High Stick

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “Is this what you had in mind, Mr. MacPherson?”

  He looked around and considered. “Yes. Thank you very much.”

  They slid into the banquette until they were sitting side by side. “I wanted a table near the fireplace, but not too close,” he said.

  He’d gone to some trouble for her and she liked that.

  The night was turning out to be perfect—too perfect. Was that grammatically possible? Was perfect a word like unique that either was or wasn’t, but could not be qualified? She’d look it up.

  Odd thoughts, but useful ones. It got her mind off the memories of his hand stroking her back and the genuine kindness he’d showed to the valet. Whoops. Thinking about it again. Now, he was studying his menu with an intensity of a surgeon looking for a lifesaving clue on an X-ray.

  “Do you like oysters?” he asked without looking up.

  “I love oysters.” The ones on the appetizer menu sounded especially good—grilled with horseradish butter, lemon, and parmesan cheese. Her mouth watered. One of these days, her metabolism was going to let her down and she was not going to be able to eat like a field hand if she wanted to get through the door.

  He looked up surprised. “Really? No one ever likes oysters. Want to share some for an appetizer?

  “More than I want this filet with truffle butter for my entrée, and I want that pretty bad.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “A girl after my own heart. I knew you would want the filet. You should get the gorgonzola butter, too.”

  She looked at the menu. “It says you only get one.”

  “You don’t have to settle for one. People will sell you what you want. This restaurant has fifteen compound butters, and you can have every single one of them if you want.”

  “That might be a little too much of a good thing.”

  The waitress appeared with water. “What can I get you to drink? Something from the bar?”

  “Not for me. I’ll just have the water,” Jarrett said to the waitress then addressed Merry. “I don’t drink the night before a game, but you go ahead.”

  “Sweet tea with lemon,” she said.

  “Right away,” the waitress said pleasantly. “Then I’ll be back for your order.”

  “No way is that bartender as good as I am, but you didn’t have to decline because I’m not drinking.”

  “I never drink. It’s not a moral decision. I don’t like the taste of alcohol.”

  “Really? I could make a drink you would like.” He glanced over his shoulder at bar.

  “You aren’t actually considering going over to that bar and taking over, are you?” she asked.

  He widened his eyes and twisted his mouth. “No. Well, maybe.”

  “Keep your seat. I just want the tea. Besides, what makes you think that bartender would let you behind his bar?”

  “You did.”

  “I’m not a real bartender. He probably knows what he’s doing.”

  “Only up to a point.” He cocked his head to the side and his eyes took hers in. “When I make up my mind, I can get my way.”

  She sipped her water and let that rattle around in her head. “I hope you make sure you really want something before you dedicate yourself to getting it. Winning for the sake of it hasn’t got much advantage.”

  “Except on the ice.” His smiles were more frequent and longer now.

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “Maybe I’ll teach you to skate,” he said. “For sure, I’ll make you a drink that you like when I get back.”

  Maybe on New Year’s Eve?

  “I doubt it. I’ve tried all kinds of things. Bedsides, you don’t know what I like.”

  “Sure, I do.” He folded his arms on the edge of the table and leaned forward. “You like oysters, steak, and truffle butter.”

  “Maybe I like truffle butter. I’ve never had it, but I’m going to try it. But those things would make a pretty gross drink.”

  “What’s your favorite ice cream?”

  “Coffee,” she said without hesitating.

  “Really? I don’t like coffee. I like chocolate.”

  “Not me. Not really. I’ll eat chocolate, but I always choose another flavor over chocolate.”

  He took a pen and pad of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. “What other flavors do you like?”

  “Are you going to write that down?”

  “Yes. I need to research the ultimate Merry drink while I’m on the road.”

