My Favorite Mistake

by Beth Kendrick

  “Sorry about that.” I pointed to the list of names in my notebook. “Now, as I was saying, you might want to put a few bucks on…”

  Flynn’s strong, callused fingers closed around my wrist. My arm and breast smashed up against him as he yanked me away from the bar. When I tried to wriggle free, he clamped his other hand around my elbow.

  “March.” He dragged me toward the back office.

  The crowd’s chatter and jukebox guitar riffs faded into a long, loaded silence as we headed down the hall. He slammed the office door behind us and loosened his grip. I wrenched my arm away, chafing my skin bright red in the process, and escaped to the other side of the tiny white room.

  “What the hell was that?” I demanded.

  “That was me calling a business conference.” He leaned back against the closed door.

  “Do you start all your business conferences with bodily assault? This isn’t the hockey rink.”

  “You and Skye are violating every fire code known to man,” he fumed. “And I don’t even know where to start with the illegal gambling.”

  “Oh, give me a break.” I rolled my eyes. “A few bucks in a beer pitcher hardly qualifies as federal racketeering. And don’t blame me for the overcrowding—that was all Skye.”

  “Yeah, and we’re her business partners, so when the lawsuits start pouring in, we’re all screwed.”

  He had a point. “Okay. I understand your concern,” I said in the tone of voice you’d use to soothe a snarling rottweiler. “I’ll go make sure every possible fire exit is clear.” I took a few steps toward the door. Flynn didn’t budge.

  “Not so fast.” He crossed his arms over his chest. The Clint Eastwood glare was back. “I’m not finished.”

  I waited.

  “I am trying to help you and Skye out, but if I ever drive down here to find another unannounced, unauthorized peeing promo, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

  “There’s already hell to pay—have you seen the account ledgers?” I took another step toward him. “And as long as we’re on the subject of unauthorized, unannounced business deals, why don’t we discuss the prospective buyer I had to deal with this morning?”

  “Good idea.” I could practically see the black storm clouds gathering over his head. “Henry Warton called me this afternoon, and he had a lot to say about the way we run this bar.”

  I couldn’t stifle my laugh. “All complimentary, I hope?”

  “His exact words were ‘an underfunded asylum’.”

  “Well, you win some, you lose some.”

  “I can’t believe you deliberately screwed up that deal.” The jaw muscles resumed twitching. “I can’t believe you two went ahead with this without asking me.”

  “Well, I can’t believe you tried to sell this place without asking me. Listen.” I tried to rekindle the homecoming queen within. Be nice. “Try to appreciate what we’re doing here. This promo is genius—we’re making money hand over fist. And it was Skye’s idea. She’s finally involved. Isn’t that what we wanted?”

  He frowned at this gratuitous mention of “we” and reverted to his tone of cold control. “You pull another stunt like this and you’ll regret it.”

  My hands reflexively closed in a need for something to shatter. Because nothing had changed. Ten years had passed, oceans and continents had been crossed, and yet I’d been cast in exactly the same role. The stunt-puller. The black hole of dysfunction. The woman who stood between Flynn and what he wanted.

  When I finally opened my mouth, my words came out clipped and crisp. “It seems to me I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating: you need to stop issuing ultimatums.”

  The anger in his eyes flared up. “You need to stop making bad decisions without consulting your partner first.”

  We circled each other, bristling. The squabble over the bar bets had escalated into something much darker.

  Run off with one lousy bass player and pay for it for the rest of your life.

  I took a step back. “I’ve said all I have to say.”

  “So have I.” He nodded toward my hand. “How’s your wrist?”

  In all the tumult, I had forgotten about my pending personal injury lawsuit. I hid my reddened wrist behind my back. “It’s fine.”

  He sighed and held out his hand. “Come here.”

  Suddenly, and for reasons I couldn’t begin to untangle, I was afraid I might cry. “No.”

  “Come on, Faith. Let me see.” His posture relaxed and his tone gentled. He gave me a hint of a smile and my stomach did a slow half-gainer.

  “It’s fine,” I insisted.

