Hat Trick

by Morris Fenris

  “Jeff?”

  He blinked and shook his head a little, like a dazed prizefighter coming off the mat for the chance of a final blow. “Yes, Livvie?”

  Olivia’s heart ached for whatever personal disaster had knocked him off his feet. This was not the man she remembered. Clearly this man did not shirk responsibility; he stood tall and stalwart, to meet what must come. Perhaps he truly was ready now for what she wanted achieve. Perhaps, seeing this, she could go ahead and put her plan in action.

  Her clasp on his muscular forearm tightened. “Put your things away here in the office, Jeff. Off the desk and off your mind. It’s my turn now, and you’re coming with me, no questions asked.”

  A small shiver passed over his frame, and for just a moment he closed his eyes. “Livvie, you don’t know—you don’t realize—I’m not in very good shape today. If I go off with you, and I have the chance—I’m pretty vulnerable at the moment. I’m not sure that I can be trusted not to—things might happen that shouldn’t.”

  “Yes, things might. But don’t worry. We’ll work it out. I can see that you’re not in very good shape, Jeff. That means you need someone to take care of you. And, right now, that someone is me.”

  Her newfound take-charge attitude got them to her Fusion, down in the parking lot, where she stuffed him unceremoniously into the passenger seat before climbing behind the wheel. He was putty in her hands. Energy and will had apparently just melted away, leaving him limply fastened by his safety belt and almost pathetically relieved to let someone else make all the decisions. Jeff merely rested his head back against the seat, closed his tired grainy eyes, and let her drive.

  Within an hour they were settled at a table near Humberto’s rear wall, waiting for their early dinner of guacamole, chimichangas, salsa, and all the trimmings.

  “Never been here,” Jeff admitted, finally speaking after a long yet not uncomfortable silence.

  He glanced around at the colorful décor, shades of energetic reds and golds, and booths padded with what looked like Mexican blankets.

  “Yeah, kind of off the radar,” said Olivia, munching on a tortilla chip. “And maybe not quite up to your level of class.”

  He turned slightly toward her, one brow lifted. “Livvie, what’s going on? Why all this?”

  “Nothing sinister, Jeff. Just consider it an intervention.”

  “Intervention?”

  Gently she placed her left hand over his. “My dear man, I could see that you were strung tight.

  So tight, that if you’d been a crossbow, you would have snapped. Ping! Just like that. Couldn’t have such a thing happening right there in your office, now, could we?”

  Absolute quiet, absolute stillness, as his weary gaze searched her face, brimming over with care and compassion and—something else… “Guess not.”

  “Nope. Facebook Flash: financial counselor has meltdown, goes berserk in public, putting accounts at risk.” Pausing for a sip from her salt-rimmed glass of a double margarita, she nodded. “Ah, that’s good stuff. Try it, Jeff. It’s just what you need.”

  “I need a drink?”

  “Honey, you need a lot more than that,” she said teasingly. “You need to relax.”

  God, he was so beautiful. So appealing. Changed in so many ways, for the better. The years had done well by Jeff Quinley. And Olivia loved him for those years, with all her heart and soul. She had never stopped loving him, and she had the scars to prove it. But the way forward, to a resolution, lay like a tightrope before her, and she must walk it warily. Crossing the Rubicon, as it were.

  “Fine,” she approved, smiling as he took a hearty slug, grimaced, then slugged some more.

  “Not exactly—my cup of tea—”

  “That’s all right. Have enough, and the taste won’t matter. You’ll soon be ready to drown yourself in tequila.”

  Ranchera music was playing softly in the background, piped-in because evidently the restaurant’s casual ambiance did not quite rate the presence of a small live band and their instruments. Candles flickered gently atop the tiled table, and large star pendant lights made of pressed punched tin hung from the ceilings.

  She could see his bunched-up muscles beginning to loosen, thanks to the aid of alcohol and atmosphere, and an easing of the strained lines in his face. Hallelujah. Things were looking up.

  “You’ve been so helpful to me with my financial affairs, Jeff,” she began conversationally, wanting to draw him out of himself and that black abyss he had fallen into. “I’ve already seen a small increase in Just Livvie’s account balances, despite the poor economy. How did you happen to get into this field?”

