by Wendy Wax
As we prepare to leave, I notice what seems like a silent conversation taking place between Yvonne and Rich. A relieved smile. A nod of the head. I look more closely as she packs up a small bag of cookies for the two of us and hands them to Rich along with parting words I can’t hear and another look I don’t fully understand.
“Thank you so much for coming out. And for . . . explaining things,” she says as we walk toward the door. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Jazmine.”
Moments later, we’re outside and heading toward my car.
“That went well,” he says. “And you didn’t even have to pull the single-mother card. Thanks for coming with me.”
While I back down the driveway, I catch a glimpse of Rich Hanson’s face. He’s wearing a satisfied smile, but there’s something more there. Something that doesn’t quite add up.
My foot finds the brake as realization dawns. I wasn’t there today to impress or convince Yvonne Booker of anything. Just the opposite. This was all a show. Performed for Isaiah’s benefit.
“You could have told me why you wanted me to come with you today, you know. Instead of playing me.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but his indignation is feigned.
I shake my head, mashing my foot on the gas as I put together the signs I missed. “She reached out to you, didn’t she? To try to talk some sense into her nephew. And for some reason, you decided to add me to the cast.”
I drive, watching the small, neat houses go by as I try to work it out. “Seriously. How do you and Yvonne know each other?”
For a minute, I think he’s going to try to deny it. Then he says, “Her son was an old friend of mine. The very first NFL player I ever signed.”
“Hiram Booker.” The name slips out of my mouth, the final puzzle piece. “Wide receiver, UNC, two-time All-American. Went to the Atlanta Falcons in the second round. Injured in a playoff game in 1997 and never walked again. Died in . . .”
“In 1999. Self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head,” Rich finishes. The sigh that follows is heavy. “That was the year Isaiah was born. Yvonne took him in when her younger sister died in childbirth. Gave her a purpose and him a home.” Another sigh. “Yvonne did everything she could to keep Isaiah from playing football—there’s not a single photo of Hiram in a uniform or a plaque or anything else from his football days anywhere in that house. But Isaiah has the same kind of speed and talent. He reminds me so much of Hi.”
For the first time, I feel the urge to comfort this man. I push it aside. “You shouldn’t have lied to me.”
“Not knowing allowed you to be yourself and speak more convincingly.”
I take my eyes off the road long enough to give him a steely look.
“And I think it was really more of an omission than a lie.”
“If you’d told me that you were doing a good deed and you needed my help, I would have said yes.”
“Probably.” His smile is a far gentler version than I’m used to. “But where’s the fun in that?”
I know I should give him some shit. Tell him how and why I object to the manipulation.
But even as I consider what I might say, I accept the fact that today was not at all about me.
“Let’s just say your plan worked. And I’m going to forgive you this one time. Because I understand where Yvonne is coming from. There isn’t much I wouldn’t do to help my daughter make the right choices. And Isaiah has the makings of a great athlete.”
“That’s very . . . big . . . of you,” he concedes with a far more familiar tone.
“Yes, it is,” I reply, glad to be back on familiar footing. “But there’s a price to be paid for tricking me into something that I would have done gladly if only you’d treated me like a colleague rather than a mark.”
“And what would that price be?” His eyes are on my face. A smile tugs at his lips.
“When Isaiah signs with StarSports Advisors, he belongs to me. You will keep your thoughts about how he should be handled to yourself.”
His smile grows. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he says. “Besides, before we left, Yvonne told me that she already likes you better than she ever liked me.”
Twenty-Two
Sara
The day Mitchell is served with divorce papers, he does something he hasn’t done since taking the job in Birmingham. He braves Atlanta traffic on a weekday afternoon.
When I get home from work and see his car in the driveway, I gird my loins. (A phrase whose origin I’m going to have to look up.) I find him at the kitchen table with his mother, an untouched sandwich in front of him.
Mother and son look up when I enter. Mitch glares at me. Dorothy appears nervous with a possible side of guilt. I can’t tell whether they’ve been arguing with each other or plotting against me.
“I got served with divorce papers today. In front of a new client. Without warning,” Mitch says, his eyes narrow.
“How horrible for you,” I reply, with every ounce of sarcasm I can muster. In the past, I would have been careful not to upset Mitch or argue in front of Dorothy, but in this moment all I can think about is the indignity and injustice I’ve suffered. “But then I don’t remember you warning me that I might hear from your secret son on your secret cell phone. And you clearly never gave a thought to what you were doing to me. How you were trampling all over our vows.”
“This is not the time for recriminations,” Mitchell says.
“Oh, I don’t know. This seems like a perfect time for recriminations. Did you honestly believe I would just sit here and take it once I knew you were building a family with another woman?”
“She tricked me. She told me she couldn’t have children. That she’d had some illness when she was a child that made her infertile.” He actually looks indignant.
“Oh. So this was all her fault?”
“No. No, of course not. I just want you to know that I didn’t intend for any of this to happen.”