  “God, you’re impossible.” He crossed the room in a flash, backing me into the corner. He reached around my waist and eased my hand out from behind my back.

  He cradled my wrist in both hands, stroking the delicate skin. The pink fingerprints he’d left on my forearm were fading fast, but I could see the regret in his eyes as he lowered his head to examine the marks.

  “I’m sorry.” His breath was warm against the hollow of my throat.

  “Oh, that’s okay,” I stammered. “I guess we both got a little, you know, carried away…”

  “I like what you’re wearing,” he said, but he didn’t seem all that focused on my outfit. Rather, he was looking at me as though I were naked.

  “Thanks.” I continued babbling uncontrollably. “But it’s not mine. I borrowed it. From Skye.”

  His hand skimmed up my arm and shoulder, leaving a ripple of goosebumps in its wake. I shut up. When he brushed his thumb across my chin and lower lip, I shivered against the cold plaster behind me.

  I parted my lips, and he leaned in closer.

  “You guys!” Skye pounded on the door. “Faith! Flynn! Somebody peed! Come on!”

  “I’m sorry.” We said this in unison as we leapt apart.

  His expression shocked me. He looked pained. He looked reproachful. He looked the opposite of everything I was feeling.

  I tried to regroup. “Did you…did we just…”

  “I’ll see you out there.” He flung open the door. Smoke and music and a cool burst of air conditioning poured in.

  Skye scooted out of the way to let him pass, then popped her head into the office.

  “Faithie! What is going on in here? You look like Kim Basinger in that Tom Petty video where she’s dead. I thought we covered this. You’re supposed to look friendly. Now put on a happy face and get out here.”

  9

  At ten forty-five P.M., I found the answer to Skye’s prayers.

  It had become painfully clear that, despite my warnings, threats, and attempts at bribery, my sister could not possibly give up dating. It would be like asking a rabbit to give up hopping. And without the specter of impending motherhood looming, she was right back to her customary routine of batting her eyes and flipping her hair at Lars, plus every other male over the age of fourteen.

  But if I couldn’t stop the madness, at least I could redirect it to a more appropriate outlet.

  He was sitting in the shadows at the far end of the bar, using a dog-eared copy of Anna Karenina as a coaster for his teacup. Tweedy and gray at the temples, he appeared to be the antithesis of Bob and Lars—a little piece of Oxford out here in the cornfields. The man was wearing an actual bow tie. I squinted, but could see no wedding ring. He clearly needed a little excitement in his life, and I knew a very exciting girl who needed a little calming down.

  A reconnaissance mission was in order, but I still had a few obstacles to surmount before I could commence search-and-rescue efforts for Skye’s love life.

  One, Flynn. I had wanted him to kiss me in the office tonight. I had wanted him to kiss me and then some. My body had turned traitor and was declaring war with my mind. I wanted him, but I knew that having him would mean plunging into another push-me-pull-you struggle with explosive chemistry and hell to pay at the end. This was not part of my master plan.

  Two, and only slightly less alarming, I still hadn’t peed, and t
hings were getting dicey down there. My bid for victory was going to be foiled by my own Californian obsession with hydration. I had about four glasses of water sloshing around in there. But Sally Hutchins was still in the game, so I had no choice but to think dry and cross my legs. Even if my kidneys ruptured and I died of blood poisoning, I would prevail.

  Besides, refusing to hit the ladies’ room was good for business. The cash register had been ringing nonstop. Even though we were charging for beer again, everyone was hanging out to see who would ultimately emerge the winner.

  I squirmed and pressed my knees together, emptied the ashtray Mrs. Dupree had left brimming with cigarette butts, and visualized my tiara. Then I decided to confront Flynn, who was stationed clear on the other side of the bar, pretending the near-smooching incident had never happened.

  I sashayed up behind him at the cash register. He finished his transaction, slammed the drawer shut, and refused to acknowledge me.

  I cleared my throat. He reopened the drawer and started examining the receipts.

  “Ahem,” I said.

  “Yes?” He didn’t turn around from the register.

