by Eva Charles
I always paid close attention to what people order in restaurants. It’s a small window into their psyche. What you eat says a lot about you. You can take it to the bank.
Last week over breakfast, I interviewed a fresh-out-of-grad-school hipster. He turned up his nose at the eggs and pig on the menu, and ordered avocado toast with a side of ramps and a layered kale salad served in a jar. The kind of jar my grandmother uses to can tomatoes at the end of the summer. I am not kidding. When he asked for a cold brew, I almost jumped over the table and beat him with his messenger bag until he called it an iced coffee like a normal person. Needless to say, he’s still looking for a job.
Breaking bread is a great way to size up a woman, too. If she indulges in dessert, the sex will likely be good. The more decadent the dessert, the better the sex. But if she orders salad with the dressing on the side for her main course, then picks at the baby lettuce like it’ll bloat her bigger than a balloon in the Macy’s Day Parade, don’t bother unzipping your pants—not worth the effort. It might not be a publication-worthy theory, but I’d tested it on a pretty large sample.
Emily took a bite of the sandwich and licked the sticky cheese from her bottom lip. I picked up my water, and sucked in a couple small ice cubes, letting them dissolve slowly on my tongue until it was completely numb.
“The Hawks have done a pretty good job of managing their business. Better than most teams,” I said, when I could feel my tongue again.
“I agree. That’s why I took the job. No one even hinted that I would be asked to sweep bad behavior under the rug. To answer your question, it’s been good with the players. We’re still getting acquainted. Mostly everyone’s been on their best behavior, and Jake’s stepped in when they haven’t been. He sets a good tone around Hancock Field.”
“We’re lucky to have you. Damn lucky.”
Emily’s phone went off, and she glanced at the screen. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to make a call.”
When Jake stood to let her out of the booth, she caught his eye. It was a private look, as though they shared some secret. When I exchanged looks like that with a woman in a restaurant, it usually meant don’t come back wearing panties, or leave the bathroom door unlocked, I’m right behind you. Intimate conversations with the eyes, and the bare hint of a smile. The kind coworkers didn’t, or shouldn’t, have.
I glanced at the ring on her finger, then at my brother. Jake wasn’t the kind of guy who chased married women. One, he didn’t need to, because at every turn there was some woman flinging herself at him as though he were the next coming of Christ. And two, he’d been raised better.
“She seems solid,” I said after Emily left, trying to sound casual. But I didn’t do casual all that well when it came to my family’s safety and well-being.
“She’s great. You know how worried everyone was when the league first floated the SRT idea. But she’s the perfect woman for the job. She’s not easily offended, but expects everyone to behave like adults. Knows how to put guys in their place without embarrassing them too much. And she doesn’t make a big deal over stupid shit.”
“How did you find her?”
“When the mandate came down, the front office called Sophie for suggestions, and she put us in contact with Emmie.”
Emmie. There it was again. “Sophie?” I asked. Our cousin, Sophie, was the executive director of the largest domestic violence agency in the state. The agency worked with survivors of sexual assault, too. We were proud of her, and my brothers and I supported her efforts at every opportunity.
Sophie and her four sisters grew up next door. Our mothers were sisters. In truth, the girls, which is how we collectively refer to them, are more like sisters than cousins. Sophie’s the oldest: bossy, nosy, and one of the most loving and caring human beings I’ve ever met. She stepped in to mother us, all ten of us, after our parents died.
“She knew Emily from some panel they were on together.”
“Sounds like it’s working for you.”
Jake nodded. “It hasn’t worked out so well for every team. I was talking with Tony Bash from the Bison’s the other day. They hired some crazy chick and it’s a huge mess over there. We got damn lucky.”
“That’s a wedding ring on her finger.”
“What’s your point?”
“No point, Mister Damn Lucky.”
“Pft. Wedding ring or no wedding ring, I’m not into her. And I wouldn’t be even if she didn’t work for the Hawks. She’s cute and all, but…”
“But you prefer green-eyed pediatric residents named Grace.”
“Fuck you. That is so out of bounds.”
“Touché.”
Jake scowled, and I’m sure he would have grabbed me by the throat if we weren’t in a public place. Grace was a touchy subject. Her mother worked for my family years ago, and they had lived in one of the guesthouses on the property until Grace was a teenager. She was also my cousin Juliana’s best friend. She fell squarely in the camp of women to protect, not to prey on. But no matter how much he denied it, Jake had it bad for her.
“Emily makes my job a hell of a lot easier, and she’s good people. That’s it. Stop looking at me like that.”
“That might be how you see things, but she’s into you. I can tell.”
“You can tell. What are you, Madame Know-it-all from the traveling carnival? Stop. Just stop.”
I squirted a few drops of sriracha into the puddle of ketchup on my plate. “Juizo.” It was a Portuguese word my grandmother always used with my brothers and me. It means use your common sense.
“This from the guy who was bare-ass in his office half an hour ago. And you can tell Emily whatever you want, but it wasn’t the first time Katina saw your scrawny butt.”
“It wasn’t?” asked a sweet little voice with a glimmer of laughter. “I’m shocked,” she added, sliding back into the booth.
