Sweet Dreams

by Stacey Keith

  Dad had split years ago. Jake couldn’t even remember what he looked like.

  “You still carry around so much rage,” Dillon said sadly. “I don’t know how you live with it.”

  “Oh, and you don’t, I suppose.” Jake undid a few more buttons of his shirt. Fucking hot up here. “What, are you seven or eight enlightenment levels up now? Are there belt divisions, like in karate? Maybe you scored the belt that saves you from having to feel any normal human resentment toward a woman who was never fucking there for us.”

  “How I feel about Mom doesn’t matter,” Dillon said softly. “And you can say whatever you want about my life or me or how I look at things. But Mom’s got end-stage cirrhosis of the liver. She doesn’t have more than a few months to live.”

  Jake couldn’t sit still any longer. He launched himself out of the deck chair and went to the overlook. At seventy stories up, the view was unnerving. Today, he barely felt it. Traffic was little more than a whisper, mostly drowned out by wind.

  Away from Dillon’s gaze, Jake pressed a fist against his chest. Some dark, lonely thing in there had just been shoved loose. Now it was floating around inside him. Everything it touched, it burned—every memory, every drunken scornful word she’d ever spat at him. How did you get grief to stop?

  If Loretta died, he’d never be able to see her any differently than he did now. They would never have a chance to fix things between them. She would remain for all time a bitter, disillusioned bitch without hope of redemption.

  Loretta wasn’t a theater he could renovate. She wasn’t a project. And even if he could get her on an organ transplant list, she would never stop drinking. Never. His mother had thrown her life away. She’d almost thrown their lives away, too. But Jake knew with a terrible certainty that he would never stop wishing he could go back and change the past. Renovate it. Make it new.

  He stared down at his hands. They were shaking. He was standing outside on his terrace, and his hands were shaking, all because that horror show of a woman who’d told him he was stupid and would never amount to anything might die.

  “Jake.”

  He turned around. Dillon came up behind him, hands shoved in his pockets, looking a lot like the little tow-headed boy Jake had “cooked” cereal for as a kid—their name for pouring bowls of Frosted Flakes for supper. Jake had raised him, defended him, fought his battles. They were strangers now.

  “Come to Palestine with me,” Dillon said. “Aunt Pearl and Uncle Marty are staying with her. She’s pretty swollen now and it’s hard for her to get around. But you should see her before she goes.”

  “And do what?” Jake asked. “Pretend it’s all okay between us because Loretta finally killed her liver and she’s fucking dying now?”

  Dillon didn’t say anything. He had no trouble maintaining that infuriating Zen-ness, did he? If Dillon were any more enlightened, he would float away like one of those balloons from the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.

  “Did she even ask to see me?” Jake asked.

  “No,” Dillon said. “I’m asking. For you, not for her.”

  “For me?” Jake leaned against the pergola and crossed his arms. “So this is for me, is it? The big trek out to Dallas after eight years of nothing? Because you had an attack of brotherly love?”

  “You didn’t exactly reach out to me either, you know,” Dillon said, but he finally sounded defensive, which gave Jake a sense of sharp satisfaction.

  “Yeah, well, before you turned into Gandhi, you had some pretty shitty things to say to me,” Jake reminded him. “Funny how you don’t necessarily want to pick up the phone after being called a money-sucking success whore.”

  There. Jake could see the flicker in Dillon’s eyes when the arrow hit its mark. The truth always did. Maybe Dillon could go back and tell his yoga class what a motherfucker his billionaire brother was. How money ruined people.

  Poor Dillon. Sorry about your brother, man. Here, have another kale water.

  “I know you’re going through a lot of shit right now,” Dillon said. “I know because I’m going through it, too.”

  Jake shook his head. “Nope. I’m not going to see her. Loretta made her bed a long time ago. Too late to go down there and start fluffing the covers now.”

  He needed a cigarette. No, he needed two cigarettes, one for each hand. Maybe Dillon would be so disgusted, he would go away and they could return to their mutual seething resentment.