  He was making a very big thing of making this drink. It was as if he wanted to make sure they would see each other again. But if she was on a Cinderella carriage ride, he was probably going through a phase. She had to keep that in perspective. A phase could wear itself out before the carriage stopped rolling. Careful, girl, you don’t want a carriage wreck. It would be a real mess with all that broken glass and blood. She had to be sure none of that blood would be hers. She hadn’t considered the consequences when she’d posed for that calendar, and that was never going to happen to her again. She would never so much as buy a Popsicle without considering if she could live with it melting and dripping on her.

  “Flavors?” He had his pen poised, ready to take notes. “Other than coffee?”

  “Caramel, but not salted. Maple, butterscotch. Those are my favorites. Lemon, orange, almond.”

  He nodded. “I can work with that. What don’t you like?”

  “Lettuce. Salad. Raw greens taste bitter—always have.”

  His expression didn’t change. “Got it. No Caesar salad cocktail.” He pocketed his little notebook and pen again.

  Just then, the waitress appeared and set Merry’s tea before her and exchanged Jarrett’s barely touched water for a fresh glass. “May I tell you about the specials?” she asked.

  “Please,” Jarrett said.

  “In addition to the menu, we have a wild caught salmon with Meyer lemon and organic dill compound butter. The chef’s special side tonight is a fresh potato gnocchi with heirloom tomato puree and fresh buffalo milk mozzarella.” She rubbed her hands together, no doubt relived she’d gotten that out with all the buzzword descriptions. “Do you have any questions about specials or the menu?”

  Jarrett picked up the menu. “No questions, but we’ve been distracted, so I think we’re mostly going to make this up as we go. We’ll start with the grilled oysters. Merry, do you want an additional appetizer?”

  “No.” Was he trying to demonstrate how much money he was willing to spend? She could buy a week’s worth of groceries for what the oysters and one of those filets cost, not counting the additional butters that he was set on them having.

  “The lady and I will both have the filet and we’d both like truffle and gorgonzola butter,” he went on. “I’d like mine rare.” He looked up. “Merry?”

  “Rare, as well.” He nodded. This man was serious about ordering a meal.

  “I’ll have that gnocchi and braised spinach. I need another carb. This mushroom ravioli entrée? With the cream sauce? I’d like that as a side, but no sauce. Just a little olive oil and some toasted walnuts.”

  Unholy hell. Did he not know you couldn’t go around changing menu items to suit you? Holding the onions from a pizza was one thing, but inventing a whole new dish was another. She braced herself for the waitress to tell him nothing doing.

  She nodded. “Very good, sir.”

  “Merry, I apologize for ordering my sides before asking you, but I wanted to give you time to consider.”

  “The steamed asparagus.”

  “Anything else?” the waitress asked.

  “Just the asparagus.” Though she wanted that lobster-stuffed baked potato.

  Jarrett gave her a doubtful look and she got the feeling he knew she wanted something else. “You promised to carb up with me. You haven’t ordered a carb.”

  What the hell? He played in the NHL. He could afford it.

  “The lobster-stuffed baked potato, though I’m not sure I can eat all this,
” she said.

  “With extra lobster,” he said to the waitress.

  “If I can make a suggestion?” the waitress said.

  “Please do.” This woman was about to suggest more food and Jarrett looked absolutely gleeful.

  “Chef received some very special, locally sourced, hickory cold-smoked belly bacon today from Blue Sky Farms. It’s more the trend now to smoke bacon with applewood, but chef prefers hickory. Some of that cooked crisp would be amazing with the lobster potato.”

  Merry opened her mouth to decline. Bacon with that many descriptors was probably twenty dollars a slice—but Jarrett spoke first.

  “Sure, but bring it on the side. She can decides if she wants it or not.”

  “Very good.”

  Once she was gone, Merry said, “Do you think she’ll remember all that? She didn’t write anything down.”

  “If she can remember that the gnocchi is fresh and the name of the farm that killed the pig, she can probably remember what we ordered.”

  “That asparagus comes with sage/tarragon compound butter. The herbs were probably grown in the South of France and transported here in a burlap bag by a monk,” she said.

  Jarrett wrinkled his forehead and nodded. “I hope the monk makes the most of his trip—takes in the Grand Ole Opry and a Sound game. Too late for a Titans game.”