I glared at Jake. “Katina and I dated a few years back.”
“Dating—is that what you kids call it now?”
Emily soaked it all up, as though she wasn’t sure what to make of us. I ignored Jake’s lame attempt at humor. This was just business as usual for us. I took shit from my brothers all the time, and dished out plenty, too.
“I guess the break-up was amicable if she’s willing to come to your office to do a butt check.”
She was funny and disarming, and even though the joke was at my expense, I laughed. It was becoming obvious why she fit in well with the team. “I haven’t completely made up my mind, but so far, I like you.”
“I’m so honored.” Emily picked up what was left of her sandwich off the plate, and took a small bite.
For a few long minutes, I thought about other ways I might honor her and her sassy little mouth.
“Emmie, you have no idea how this guy operates. He dated half the women who work at the agency. At first, we thought it was some perverse thing he had going on, or he was a masochist. Why else would anyone want all their exes hanging around the lunchroom, talking to each other?” Jake shook his head. “But as it turns out, he’s just a damn fool.”
“Dated them before they worked at the agency. And stop exaggerating. We’re talking about a few women.”
“Tell me more,” she urged.
“There’s nothing to tell. I’m not a jerk, and I don’t torch the bridge when a relationship ends.” I shoved a French fry into my mouth, and chewed it carefully. “I date smart, competent women. The kind you want to hire.”
“After Netflix and chill,” Jake quipped, fishing his phone from his pocket.
“That’ll be Coach,” Emily said. “You’ll want to make that call somewhere private.”
“More private than the alcove near the men’s room?”
She nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
Jake groaned. “How bad?”
“Four,” she answered. “The good news is it doesn’t involve you—not directly, anyway.”
Jake was muttering under his breath when he left the table.
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“Four out of five, or four out of ten?” I asked.
A smile pulled at her lips. “Classified information.”
“Can’t be one of my clients.”
“Nice try.” She speared a cherry tomato and popped it into her mouth.
I sat back and studied her for a minute. “Emmie—cute name. Is that what everyone calls you?”
She jerked a shoulder. “Not everyone. It’s a childhood name, but I’ve always preferred it.” A small, pained look crossed her face. It was fleeting, and if I hadn’t been paying close attention, I would have missed it. Something told me I’ve always preferred it was complicated, and ordinarily I would have probed, but Jake would be back soon, and right now I didn’t have the time to explore sad little looks.
The more pressing question was: Why did Jake know her childhood name? The one she prefers. Unlike me, who never knows when to shut my mouth, Jake’s not much into small talk. Or details, unless it’s the Xs and Os in the playbook.
Should I mind my own business, or go for it?
You are your brother’s keeper. We lived by that motto in my family. No one more than me.
“Jake’s a good man. The best. But he’s human and susceptible to temptation, like every other guy.”
She put down the last bite of sandwich, and pushed in a crumb from the edge of the plate. “Go on.”
“He can’t afford to get involved with a woman he works with, especially a married woman. The scandal would ruin his squeaky-clean reputation, maybe even his career. At best, it would be a huge distraction.”
She glanced at her wedding ring, then met my eyes with a steely gaze. “Are you asking if there’s anything going on between us, or warning me to stay away from him?”
I thought for a minute. “Warning.”
A thin smile slid over her face. “Jake doesn’t seem like he needs an assistant to manage his social life. Besides, it sounds like you have your hands full with your own.”
She paused to wrap her lips around a fat paper straw, and slowly sucked the sweet tea into her mouth. It was sexy as fuck, and I started to sweat. “But you certainly don’t need to worry about me in that regard,” she added, when she was done creating images tailor-made for the spank bank.
You certainly don’t need to worry about me in that regard. What did that even mean? And why can’t women ever use plain, simple language instead of expecting guys to decipher every little nuance, and then beating us over the head, like we’re idiots, when we invariably get it wrong?
“I don’t know, Emmie. He’s a good-looking guy. And loaded.”
“So, you’d date him if he wasn’t your brother?”
I laughed. “Not a chance. He’s not my type. But we’re not talkin’ about me.”
She pushed her plate away and leaned onto her elbows, hands clasped near her chin. “What makes you think he’s my type?”
Aside from my cousins and sisters-in-law, I had yet to meet a straight woman who wasn’t into Jake. Not a single one. “You don’t like men?”
“I like some men.”
“But you prefer women?” It popped out my mouth, as if we were playing some word association game that didn’t involve filters.
“Sometimes. Does it have to be an either-or thing with you? Why can’t we like everyone?”
What? What did she say? And did I really just ask a woman I don’t know, a card-carrying member of the SRT, a totally inappropriate question? Actually, two inappropriate questions, but who’s counting?
And what the hell was wrong with my radar? It was totally out of whack today. But from the look on her face when she walked in on Katina examining me, she did not seem like a woman who was open to all the possibilities. She looked horrified.
My curiosity was piqued and the stupid guy in me wanted to explore this a little. At this point, what was one more inappropriate question, anyway? “Are you saying you like them at the same time? Men and women.” I knew there was more than a small risk she’d throw what was left of her iced tea in my face, and I braced myself for the icy deluge, but it didn’t come.