“Yes, you keep saying that. But it no longer matters what you did or didn’t intend. Or that she somehow managed to ‘trick’ you twice. Because for at least a third of our marriage, you’ve been sleeping with another woman.” My voice breaks, and it occurs to me that I’m making a scene, something I’ve avoided for most of my life.
“But I’m so unhappy. Things got away from me.” He sounds like a teenage boy trying to justify how he totaled the car.
“You, more than anyone, knew how much I wanted children. Yet you refused and then went off and impregnated someone else. Twice. You gave her the children I begged for. Do you have any idea how much that hurts?”
“But I didn’t want children. I don’t . . . I saw what it took for my mother to raise me, everything she gave up, how small her life became. And I never wanted that kind of responsibility. Not any of it.”
Dorothy gasps.
My eyes remain on Mitchell. “And stupid, responsible me respected your feelings.”
Dorothy pulls herself to her feet, leaning on the table for support. “When your father deserted us, I swore you’d never want for anything. That I’d make it up to you.”
“But . . . you told me you didn’t know who my father was.” Mitchell stares accusingly at his mother.
“I said that so that you wouldn’t feel abandoned.” She exhales heavily. “Do you really know me so little that you believed I had no idea who fathered my child?
“I have loved you and protected you from the moment I realized I was carrying you. Yes, I put you before everything else. Yes, I lived a life that wasn’t what it might have been. No one made me do that. I did it out of love.” She shakes her head in wonder. “And all you took from that was to never give that much of yourself to anyone?”
I’m frozen in place as this woman, who has always been so guarded, spills out her lies and her truths.
&
nbsp; “I know I’m not warm or fuzzy. Neither were my parents. But I never doubted that they loved me. I could tell by their actions if not their words. But you have not learned any of the subtlety of love. Or bothered to look deeper than the very surface.” She moves closer, looming over him.
“You’re a grown man, but you still behave like a child. Making excuses for what you’ve done instead of making up for your bad deeds and behavior. And now you expect the wife you’ve cheated on and stolen from, and who has taken in the mother you’ve left homeless, to go easy on you? To be careful of you while you moan and complain about the children you’ve fathered and don’t want to be responsible for?”
She takes a deep shuddering breath. Her hand trembles on the table. “Shame on you. And shame on me for allowing you to turn into the selfish, self-centered person you’ve become.”
She turns to face me, her face bleak. “You were right that day when you said that my son isn’t good enough for you. And it’s clear I’m not going to be winning any ‘mother of the year’ awards. I was wrong to treat you the way I did, trying to somehow keep his affection, what there was of it, to myself. Horribly wrong.”
I’m too shocked by her apology to respond.
“I’ve turned a blind eye because he has always been all that I had.” She takes another deep breath. “I owe you an apology, Sara. And my gratitude.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to hash this out. Hopefully, like the adults you are.”
I study Mitch’s shocked face as his mother leaves the kitchen. I’m still staring at him when her bedroom door closes behind her. Has Mitch always been only for himself? Did I settle for someone who didn’t really love me, because I couldn’t bear being alone anymore? Or did I imbue him with qualities I wished he possessed rather than see him as he really was? I may never know.
“Have you hired an attorney?” I ask.
“Yes. You didn’t leave me much choice, did you?” He says this with quiet fury but not a shred of shame.
“Then I suggest we let them get to it so that we can get this over as quickly as possible.”
“You’re going to be sorry, you know,” he says.
“Oh, I’m already sorry. But not for the reasons you think.”
“No, I mean it. Because your precious house will have to be sold and the proceeds divided up. And there’s quite a lot of debt that you’ll have to help pay off. Both of us will be worse off.”
I straighten my spine. Raise my chin. “You just worry about yourself,” I say stiffly. “Like you apparently always have. I wonder how long it will take Margot”—the name rolls off my tongue for the first time, no longer a woman to be afraid of but perhaps one to pity—“to realize that the man she’s stolen is no prize.”
wish·ful think·ing
/ˈwɪʃ·fəl ˈθɪŋ·kɪŋ/
noun
the imagining of an unlikely future event or situation that you wish were possible
Ex: “Expecting Mitch to grow up and put others first is a tragic case of wishful thinking.”
Jazmine
Derrick and I sit at the bar at Valenza, sipping negronis and waiting for our table. The Italian restaurant is packed and noisy, which is how a restaurant should be on a Friday night. I come here often because it’s just a ten-minute walk from the house.
This is only my third date with Derrick, and if I hadn’t put my foot down, Thea and Jamal would be here, pushing us together and grinning like banshees over their success as matchmakers.
“So, what is Maya doing tonight?” Derrick asks between sips of his drink.
“She’s spending the night at her grandparents so that my father can take her to her match tomorrow.” I do not add that Maya asked me not to come or that my father promised that he would have a talk with her about her on-court behavior.
“I’d love to come watch her play sometime.” He smiles. “Jamal says she’s really something and has incredible potential. ‘Like her mother.’ And that’s a direct quote.”