  Jake went back inside. He pried a cigarette out of the case, shoved it between his lips and lit it. As the smoke drifted over him, so did a measure of calm. But not enough to make the shaking stop.

  Dillon followed him. He almost smiled. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but sometimes you remind me a lot of Mom.”

  Both of Jake’s eyebrows went up. “You’re right. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “I mean, look at this place.” Dillon opened his arms as though to embrace the water wall, the Rothko paintings, the 1920s Corbusier furniture.” Look what you’ve managed to achieve.”

  “Oh, so success is a good thing now? I thought you hated me for it.”

  Dillon took a deep breath and shook his head. “I don’t hate you, man. I worry about you. Because if you can’t make your peace with Mom, you got no chance of ever having a healthy relationship. Not with me, not with anyone. If you can’t make things right, Jake, you’re going to die alone, just like she is.”

  We all die alone, Jake thought bitterly. You just haven’t figured that out yet

  CHAPTER TEN

  Gus sniffed suspiciously at the three packages on Maggie’s living room couch. Maggie watched him, wishing dogs could be trained to sniff out the intentions of the man you were going on a date with this weekend. Or the likelihood of getting your heart broken.

  The packages were from Jake. She didn’t have the courage to open them yet, probably because deep down she was just as suspicious as Gus. He seemed determined to get to the bottom of what was in those boxes though, snuffling and snorting and circling. Maybe Gus was trying to warn her.

  On Mondays when the bakery was closed, Maggie usually paid bills, took inventory and cleaned her apartment. Today, she’d just lain in bed, staring at the ceiling fan and thinking about Jake. Then Mr. Dobbs, the postman, had rung the bell and delivered Jake’s packages.

  “Been doin’ some shopping, eh?” Mr. Dobbs had given her a conspiratorial wink while she signed for her dresses. “Get those off the Facebook, didja?”

  Mr. Dobbs was close to seventy, still walked his postal route, and had absolutely no idea what Facebook was.

  “You know it,” Maggie told him. “Internet can really get a girl in trouble.”

  That was fifteen minutes ago. She’d had another cup of coffee since then. Now it was time to suck it up and try on those dresses. Right? Just open up the boxes and see what he’d sent her.

  Gus sniffed the wrong thing and had a sneezing fit. She scratched his ears to comfort him and thought about why it was she couldn’t move and had a bad case of the flutters and a weird urge to laugh. She felt about those boxes the way Priscilla clearly felt when she walked into the bakery: certain there’d be hell to pay, but wanting to eat the whole store anyway.

  Was Jake trying to buy her? Did he do this with all the women he dated—dazzle them with gifts, get what he came for, and then kick them to the curb like an empty beer can? Would she be hurt if he did?

  Seemed like the upside to the whole “Jake thing” was the cheap, fast thrill ride. Judging by the address labels on these gift boxes, what he’d sent her might be thrilling, but it sure didn’t look cheap.

  Maybe she needed more coffee.

  Maggie went into the kitchen and poured herself a third cup. That should do it—she’d drunk enough coffee now to float her eyeballs. Gus followed her, looking pitiful and dejected as he always did when she poked around in the kitchen wi
thout feeding him.

  “If you had thumbs, it would be different,” she said. “You could open up your own dog food. Until then, you eat when it’s time to eat.”

  They went back to the living room. Disappointingly, the boxes hadn’t opened themselves. She sat next to them to see what that felt like, but it always came back to the same thing. Would he think she was obligated to sleep with him?

  “Damn, it’s just a couple of dresses,” she muttered to herself, grabbing the first package and opening it. She lifted out a dress and her heart nearly stopped.

  It was a Valentino, something wispy and floral and worth about half a year’s rent. She clawed open the next box and the one after that: a Christian Dior in red tulle and a black silk crêpe de Chine by Marc Jacobs. Best estimate? She was sitting barefoot in her living room with around eight thousand dollars’ worth of designer dresses.

