by Melanie Ting
“Don’t do that,” he said.
“Don’t do what?”
“Lick your lips. You have paint on your mouth. In fact, you have paint on your cheek, too.” His own lips curled in disgust.
I flushed and rubbed the side of my face. But since I had no idea where the paint was and it was probably dry, there was really no point. I mentally kicked myself. I was certifiable for even considering that something might be going on between us.
The solid figure of Margaret flashed into my mind. She was not unattractive, but she had quiet, forgettable looks. “You’re way better-looking,” so many women had reassured me after meeting her, as if that were the only important thing. I was the only woman in the universe whose husband had left her and moved onto someone less attractive. While that might seem comforting on the surface, it had led people to speculate on what horrible things must be wrong with me. If Margaret were a young, blonde Barbie doll, everyone would have understood that it was all about sex. But Brent and I had a normal married sex life, at least from what I’d gleaned from comparisons with my girlfriends. Besides, if Brent wanted more sex, he would have asked for it. That was his personality. So, if it wasn’t sex, what was the problem? Last week, I took a quiz called Ten Signs Your Marriage is in Trouble, and we had only checked off two of them.
“Earth to Jackie,” Brent interrupted. “Can you please pay attention? This is important.”
“Oh, sorry.” I trained my eyes back on him.
“Look, when we finalized the divorce, we agreed that you and the kids could continue to live here for the time being.”
“Yes. Staying here with all their friends and the same school has really worked out well.” That was one thing I’d prided myself on. I had completely minimized the disruption in Hannah and Tristan’s lives. Except for the absence of their father, our home life was exactly the same.
“Sure. But it’s been a couple of years since I left, so they’ve had lots of time to adjust. Anyhoo, Vancouver’s real estate market is pretty overheated right now.”
I waited. Brent had his lecture voice on, so I knew better than to interrupt.
“A real estate bubble is like a game of musical chairs. When the music stops, you don’t want to be the one without a chair.”
“So, we’ll hold on to the house?”
Brent shook his head. “No, no, no. We need to make sure we get the money out while prices are high. We don’t want to be left holding on to the house once its value goes down.”
“Oh, because in musical chairs, the goal is to be left with something,” I pointed out.
“Well, perhaps my analogy wasn’t perfect, but you don’t have to act obtuse.”
I widened my eyes in mock surprise. When he got huffy, he used big words. Like I couldn’t be offended if he called me obtuse instead of stupid. Sure, I knew exactly what he meant in the first place, but I hated when he explained things to me like I was five years old. Besides, my point was that I didn’t want to move. I had worked hard on this house, and I loved it. The kids loved it too. “But if we sell the house where are the kids and I going to live?”
“You’ll get half the proceeds from the sale. You can buy a new place.” Brent made that task seem like nothing.
“I don’t want to move.” My voice sounded whiny even to my ears.
“Jackie, I’ve been more than generous. Most husbands would have insisted that we liquidate all our assets when the divorce was finalized, but instead I’ve continued to pay the mortgage as well as child support.”
The mortgage payments were in lieu of alimony and not out of the goodness of your heart, I thought but didn’t say. “But we agreed… staying here would be best for the kids.” Tristan had been hit hardest when Brent left. For the first six months, our son had to see a therapist who had recommended keeping his school and home life stable to minimize the stresses in his life.
“Surely you didn’t think you’d continue to live here until Tris graduated from high school. He’s much better now, and if you have to move, this is the perfect time. Hannah has a year left before high school, so she can make new friends easily.”
“But they’ve lived in West Van their whole lives.”
“If staying here is so important to you, maybe you need to get a job.”
“I have a job.” I worked in an art supply store. Now was probably not the time to let Brent know my hours had been cut way back since Christmas.
“A real job. Not a minimum wage job that’s only part-time.”
Like Margaret’s job. She was some kind of business consultant or so I’d gleaned from LinkedIn. But if I had a full-time job, who would get the kids to school? Who would stay home with Tristan when he had an upset stomach because of things going wrong? Who would chauffeur everyone to their after-school activities?
I placed my hands flat on the table and noticed that my fingernails were edged with black. “But if we sell and I only get half, I won’t be able to afford to live in this neighbourhood anymore.” Our home was lovely, but it was one of the smaller places to begin with and we had only a single lot. Maybe I’d be able to find a rental townhouse, but that wasn’t the same thing. My parents always said that owning a home was the best investment you could make.
Brent nodded. “Yeah. But you know, moving might not be the worst thing in the world. The kids always have a great time downtown with me.”
Maybe. Raising your kids in a city condo was a trend, but not one I had ever imagined doing. I grew up in the suburbs, surrounded by trees, big yards, and friendly neighbours. But so many of my expectations had changed. Maybe this was one more. There was a huge lump in my throat. The kids were downstairs, laughing as they played some computer game. A curl of anger rose up. We all loved this home. Maintaining our normal home life was the one accomplishment I’d prided myself on, and now Brent was taking that away.
“Why is this happening now? It can’t be just about the real estate market. The homes around here have been rising in value—despite someone saying every year that it can’t last.”