  “Maybe they’ll let him have some of that bacon. Does your supper club have bacon from a pig you have been acquainted with?” she asked.

  “Oscar Mayer all the way for The Shooting Star.” He grinned. “It’s been good enough for generations of MacPhersons, so it’s good enough for this one.”

  “Was The Shooting Star open on Christmas?”

  “Oh, no. Not Christmas Eve either. Never has been. But I got there in time to tend bar on the twenty-third. It was crowded, loud, fun. Lots of the regulars. It was nice to see old friends. My grandfather was in high spirits, and I think he gave away more food and liquor than he sold.”

  “Does he often do that?” Jarrett looked so happy that she wanted to keep him talking.

  “Hardly. He’s very conscious of turning a profit. According to my grandmother, only a few times has he turned the place into a party—when my sister and I were born. When my dad and I won Stanley Cups. When my niece was born. And for some reason, the night before Christmas Eve.”

  “He must have been really happy to see you.”

  He nodded. “I was happy to see him—all of them.”

  “Do you have pictures from Christmas?”

  “I do.” He took out his phone and tapped the screen a few times. “Here. This is the only one with all of us in it. My mom used a real camera with a timer on a tripod.” They were an attractive family posed in front of a fireplace that looked big enough to roast a pig. There was greenery and candles on the mantel and the stockings had names on them—and the whole family was dressed in red and green plaid pajamas. The huge dog stretched out in front of them wore a matching kerchief around his neck and reindeer antlers. Jarrett looked a little pained. “She also bought the pajamas. She does it every year. I don’t show the family Christmas picture to many people—or really any people. Until now. You. Even if it wasn’t personally embarrassing, Duke is too noble a creature to be humiliated.”

  “It’s adorable,” Merry said. “You look like the cast of a Hallmark movie.”

  And they did—all attractive, all happy-looking. “My grandparents, Clint and Joyce.” He pointed to the lively-looking older couple. “My mother, Kimberly.” She was small with blond hair. “Don’t call her Kim. She hates being called Kim.” As if ever calling Jarrett’s mother anything was likely. “That’s Thomas and Lea with my niece Patrice. She’s four—my niece, not my sister. Lea’s thirty-two, four years older than I am.” He looked up. “Are all those fours confusing?”

  “I followed. Who is this?” She pointed to Jarrett’s picture. “He looks familiar.”

  “Some broken-down, fourth-rate hockey player who they took pity on for the holiday.”

  “Ah. They must be kind people. Tell me about the dog.”

  “My dog. He’s a great Pyrenees. I wish I could have him with me.” He sounded wistful and regretful.

  “Maybe you can if you decide to buy a place to live.”

  He nodded. “I’ve thought of that, but I’m gone so much. He ought to be with a family. Besides, my niece loves him. It would be mean to take him from her. There would have to be a big distraction. Maybe a baby kangaroo.”

  Merry began to scroll through the pictures—all candids and none of Jarrett, so he must have taken them. His grandfather reading to Patrice, his mother and sister snuggled together drinking hot chocolate, the dog lying in front of the Christmas tree, Christmas breakfast, Santa’s bounty, snowmobiling, building a snowman.

  And then there was one that made her heart turn over. Someone must have gotten hold of Jarrett’s phone and taken the picture. Patrice, who had his coloring, was perched on Jarrett’s hip, and he was pointing to an ornament near the top of the tree.

  “Your niece looks like you,” Merry said.

  “Yeah. How about that? Lea has my Mom’s coloring, but Patrice and I look like my dad. It drives Thomas crazy that people think she’s mine.”

  “Do they all live there together?”

  “Sort of,” he said. “Thomas, Lea, and Patrice have their own kitchen and a separate entrance, but they might as well not. They are all together all the time. When they first got married, Thomas and Lea lived in town—which is only about fifteen minutes away—but it didn’t last. You can walk out the back door of the house and be at The Shooting Star in two minutes. It got to where they were spending the night in Lea’s old room more than they were going home.”