  “Listen. About what happened back there—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Of course you don’t.” Grr. What would the homecoming queen do? She’d change the subject, that’s what. “Who’s that guy over there with the Tolstoy?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the customers. “That would be Dr. Ian Hammond.”

  I smiled. “Oh, really? As in physician?” Maybe he could take over as Skye’s benefactor.

  “No. As in Ph.D. He teaches English Lit. at the community college in Cannon Falls.”

  “But wait. If he’s a Ph.D., why’s he teaching at a community college out here in the boonies?”

  Flynn turned around. I had to tilt my head back to make eye contact. “I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t realize there was going to be an interrogation. Why the full-court press? You have plans for him?”

  “I have plans for Skye.” My smile faded. “Turns out, she might be returning to the dating scene a lot sooner than expected.”

  He nodded. “I know. She told me about the ‘baby’.”

  “She did? When?”

  “This afternoon.” He looked tired. “She called me after you guys got back from the hospital. She sounded awful. Just devastated. That’s why I decided to come in ahead of schedule tonight. I thought she might need me.” He shook his head. “Little did I know that she’d already moved on to ‘Free Beer Till Somebody Pees’.”

  “Hey, cut her some slack. I wanted to get her mind off everything, so I asked her to help get some warm bodies into the bar. And you have to admit, she did a pretty good job.”

  Since Skye’s pregnancy wasn’t an issue anymore, both of us knew that I could return to Los Angeles at will. But neither of us mentioned this.

  He jerked his head in Ian’s direction. “Should I even ask what you’re planning to do with that poor guy?”

  “I’m trying to discourage her from dating any more shiftless louts. But she doesn’t know all the details yet, so I’d appreciate it if you would keep this quiet.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t she seeing that guy in the leather jacket? The big, vacant-looking one?”

  I dismissed this with an airy wave. “Oh please, that won’t last. Now. That teacup Dr. Hammond has—what’s in there?”

  Flynn gave me the look Midwesterners give to Californians who spend a little too much time out in the sun. “Tea.”

  “Where’d you get the tea from?”

  “China.”

  “Hardy har.”

  “I keep the teacup and a bunch of Earl Grey on hand for him. He’s British, he’s a regular customer and he doesn’t like Pig’s Eye.”

  British. And swilling tea instead of tequila. This just kept getting better. “Excellent. That’s perfect.”

  He frowned down at me, then clamped one hand down over my bare shoulder. “Geary. What’s with the jumping bean routine?”

  I shifted my weight again and tapped my foot. “Well, if you must know…” I motioned for him to lean in. I could smell his clean T-shirt through the air filled with alcohol and cigarette smoke. “I sort of have to go to the bathroom.”

  He waited for more. Finally, he said very slowly and using small words, “Then go. I’ll cover for you.”

  “I can’t.” I showed him the pink star adorning my hand.

  “You’re actually participating in this debacle?”

  “Someone had to get the ball rolling. I had no choice.”

  “But isn’t that a conflict of interest? You can’t win your own contest.”

  “It’s really more about pride than money,” I explained. “Besides, I’m not trying to win. I’m only staying in until Sally Hutchins gives up.”

  “Why?”

  I set my jaw and glared over at Sally, who was slouched back by the jukebox, her crimson hair glinting in the soft neon glow. I was pleased to note that she, too, had her legs tightly crossed and seemed extremely fidgety.

  “You guys still have that grudge match going from high school?” he asked.

  “Hey, you didn’t have to face the fashion gestapo at your locker every morning. I’ll explode before I give her the satisfaction of surrender.” I hopped from foot to foot, wrenching my ankles in the high-heeled sandals.

  “Whatever you say. Just try not to think too much about babbling brooks. Niagara Falls. The Great Salt Lake.” He brushed past me and, with a casual brotherly tousle of my hair, went back to pouring beer.

  What happened to the guy who’d been looming over me a scant two hours ago, threatening retribution and ravishment? I had my vanity, after all. Vanity and the occasional impure thought sparked by a particular combination of light-colored T-shirts and dark brown eyes.