He looked down at the marble countertop. “Well, I’ve seen a condo development downtown that I think would be a good investment for me. I need to free up money for the down payment on that.”
“Only you?”
He made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Does that really matter?”
Did that meant that he was moving in with her? It wasn’t even about Margaret, who seemed like a nice person in the five minutes we’d spoken, but more about the amount of time the kids would get. They loved having Brent’s undivided attention. In some ways, he spent more consecutive hours with them now then he had done when he was still here. And how old was Margaret? Were they thinking about kids? My poor sweeties would get shunted to the sidelines when cute new babies appeared on the scene. Then they would turn into teenagers with psychological issues.
I sighed loudly. That single train of thought led into a dismal future that was still years away. Sometimes having a good imagination was the worst thing.
Brent shook his head. As usual he could see right into my head and figure out what I was thinking. “Don’t worry, Jacks. Everything’ll be fine.”
“Isn’t there anything I could do to stay here?”
He sniffed. “Well, you could buy out my half of the house.”
I did some mental calculations. The house down the street had sold for over two million, and ours was nicer. So the ballpark price would be from two and half million to three. Holy Mother of God, I’d need a million dollars to buy him out. That wasn’t happening. My dad had assured me that I could count on them if I had any big financial problems, but he was talking about the van breaking down—not a house purchase.
But Brent knew all this before he made the proposal. He went over to the fridge to get a Coke, while I was busy having a stress attack.
“Look, if you want to stay in this neighbourhood, you’re going to have to downsize and get a job.”
“I like to be here for the kids when
they get home.” I also liked making gourmet dinners for Brent and maintaining a beautiful home, but that job had been yanked out from under my feet.
“The kids are getting older. They can handle a little independence.” He motioned towards the plastic container of art supplies on the dining room table. “Maybe it’s time to stop dreaming and playing around.”
Meaning stop making art. Everyone knew that artists didn’t make much money. All my instructors seemed to have multiple jobs.
“Art isn’t about money for me, it’s more like an escape.”
“An escape? You live in a beautiful house beside a rain forest, you work part-time, and I support you and the kids. What possible stresses could you have?”
I was tempted to reply, “Well, the man I was in love with, who promised to love me forever, decided he needed more out of life and walked out. On the scale of one to traumatic, that’s pretty high.” But instead I said nothing.
Brent drank his Coke and looked around the kitchen and into the family room beyond. “Well, the place looks great. If you do some of that clutter-clearing stuff, it will look even more spacious.”
I knew exactly what he was doing now too, because we used to practice his first sales calls together. “Assume the close,” Brent always said. He was assuming that I would go along with the sale of the house, because what choice did I really have?
“Does it have to be right away?” I asked. I cursed the pleading tone in my voice, mainly because it was pointless.
He nodded. “It’s March. Most family houses are sold in the spring, so that families can move in the summer and start the new school year in their new homes.”
“It’s a lot to consider at once. Give me some time to think things through.” Tonight, I could reread the terms of our divorce agreement. I was pretty sure we both had to agree in order to sell. But it wasn’t like I’d take him to court. We’d worked so hard to keep things calm and civil, so what was the point of poisoning his relationship with the kids now? And why did he get to be the one to initiate these major life changes? Still, Brent had been very fair about child support and staying in our home; all my divorced girlfriends had commented on it.
“Sure. Take your time,” Brent replied.
But once he got an idea, he was like a dog on a bone, which was why he was such a successful investment advisor. He would ask me again on Wednesday when he came to get the kids. He was already eyeing the house like a prospective buyer.
That was the trouble with knowing someone so well. You knew when an argument was already lost.
2
Soft Landing
Leo Gauthier
“Goats! Over here.”
Hearing my old hockey nickname echo through the modern confines of the Vancouver airport was startling. I craned my neck and saw my new boss—Chris Luczak. He was dressed in dark clothes with his jacket collar pulled up and a baseball cap pulled down low. The typical disguise of an NHL superstar, or ex-superstar, hoping to avoid getting bothered in public. Since he was alone, he had succeeded.
“Lucky.” I shook his hand. “I had no idea that you were coming to the airport.”
“Of course I’m here. I wanted to welcome you to Vancouver properly. And I was hoping I could persuade you to come to tonight’s game.” He grabbed one of my suitcases and led me towards the exit.
Our greetings had caused a few people to stare. As captain of the Vancouver Millionaires when they won the Cup and very recently retired, Lucky was still a big deal around here. But now he had a new job: Vice President of Hockey Operations for the Vancouver Vice. The Vice were the AHL farm team for the NHL Millionaires, so it wasn’t that big a leap.
“You don’t have to twist my arm to go to a game.” I laughed. I’d already been planning to sneak into the arena once I dropped off my suitcases at the hotel. I wanted to see exactly what I’d gotten myself into. Taking over an AHL team with only a month left in the season wasn’t going to be a picnic.
“Great minds think alike,” he replied with a grin. “I knew we picked the right head coach.” It was easy to see why he’d been a good captain. In a matter of moments he’d made me feel like part of the Vice team, but he was also friendly and low-key. “Of course, I’ve been taking a ton of grief over hiring you. Hector Blaine chewed me out for half an hour straight.”