  Unleashing the knot of his somber gray wool tie, undoing the prim top button of his shirt, uncombing the neat furrows of his hair with one thrust of his fingers: all good signs of a gradual unwinding of the man’s tension. Olivia felt encouraged.

  Mixing what remained of his drink with a swizzle stick, he considered for a minute. “I wanted to be a rich man.” This admission came, not unsurprisingly, with a small grimace. “I wanted to be a Wall Street millionaire. Not for what I could do with a lot of money. No. I just wanted the wealth. To make me—” his voice fell; his gaze moved to the heavy glass, “—somebody.”

  “Jeff. You always were somebody. I don’t understand why you—”

  “Oh, Livvie. You see the good in people—that’s one of the things I lo—liked about you. Seems you never see their black hearts and all their flaws beneath the mask. Me—well, don’t forget that I was a ne’er-do-well. Money was supposed to prove to me, and everyone else, that I was important. That I mattered. That I was going places, and leaving the rest of the inferior world behind.”

  “You’re being far too hard on yourself,” she gently chided. “Whatever you were then, Jeff, I see a vast difference now.”

  “Do you?” He sighed. “I appreciate that. You were my number one fan, when we were together. Looking back now, I don’t know how I could have thrown that away.”

  Olivia went very still. Surely he must be able to hear the sudden loud pounding of her heart, even above the change in music to a more lively mariachi. Or see the hint of tears that colored green iris to crystal. “I often wondered that myself.”

  Another couple sips from his drink allowed time for reflection. He’d been doing a lot of that lately. The reflection, a lot; the drinking, not so much. Better late than never, maybe.

  “My family background didn’t prepare me very well for the real world. No stability, no affection, sort of a fend-for-yourself mentality. And God send help if you fell, because there was nobody else there to catch you up or lend support. You—I saw you as a prize to claim, Livvie. And, once I’d done it, I wasn’t interested anymore, so I moved on.”

  She’d known that. She’d realized much of what he was saying, after the fact. His explanation now could never completely cancel out the hurt. But it was a beginning.

  “I’m sorry, Livvie. I’m so sorry. I will never be able to make up for the wrong I did you,” he said huskily, turning toward her.

  Yes, he could. And he would. She would see to that.

  “Let’s call it quits right there, shall we, Jeff? You’ve apologized enough for past mistakes. We all make them; we don’t need them constantly dredged up to throw in our faces.”

  “Ah. Agreed. So, anyway,” he drew in a deep breath, “once I’d graduated, I ran into a couple of friends who had gotten into financial consulting. They were doing good things, helping people who needed it. They offered me a job. The possibilities appealed to me, so I accepted. And—well, here I am.” He spread his hands wide, shrugged, then finished the margarita in a couple of gulps before asking the nearby server for another.

  “Me, too, if you please,” Olivia added. Then responded to Jeff’s lifted brows with an unexpected wink. “Hey, it’s Friday night. I’ve worked hard all week, I need to blow off some steam, as well.”

  “Just not what I imagined from you, that’s all. You’re such a prim and proper yo
ung lady, and I don’t recall your ever going beyond a single drink.”

  “Well, perhaps I’ve changed a bit, too. Cheers.” She lifted her second glass to his, clinked, and moved closer across the bench. “And things at home, Jeff?” she dared to ask, in a lower, more intimate tone. “Better?”

  “Livvie—”

  All right. Too soon. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. But, judging by what little I picked up from your mood earlier, it seemed that personal matters rather than business might be the cause.”

  He had halfway drained his icy-cold serving before trying for an answer. As if to gather in courage. “You’re not prying. You’re showing interest and concern for my welfare. It’s only—well, I haven’t talked about this, with anyone.”

  “It can’t be healthy to keep problems bottled up inside for very long. At times, all of us need to vent; all of us need a confidant, one who can listen without giving advice or criticism.”

  Pulling up a thin smile, he reached over to touch her gently on the cheek. “What gave you such wisdom, Ms. Philosopher?”