  One thing at a time.

  I tried to think about Arizona and the Gobi Desert as I sidled up to the Ivory Tower’s answer to Prince Charming. He was letting his tea get cold as he stared at the Cubs game on TV. Absentminded on top of everything else. How very academic of him.

  I watched the fifth inning over his shoulder for a minute, noticing the faint smell of chamomile and library mustiness. Not even a hint of motor oil.

  “So, you’re a Cubs fan?” I asked. He turned to me, his expression blank and startled over the maroon bow tie.

  I pointed to the television screen.

  “Oh. No, no. Not anymore. I was, when I first entered the country. You see, I was lecturing at the University of Chicago, and my colleagues introduced me to the sport at Wrigley Field. But I’m afraid I switched allegiance after the first summer or two. The Cubs have a terrible record, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Blasphemer. I started to re-evaluate the wisdom of introducing this heretic to my only sister.

  Skye and I had been indoctrinated as devout Chicago fans by my grandfather, who had often remarked that Ernie Banks should be canonized. So the team choked every August, and had since 1908. That was hardly the point. The point was that hope springs eternal. Had this man no loyalty?

  But then I remembered that he hailed from the U.K., where baseball is viewed with roughly the same degree of respect and reverence as is miniature golf.

  I tried to set the record straight.

  “Well, sure, they’ve been having a rough couple of weeks,” I conceded, “but I’m sure that after Kerry Wood recovers and they play a few home games…” I glanced at the score and realized that the Twins were ahead 4-1. Part of being a Cubs fan was never having to say ‘I’m so ashamed.’ ”

  He lifted the teacup to his lips, leaving a damp ring on the cover of his paperback. “I admire your devotion. As the Bard said, ‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.’ ”

  “He was obviously a Cubs fan.”

  “Dr. Ian Hammond.” He offered a handshake. “We’ve not been introduced. I’d certainly remember that hair.”

  “You and every teacher
I’ve ever had. Do you know how hard it was to skip class with this hair? The instructor always notices when the redhead’s not there.” I searched the room for Skye, who was mingling with her adoring subjects. “I’m Faith Geary. I’m just here for a few weeks visiting my sister.”

  I pointed out the family jewel, who was giggling down at a table full of slavering Malt-O-Meal workers.

  “Of course I’ve seen her here. Every evening. She’s an exquisite young lady.” His eyes glazed over in a dreamy haze, no doubt picturing courtly scenes of Sir Lancelot and Gueneviere.

  This was almost too easy. Why couldn’t I run my own love life with the same finesse I brought to others?

  He glanced at the dishcloth tucked into my waistband. “How kind of you to help your sister during your holiday. And clearly you know Patrick.” He lifted his chin toward Flynn, who was back to ignoring me.

  “Yes, I do. Or I did. I guess.” I glanced at Flynn and tugged at the lavender camisole, making sure my tattoo was safely covered. “How did you know?”

  He chuckled. “I pop by for a cup of tea almost every evening, so I have the opportunity to observe how the world wags. The attraction between the two of you is obvious.”

  My dismay must have shown on my face, because he furrowed his brow. “I hope I haven’t put my foot in it. I just assumed that you and he were something of an item.” He leaned toward me and smiled. “But perhaps it’s just a sneaker.”

  “What’s a sneaker?” I whispered back.

  “In modern parlance, I suppose you’d call it a crush. A secret crush.”

  “Oh.” I fiddled with my watchband. “I don’t think so.”

  “No? The poor fellow looks as if he’s going to keel over every time you enter or exit the room.”

  Now this was an interesting tidbit. “Really?” I stole another surreptitious glance at Flynn, who caught my eye, pointed to the Cubs’ score, and pantomimed committing hari-kari with a pen. He did not look like a man harboring a secret crush.

  Nevertheless. Compared with Lars, the professor was a catch and a half. Large vocabulary, good manners, the ability to string a sentence together. Advanced age and questionable baseball loyalties notwithstanding, this guy definitely had potential.