“Sorry about that.” My General Manager back in Albany had been furious that I was leaving before the playoffs. He’d ripped into me as well, screaming about team loyalty. But I’d pointed out that if I’d gotten the Albany head-coaching job at the beginning of the season, I wouldn’t be leaving. The fastest way to become an NHL coach was to take opportunities when they came up. And what better opportunity would there be than becoming the next head coach of the worst team in the AHL? The Vice had brand new management, a commitment to improvement, and best of all, more money to invest in the team. “Hector knows I have a clause in my contract to allow me to leave at any point in the season. That’s why he let us talk in the first place.”
Lucky shrugged. “I tried to explain how desperate we are. Since Bob Pankowski had his heart attack, the assistants have really been flailing. I don’t think he gave them much responsibility.”
I nodded. I didn’t know Pankowski personally, but there were coaches who held all their cards close to their chest. Usually it was fear-driven. “Starting now gives us a chance to get an early start on next season.”
“Yeah, this one is kind of a write-off,” Lucky admitted. The Vice were last in the league and out of the playoffs since January. Not exactly a success story. He eyed my luggage. “We could put these in the trunk and go straight there. That way we’ll only miss the first period.”
“Sounds good.”
He remotely unlocked a large black Range Rover, lifted the hatchback, and loaded my two suitcases. “Have you got more stuff coming from New York?”
I shook my head. “I travel light.” That was my preference: rent furnished apartments, lease cars, and be ready to go at a moment’s notice.
“It felt weird to only interview you on the phone and Skype, and not get to see you in person,” Lucky said as we eased our way through the traffic. It was raining hard. No snow, but Vancouver’s greyness was almost worse.
“Hockey’s a small world though,” I replied. “We both know each other by reputation already. And we met briefly at a World Junior tournament a few years ago.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I remember. You were an assistant coach, and I was supposed to deliver a few words of encouragement. Not sure if I helped or not.”
I laughed. “You impressed them, but that group wasn’t great at listening anyway.” We’d lost in the final that year. But the next year when I was the head coach, we’d won the gold medal.
“Listen, everyone’s already at the game. They’re dying to meet you.”
“Who’s everyone?” I asked.
“Well, Don Swan’s there, you know, from the Millionaires. And of course, Greg and Amanda Richardson.”
I was curious about the brother and sister who also managed the Vice. I’d done a little research and they came from a very wealthy family who owned part of the team. “What are Greg and Amanda like?”
“Greg’s a great General Manager. He’s one of those math geniuses, so he’s the go-to guy for your financial questions. Easy-going, too. Feel free to drop by and talk to him any time you have questions. I mean, beyond what I can answer. We’re a team, our management group isn’t big on job titles. Everyone does what they’re good at as challenges come up.”
“Sounds good.” Things seemed pretty loose here, which was already my impression. That was a better situation for me than a team that insisted on doing things as “they’d always been done.” I waited for part two of his answer.
“And Amanda,” his voice softened. “She’s incredible. So smart and she really cares about people—everyone who works for the team, from the kids who sell popcorn to the team superstar.” He laughed. “Whoever that might be. I mean, we’ve got
good players, but not enough of them.”
Again, I waited for more. The best way to get answers was to shut up at the right time. But the emotional tone of his voice was odd.
Lucky stopped for a red light and shifted in his seat. “Listen, Goats, there’s something I maybe should have mentioned before. I wasn’t sure if it was important, and I sure as hell don’t have experience in this area. Amanda and I are going out.” He shook his head. “Jesus, that sounds like we’re in grade seven or something. Anyway, you don’t have to worry, because we’re not making out in the office or anything.” The expression on his face suggested that was exactly what he wished he could be doing. Lucky was a pretty easy read.
He accelerated into the intersection. “So, is that okay with you?”
It was really too late to ask that question now that I’d quit my job and moved across the country. But I’d register my concerns anyway. “Gotta be honest with you, Lucky. Seems a little tight in the management group. A brother and sister, and you’re dating the sister. If I have an issue with you, my boss, there’s nowhere to go.”
“Once you meet Amanda and Greg, I don’t think you’ll be worried anymore. They’re both total professionals. But you can always talk to Swanny at the Millionaires if you’ve got an issue with me.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Now I was interested to meet Amanda Richardson, a woman who could turn an ex-hockey superstar into a stammering teenager. The Vice didn’t sound like the most professional team in the AHL, but I knew I could improve the team here. And if it wasn’t the right situation, I’d move on next season.
“Welcome to Vancouver, Leo.”
As soon as we walked into the executive suite at the arena, I was surrounded by Millionaire’s staff. I’d already interviewed with Don Swan, but his boss, Rhett Batchelor, was there, as well as Nick Barbarossa, head coach of the Millionaires. It was flattering that they had all shown up to meet me, and a good sign that the Vice organization worked closely with its NHL parent. A fair-haired young man hovering outside the circle turned out to be Greg Richardson. He was surprisingly low key for being both in charge of the Vice and an extremely rich man.