  She covered her mouth with her hand. This was crazy. No one bought gifts like these unless they expected a big return on their investment. Her fingers traveled over the silky fabrics, the flat, tight seams, the exquisite craftsmanship.

  These weren’t from the discount rack at Maxine’s. They were from the world Jake inhabited, the one where everyone and everything was for sale.

  Maggie was so absorbed in thought, she didn’t hear the knocking on her door until Gus started barking. She set down the dresses and rose to answer it. Maybe Mr. Dobbs had forgotten to deliver her regular mail.

  Todd loomed in her doorway, blocking the light. “Hey, Maggie.”

  Oh, no. She stared up him. Why did people always show up when you least wanted them? She needed to be alone right now so she could figure out what to do about Jake. Todd could potentially derail the rest of her afternoon if he insisted on staying.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  He blinked, taken aback by her abruptness. When had any woman not welcomed Todd with open arms? “I came to talk to you, Maggie. Can I come in?”

  Reluctantly, she stepped back and let him inside while Gus stopped yapping and busied himself sniffing Todd’s pant leg.

  Todd took up a lot of space in her ultra-feminine apartment. Her heart might have been beating a little faster, but it was an old reflex, like breathing. Maybe her body hadn’t yet accepted what her mind already knew: Todd no longer had the power to charm her or to hurt her.

  He smiled and ran one hand through his hair. “Where do I sit?”

  Maggie took the couch and gave Todd the comfy chair. How soon could this be over? Having him here was like talking to a Jehovah’s Witness who stopped by to preach while you paused your favorite trashy TV show.

  Todd’s eyes seized on the open packages beside her. “Looks like you’ve been puttin’ the hurt on your credit cards, Mags.”

  “I don’t have money for stuff like this,” she said dismissively. “What’s up?”

  Todd tapped his fingers on the arm rest of the chair. He cleared his throat. “I come to apologize.” His voice cracked. “I’m real sorry for everything I put you through. I got no leave to be askin’ your forgiveness, but I’m askin’ it all the same.”

  He’d apologized. Wow. Maggie didn’t know what to say. It was as though she’d woken up in a different reality.

  Todd’s eyes were busy trying to read her face. “I got no right to ask for your friendship,” he continued. “But after seeing you the other day—heck, you always was so great with kids—I just had to tell you what’s been weighin’ on me.”

  Maggie stared at him, unable to move a muscle. How many nights had she ached with loneliness and grief? How many nights had she drowned in choked-back, unshed tears? How many nights had she prayed that Todd would realize his mistake and come back? Maybe the tightness in her chest was where the laughter had died, the sad tired laughter of a woman who’d once dreamed of this moment and now that it was here, couldn’t have cared less.

  What an awful joke.

  Todd was still talking. “I hope you don’t hate me, Maggie. I never shoulda taken up with Avery. I know that now. She had her wiles. But you’re too good a woman to hold a man’s mistakes against him.”

  Maggie’s thoughts were like the spinning cherries inside a slot machine. She was trying to make sense of this, but couldn’t.

  So Todd thought what he’d done was a “mistake”?

  The old Maggie would have said something polite. She would have let him off the hook, at least for now, because she’d always bent over backward to spare people’s feelings. The new Maggie didn’t bust balls, but she didn’t take any crap, either.

  Looking him straight in the eye, she said, “What you did was vile and unforgiveable, Todd. The only reason I’m letting you sit in my house is because I’m a nice person. Don’t mistake my kindness for anything else.”

  Todd’s mouth dropped open. Clearly he’d expected a grateful reconciliation. Tears. Maybe even make-up sex in bed.

  She stood, making it obvious she wanted him to leave. “Look, I’m busy right now. We can talk about this some other time.”

  Todd stood, too, but he looked far from happy. His eyes lit with suspicion on the dresses and she could tell he was trying to put it together—the fancy new duds, the man he’d seen her with, her sudden coldness.

  Maggie went to the door and held it open for him.

  He stepped out on the landing and then turned around as though he wanted to say something. His blue eyes were dark, the way they were when he got angry. But they also seemed a little desperate.