  “Oh, I’ve had a few experiences of my own over the years. And my whole family has been my fail-safe system. Everybody needs one of those.”

  “Yeah. Wish I’d had one myself. Maybe I’d have reached being a better person sooner.” He shifted position to dive into the basket of chips, then the salsa. “Hmmm. Pretty good. Guess we’d better order soon, huh? Before I get soused and maudlin and start baring my life’s secrets to you.”

  “Jeff.” Her smile offered the sweetness, the tenderness, the warmth of a Madonna’s. “Drink as much as you want. Tonight I would call it prescription medicine.”

  “Medicine. Huh. Maybe you’re right. Okay, Olivia Bower, here’s to you and your scientific degree.” Tilting his glass, he finished what was left. Then, motioning to their server, who was waiting circumspectly far enough away to ensure a diner’s privacy yet near enough for hailing, he nodded. “All right. Let’s see what we’re getting to eat. And—oh, yes, another one of those margaritas, please.”

  They were enjoying salad with the rest of their tortilla chips while he downed the rest of his third drink and ordered a fourth. Then came huge hot plates of spicy chimichangas and all the delicious extras—sour cream, chopped green onions, and sauce.

  Light-hearted music was still playing softly. No romantic ballads, no poignant tear-jerkers. Mostly just fun, cheerful tunes that had feet tapping and faces smiling. Because, by now, other hungry patrons had entered, and the restaurant was filling up, and it was Friday night, after all. The end of a work week, the beginning of a weekend. A pleasant buzz of conversation underlay the acoustics.

  Their own conversation, that between Jeff and Olivia, was of inconsequentials: the colorful décor, the balmy August weather, the opening of the Summer Games in Beijing’s National Stadium, possible travel destinations for each should the opportunity arise (he: Italy; she: Florence, Italy).

  “Interesting choice,” opined Jeff, clearing his plate and setting it aside in order to concentrate more fully on the last of his drink. Despite the amount of alcohol he’d consumed, there was no slurring of speech, no clumsiness of movements. Perhaps that would come later, when total content would finally kick in. “Ever been there?”

  “To Italy? No. It’s always been a dream of mine, though. Have you?”

  “Uh-huh.” A peculiar mixture of wistfulness and anger creased his features into a frown. “We went, a long time ago, AJ—Annajane and I. Shortly after we were married. When things were—when things were still good…”

  That casual remark finally opened the door, as they sat over Mexican cinnamon coffee and caramel flan, to revelations of a more personal nature. Exactly what Olivia had been hoping for, that he might get off his chest. And possibly, depending on how bad those revelations were, his conscience.

  “I have been—I believe the polite term might be…cuckholded, apparently any number of times,” Jeff dragged that up from the dregs of memory. The coffee contained a very smooth liquor, South of the Border in flavor and fierce in potency, and it tasted just as delightful going down as had the margaritas. “I found out for sure just last week. An exact week ago, as it happens; on Friday night.”

  “Jeff, I’m so sorry,” Olivia told him quietly. “That had to have come as such a shock. One nobody is ever quite prepared for.”

  “Prepared for. Nope. Not at all. Suppose I should have suspected, though. Damned foolish on my part.”

  “And this—uh—infidelity was definitely confirmed?” She was choosing her words carefully.

  He gave a bark of short, bitter laughter. “Confirmed? I’d say so. I walked in on them, in bed together. In my own damned bed!”

  Olivia winced. “And you’ve had this whole time to let it eat at you.”

  “Well, yeah, kinda. Makes you feel pretty inadequate, y’ know, when your wife has to seek companionship elsewhere. Like you’re not good enough for anything. Coulda been back in my salad days—not important enough to matter.”

  Oh, yes, she knew exactly how that felt.

  The booze was beginning to take hold. His diction was losing its sharp, crisp edge, and he was slumped against the padded booth as if half-asleep. Still, he picked up the cup with a swaggering gesture and emptied its contents in just a few noisy swallows.

  “Have you decided what to do about it?”

