieu of a birthday greeting. The poor dear, a sixtysomething living in the northern Seattle suburb of Everett and whom I knew through my volunteer work at a local soup kitchen, might have had a coronary on the spot, and her Facebook friends, seeing the greeting, would have had something to talk about for weeks to come.

  The reason the first thing I thought about was Ana and this snafu was because I was in shock. I think my brain knew immediately what had happened, but my heart wasn’t ready to accept it.

  Ross? Really? I called out to him telepathically. If you weren’t happy, we could have talked. We could have come to some sort of understanding. God knows we’ve been together over six years now, so maybe there’s room to think about other options…

  The little voice in my head was going a mile a minute while I sat, dumbfounded, at my desktop computer, staring uncomprehendingly at its screen, even though I had changed my message to read “Happy birthday, dear Ana, happy birthday to you!” I felt cold, numb, and wondered if this was how shock manifested.

  Ross? I called out to him again. I never expected this, not after all this time. Not after all we’ve been through—the house-buying, the warm nights by the fire, even the cold nights when we argued and went to bed mad. All those things were a life, a life we shared together. A life I just assumed was going to continue until we were old men, out on the porch in our rocking chairs, nudging each other when a good-looking runner dashed by, shirtless…

  I smiled, but now there was a lump in my throat and tears threatening
to spill at the corners of my eyes.

  It wasn’t so much the infidelity, or threat of it; it was the deceit. Wasn’t that always the way? Sure, the idea of our spouses with other people was nauseating in a way peculiar to that particular situation, no matter how logical or coolheaded our minds tried to make it. It was our hearts that ached. And our tummies…

  I got up from the computer, unsure of what I should do. I walked, probably more than a little awkwardly, from the third bedroom Ross and I used as an office and headed for the front door.

  Ruth, our five-year-old pug, hopped down from the couch, thinking my direction indicated it was time to go outside for a walk. I looked down at her little smashed-in face and her big and imploring brown eyes, listened to her snorting breath, and said, “Do you want to go outside too?”

  Her entire backside wagged. She’d been with Ross and me since early on, coming to us when she was only eight weeks old. I reached for her leash and harness, on a hook by the door, and got her suited up. From the same set of hooks, I grabbed a yellow rain slicker and slid into it, noticing that my hands trembled.

  “Jesus!” I cried. A short sob escaped me, and Ruth looked up at me with concern.

  We went outside into what passed for Seattle winter. To those not in the know, that means gray skies with low-hanging, ominous-looking clouds and a constant drizzle. The temperature hovered around forty-nine.

  Ruth pulled me down the front steps of our Craftsman and immediately turned left. Our street led downhill, toward Lake Union. I could see its still gray waters in the distance, along with the rusted brown spires of the old gas works down there, and thought, not for the first time, how the old works could pass for some kind of steampunk castle.

  Ruth and I ambled along, she stopping now and then to read her pee-mail on various bushes and fire hydrants and me…sick with nerves.

  What would I say to Ross? What should I say to him? There was a little voice in my head that advised me to kick him to the curb, to be merciless, to tell him that where there was no trust, there could be no relationship.