“I think she’s way more talented than I ever was.” I feel the wrench of regret as I think about how proud Xavier would be of his daughter’s athletic ability and how much of that ability came from him. “But I’m starting to wonder if it’s becoming too big a part of her life. If maybe it would be better for her to pull back and, I don’t know, just be a teenager.”
“Did you wish that when you were her age?” he asks, his eyes on mine.
“No. I practically slept with my racket. All I wanted was to win as often as humanly possible. To be the best. And, of course, I wanted my father to be proud of me.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“No, but I’m not sure whether I’m pushing her to fulfill my dream because I couldn’t. Or if it’s really what she wants.”
“Maybe you just need to talk it over with her.”
My snort is pure reflex and not particularly ladylike. “Said the man who has clearly never had to face down an angry thirteen-year-old girl.”
His laugh is easy and uncomplicated. If men were awarded a theme song, and perhaps they should be, Derrick’s would be “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”
“Completely true,” he replies. “But I have no doubt you’re up to the task. Maybe it’s just a matter of finding the right moment.” He smiles again, a flash of white teeth when I roll my eyes. “There. Now, is there anything else I can solve for you?”
At the table, we take our time perusing the menu. Actually, I don’t peruse because I pretty much know it by heart. And though our waiter explains the specials and answers all of Derrick’s questions, I choose the fritto misto for our first course and the coniglio (braised rabbit) for my main dish like I almost always do.
Derrick tut-tuts over what sort of person could consume a relative of Bugs Bunny, then goes for seafood, with no qualms at all about devouring Charlie the Tuna. I make sure we get an order of the butternut squash ravioli because I can never let anyone leave this place without at least tasting it. I let Derrick choose the wine.
He’s remarkably easy to talk to. It’s almost like being with a girlfriend who happens to have a hard body and “man parts.” We cover a lot of ground while we sip wine and eat our way through some of my favorite foods. I can’t imagine him losing his temper or doing anything remotely underhanded like— I’m about to think of Rich Hanson, except that it turns out Rich Hanson isn’t quite as big an asshole as he leads everyone to believe. I think back to our visit with Isaiah and his aunt. There aren’t many agents who would go to such lengths to save a player from himself.
“Jazmine?”
“Hmmm?” I blink back to the man across the table from me.
“I know you’re the expert on desserts. Which ones should we order?”
“I commend you for leaving this important choice to a professional,” I tease, then talk him through my three top picks.
“Only three?” he says. “I’m shocked.”
* * *
• • •
“Wow. I’m glad I left the decision to you,” he says later as we linger over the final bites of tiramisu and the strawberry crostata with vanilla bean gelato. “These desserts are amazing.”
I nod my agreement. “Glad you like them. I can never fall completely in love with a restaurant that doesn’t deliver all the way to the very last bite.”
“No pressure there.”
We laugh again, and I think how easy Derrick is to be with. There’s no need to press a point or to argue. No hint of dark secrets or hidden layers. If he hadn’t mentioned his father’s addiction to drugs, I’d never guess he’d dealt with anything unpleasant.
Unlike Rich Hanson, with whom sparring is not just encouraged but required. Appalled at his second intrusion into what is proving to be a perfect evening, I shove him and his cocky smile right out of my head.
“Would you like to t
ry another favorite place of mine?” I ask as he stands and pulls out my chair.
“I’m up for wherever you want to go, but I’m not sure I have room for another bite.”
“How about another sip or two?” I suggest. “Brookhaven Wines just across the street is having a complimentary tasting. It’s always fun to try something new.”
Others might respond to this with a double entendre or something that hints at intimacy, but Derrick simply smiles as we stroll companionably across Dresden and into the wine store and the happy buzz of conversation.
Jeff, one of the owners, gives me a hug of greeting and shakes hands with Derrick. “Now this one looks interesting,” he teases.
“Did my sister call and tell you to say that?”
“Nope, I can see it with my own two eyes. Be sure to try the Barolo and the Cab.”
He passes us on to Eddie, who pours us generous tastes. Then we mingle with the mostly neighborhood crowd.
“They have a wine club, too,” I explain. “I’m never going to be an aficionado, but I like trying new wines. And on the exceptionally rare occasions when I entertain, I know I’ll be safe with whatever they recommend.”
“Very cool. I appreciate you sharing your hood with me.”
He takes my hand and matches his stride to mine as we amble back to my house in the crisp spring air.
On the porch, we stand in a spill of light. When he leans down, his mouth is curved into a smile, his features are dappled with light, his eyes are shadowed. Slowly, he angles his face toward mine, hovering briefly, and I realize he’s giving me time to object or withdraw.
There was no thought of a kiss after that first evening with Thea and Jamal. Our brunch was followed by a quick peck on the cheek before we went our separate ways. He’s the first man I’ve dated in so long, I’m not sure what rules apply—or even if there are any. And this doesn’t seem like the right moment to google it.
I close my eyes, eager to discover what he tastes like, how I’ll respond. Whether his kiss will sweep me off my feet and allow me to stop all this thinking.