“Uh-huh,” she answered. “Why not? I like animals, too.”
I swallowed hard. I’ve chatted up a lot of women in my life, but never once, not once, did a woman flat out say she was into animals. Jesus. Okay, I’d explored enough. I might have to work with her one day, and besides, animals weren’t part of any fantasy I ever banked. In my fantasies, the only beast was me.
I needed to get back on track. “Always been a live-and-let-live kind of guy. But Jake likes women. Just women. One at a time.”
“You sure about that?”
Pretty sure. No, I’m not sure. Not with absolute certainty. For all I knew, Jake belonged to some private sex club and got off on being flogged by a half-dozen leather-clad babes in lace-up boots, and a freshly waxed boy-toy. But there was no way I was copping to that. “I’m sure.”
“You don’t look sure.”
I gulped some water, pulled a couple flimsy napkins from the dispenser, and wiped the sweat off the back of my neck while Emily watched. “It’s hot in here.”
While I was not-so-discreetly mopping up, she leaned in as if to share a secret. I wasn’t sure my heart, or any other part of my anatomy, could take any more titillating news from her.
“It’s not my business who Jake likes. And not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve only ever liked one person—a man—and I married him. If you didn’t stick your nose where it didn’t belong, and toss out thinly veiled warnings like beads at a Mardi Gras parade, you wouldn’t be sweating like a pig, in an air-conditioned room.” She sat back with a smug little look, and folded her arms across her chest.
When I realized the joke was on me, I tossed my head back and laughed. “Well played. You are pure evil, sweetheart. But I guess you need to be to keep those Hawks players in line.”
“I have a little black book chock full of spells and potions. You better watch yourself.”
“Duly noted.”
I liked this woman. Not just her sassy mouth, although her mouth looked soft and kissable, and it wasn’t hard to imagine her lips wrapped… Mid-thought, I caught the gold shimmer on her finger, and sank my teeth into the Italian sub I ordered for lunch. The bite of sandwich went down like a wad of cardboard, balled up with the rough edges on the outside, and lodged itself at the opening of my stomach.
I didn’t do married women. Ever. And I didn’t fantasize about them either. All right, maybe once or twice I fantasized about someone with a ring on her finger, but I was a horny sixteen-year-old and she was a young math teacher with a smokin’ hot body. She was also the cheerleading coach, and after school, she’d change into a skintight get-up and practice gymnastics routines outside the weight room where my friends and I hung out. Her flexibility was legendary. Nobody would blame me for those fantasies. But that was then, this was now, and I needed to get my shit together.
“How does your husband feel about you working for the Hawks?”
She caught me staring at her ring, and pulled her hands into her lap where I couldn’t see them.
“He doesn’t feel anything,” she muttered.
“Not even a little twinge of jealousy with all those pumped-up guys running around half-naked, drooling over you? Impressive. Either that, or he’s a damn fool.”
“No one’s drooling over me.”
“You keep thinking that, Sunshine.”
3
Mark
I escaped the city early Friday afternoon, before the Cape traffic clogged the highway and turned the trip into a nightmare. But even so, it wasn’t all that relaxing of a trip. I spent the entire forty-five-minute drive to Meadows Shore, where I grew up, on the phone, trying to pitch a talented player to a couple teams. But they weren’t buying. Not yet. Money. In the end, it always came down to money.
Frankly, I was tired of hearing owners bellyache about player salaries. Players had a small window in which to earn for a lifetime. They pushed themselves beyond
human expectation, and put their bodies on the line, every day. Yeah, so did police officers, firefighters, and the military, and in my opinion, we didn’t pay them anywhere near enough, either. It was a national embarrassment.
But in my business, no one’s take was more grossly inflated than the team owners. They made money hand over fist, and like a cartel, they were ruthless when anything threatened their payday.
I pulled in the driveway and parked alongside a Subaru station wagon. Hopefully the car belonged to one of the girls, and not to my brothers. God help them if they’d started driving cars that screamed soccer mom. Cole and Drew were thoroughly domesticated, but a white station wagon seemed like a bridge too far, even for those pussies.
I entered the house through the garage and made my way to the kitchen. I’m a creature of habit. Always head for the kitchen first. Not sure why I do it, or what I expect to find, but it’s the first place I go. That’s not entirely true. I know exactly why I’m drawn there.
Some people visit cemeteries to be close to the dead, but not me. I’ve never found a moment’s comfort at the cemetery. The few times I visited, I left angry, pissed off at the world for days.
Instead, I come here to the place where I grew up, make myself comfortable in the kitchen, and sit in my dad’s office chair. Fuck the cemetery—my parents’ spirits are right here, in this house. Woven inextricably into the cocoon they created for us.
Mom was forever puttering around the kitchen, or tending her flower garden in the side yard. Occasionally, when the weather was good, she’d be out on the back porch with a book, curled in the swing we got her for Mother’s Day one year.
My second stop was always Dad’s study, where the lingering aroma of rich tobacco soothes the small ache in my chest. I’m not certain the tobacco smell actually exists anymore, or whether it’s just part of a memory I’m not ready to let go.