  “I didn’t like hearing them sharp words,” he admitted, “but I’m not giving up till you accept my apology, Maggie. A man can change his ways if he’s got a mind to. I’m going to show you I’m a new man, a better one. You’ll see.”

  * * * *

  One of the best ways to blow the cobwebs out, Jake thought as he floored it to Cuervo, was to get in a fast car and remember what it was like to be alive. Here he was in his cobalt-blue Aston Martin Vanquish Volante. The top was down and the weather was glorious and he had Lenny Kravitz’s “American Woman” blasting out of his speakers. It didn’t get more alive than that.

  The Regal was officially in his hands—and Maggie would be, too, if he had anything to say about it. Their first date was tonight in—he checked his watch—five hours, fifty-two minutes. He was going all out. Emma had helped with the logistics, but the idea was his brainchild and he was positive Maggie was going to like it.

  All he had to do now was set up his base of operations at Mason’s ranch. Mason was letting him stay there while he and Cassidy were in Dallas for the preseason. Jake had the place to himself plus the staff he’d brought with him. Emma had sent them up the day before to get things ready.

  The only cloud on his horizon was the news about his mother. Jake lead-footed it past a speed limit sign outside of Cuervo before remembering where he was and why it was a good idea to slow down. Lots of state patrolmen hiding behind shrubs and billboards in little Texas towns. Swearing, he eased up on the accelerator.

  But there was no easing up on the sense of prickling disquiet he’d had since Dillon’s visit. It ambushed him at the strangest moments—putting together a budget for the Regal, wolfing down a sandwich between meetings, checking stock reports. Then he’d find his attention drifting to his mother and to Palestine. It was getting harder to snap it back again.

  The last thing his mother had ever said to him before he’d slammed out of the house for good was, “You’re the reason my life is ruined. You’re the reason I drink—just to be able to stand looking at you.”

  In a way, it wasn’t much different from the shit she spewed at everyone. But on that day at that moment—an hour after he’d sold his first tech startup at twenty-three and was now a multimillionaire—he just couldn’t take it anymore. Loretta became the thing that money could finally buy him a life away from.

  Jake passed through the iron ga
tes of Willow Ridge Ranch and remembered the last time he was here, the night of Mason’s wedding when Maggie had stood in the utility room sputtering with rage.

  He liked ruffling her feathers. He planned on ruffling a lot of things on that woman.

  The main drive veered off into a second drive that took him around back. He spotted two delivery vans, four people carrying groceries, and Mrs. Birch, the housekeeper, who Mason had warned him sort of came with the place. “Don’t expect her to like you,” Mason had told him. “She won’t. You in particular. She’ll hate your guts. But she’s a damn good housekeeper and we kind of inherited her from the previous owners so you’re just going to have to deal.”

  Sure enough, Mrs. Birch glared at him from the back door of the kitchen. She was a substantially built woman in her early sixties wearing the kind of housecoat-apron combo that private service people wore about a hundred years ago. She didn’t smile and she clearly didn’t want him here.

  Jake kicked his smile up a few notches before getting out of the car. “You’re Mrs. Birch, I’m guessing.” Her glare turned into a scowl. “I appreciate your opening up the house for me.”

  She stomped down the stairs and marched over to him, eyes small and truculent like a rhino’s. “Those yours?” she asked, pointing to his suitcases in the backseat.

  “Yes, but I can—”

  Mrs. Birch hoisted them out as though they weighed nothing and trudged back to the house.

  Damn, Jake thought. Mason wasn’t kidding when he referred to her as a “Texas T-Rex.”

  As Jake grabbed his phone, his wallet and his keys, he realized how out of his element he was here. As beautiful as Willow Ridge was, compared to his slick, sophisticated life in Dallas, it seemed a bit like glamping. But for the next month or so, this was it. His new crash pad. And he had a strong feeling it was going to be exasperating, bewildering, possibly humbling, but one hell of a ride.

  First stop on the tour was what he had planned for his date with Maggie tonight.