  “Huh. Still thinking. Not sure. Where d’ you go when you don’t know where to go?” Another grunt of what might pass for amusement. Or irony. “She wants status quo; I wanna seek help. Or, at least, I did. Not sure about that anymore, either. What d’ you recommend, Ms. Philosopher?”

  “I don’t think it’s my place to recommend any measures at all, Jeff,” she told him in complete sincerity. “That would be presumptuous. Whatever is to be done, whatever future you might share, is something the two of you will have to work out together.”

  Frowning, he poured another cup full of the compelling brew. “You’re right. Gotta work on that one of these days. But not tonight, right?”

  “I think—no, probably not tonight.”

  “D’joo have to be anywhere else right now, Livvie?” He squinted across the table at her, as if the softened lights were too bright for his afflicted vision. “Cause I think you’re gonna have to pour me into a cab.”

  Turning slightly, she summoned their waiter with just a little swerve of the head and handed over her credit card. “Not at all,” she assured him. “Some fresh air and a brief walk will be all you need. That, and a good night’s sleep, of course.”

  “Huh. Long way to go. Y’ know where my club hangs out? I mean, where my club is sitting? I mean—” he paused, tasted the words, and spat them out as if unpalatable, “what street I should be on?”

  “You’re not going to your club.” She gathered up her things, then wrapped one arm around his waist to propel him across the bench and upright. “You’re going to a hotel.”

  “No kidding?” Leaning slightly and unashamedly upon her for support, he marveled at the plan as they walked across the uneven tile floor to the door. “Where’djoo get a hotel? Conjured it up outa nowhere, huh?”

  Olivia chuckled. “Jeff, I made reservations for us at the St. Vincent, just across the street. There, see it? Dinner was my treat; in fact, this whole night will be my treat.”

  “No kidding?” he said again. Then he grinned down at her. “Livvie, you’re a peach. And I really, really like that hat.”

  “Thanks, I do, too. All right, watch your step, there. Curb. Okay. Crossing the street, now. Hang on, we’ll get you settled in a jiffy.”

  The suite, located on the third floor, had been decorated with exquisite taste and enough expense for its cost to eat up a substantial chunk of her monthly food budget. One portion of the considerable space had been given over to an inviting king-sized bed, dressed in cool blues and white and a number of lush pillows; the other provided a living area, with a camel-colored suede couch and chairs, teakwood desk, and pl
asma television.

  Besides all the appurtenances, of course. Eco-friendly lamps. Thick scatter rugs in restful navy and brown. A small refrigerator and mini-bar. Framed oil paintings and heavy plaid drapes to shut out city noise or early morning sun.

  Another wall offered entrance to the bathroom spa, a marvel of opulence and alabaster, if the quick glimpse through its open door were any indication.

  Luxury. And indulgence. And, most of all, privacy.

  Olivia was willing, as she had confided to her mother, to go with the flow. Since this opportunity had basically fallen into her lap just this afternoon, she ought to take advantage of it. One step closer to her goal. How could that be a bad thing?

  “’S nice place, Livvie?” he had managed to ask, as she moved him from the elevator to the short hall to the room itself.

  “I think so. Here, Jeff, stand still for just a minute.”

  Yawning and bleary-eyed, he complied, hardly noticing that she was maneuvering his arms free of the crumpled wool suit coat and the tie that hung like a surrendered flag around his neck. Next came unbuttoning his equally crumpled blue shirt, which she managed despite his tendency to slump or swerve away.

  “All right. Now, sit down on the chair.”

  Again, instant obedience, without question; he might have been a child, only half-aware that Olivia had knelt to unlace and remove his shoes. Except that he had started to hum. For God’s sake, the man was actually humming.

  “There you go. Think you can get the pants off by yourself, Buster Keaton?”

  Another yawn. “Uh-huh. Sure can. See?” Flicking loose the belt, like a showoff, he struggled to push one leg of his trousers to the floor, then the other. A step forward had him floundering, still ensnared by the puddled fabric, only to fall face down upon the couch. With a snort of muffled laughter.

  Arms akimbo, Olivia stood surveying him, shaking her head and smiling ruefully. “Oh, boy, you are gonna be in such sad shape tomorrow,” she murmured.