  Merry scrolled back through the pictures, this time looking at the details of the log cabin. It had a gallery around a huge stone and weathered wood great room that bled into a modern, gourmet kitchen.

  “Is this the house you grew up in?”

  “Yes. Mostly. My dad played for the Canadiens and we lived in Montreal until I was eight. Then we moved back here with my grandparents.” Then he hesitated. “I guess if you Googled me, you know what happened to my dad.”

  She nodded. “From all accounts, he was very loved. I’m sorry.”

  To her surprise, Jarrett lit up from within with just a little sad around the edges. “Don’t be. It would have been incredible if he could have lived to be a grandfather to Patrice and my children and to see me hoist that cup. But I would rather have had him for ten years than any other man for the rest of my life. He was the kind of person who filled a room and left everyone wanting a little more of him when he left. Everyone loved him and he was my best friend. In those last two years, he instilled in me what he expected of me. And helped me deal with his death—taught me how to watch him die. He was amazing.”

  Merry wasn’t a crier and she wasn’t going to cry now, but something moved through her and her eyes filled.

  “Well.” She picked up the cloth napkin from her lap and dabbed at her eyes. “I think you’re amazing.”

  • • •

  There were tears in Merry’s eyes—for him. And she thought he was amazing.

  Time didn’t matter. In that moment, he fell in love with her. If he’d been determined to win her before, now it was his life’s work.

  How long would it take? Four months? Eight? Surely, by next Christmas. They’d buy a place to live—hopefully here in Nashville. If it had to be Massachusetts, surely she could go to law school there or go online. If it came to that, they’d figure it out, but it would be okay, because by then, she would be all in. He’d see to it. Maybe he could distract Patrice with a puppy and a couple of kittens and they could bring Duke to live with them. Could you actually buy a baby kangaroo? Probably not. But if Patrice could not be parted from Duke, that would be okay. He and Merry could get a puppy, and he could still see Duke when they visited Wisconsin.

  He wanted to put an arm around her and draw h
er to him right now, but it didn’t seem the thing to do. Instead, he took the napkin and finished wiping her eyes.

  “You’re sweet, Merry Sweet.”

  Their eyes locked and for the first time he understood what people meant when they said they were Having a Moment. Having a Moment meant the beginning of a lifetime.

  He’d hoped so many times at the beginning of a relationship that the woman he dated was the one, but this was different. He didn’t hope it. He knew it. “You’ll feel it in your bones,” his dad had told him. “You’ll know. And until that time comes, be careful who you share your body with. Don’t cheapen what you will share with the woman who’ll be the mother of your children.” At ten, Jarrett hadn’t understood all that, but he had come to understand, though never so much as he did now.

  He couldn’t give her an unused body, but he wanted to give her something, the best thing he had.

  He leaned toward her. “I’m going to score two goals for you against Chicago.”

  She looked startled and then laughed, but it was a sweet, friendly laugh, not a laugh like she didn’t believe him.

  “I want to promise you a hat trick, but I’m not sure I can get a hat trick against the Blackhawks. They’re really good. Not as good as we are, but good. But I’m pretty confident I can get two. And I’m going to try to never make a promise to you that I can’t keep.”

  Her laughter became a grin and she closed her eyes and shook her head a little. “Jarrett, I—”

  But he never found out what she was going to say. The waitress appeared.

  “Grilled oysters with freshly ground horseradish butter and fall Consorzio del Formaggio Parmigiano Reggiano.

  “Thank you,” they said in unison, and then they began to laugh together—and eat oysters together.

  • • •

  Merry was in emotional and sensory overload.

  It had all been too much—the kindness Jarrett had showed to the valet, the fabulous food, the sharing of his feelings about his father.

  Even as Jarrett drove carefully from downtown to Sound Town, the Cinderella coach was racing at full speed down a rocky steep road and her head was knocking against the roof.