Better Love

by Daisy Prescott

  “I snuck out early. There’s a latte for you on the counter, too.”

  “Sweet, sweet, man. You’re doing the breaking and entering all wrong, but you’re my kind of burglar. Thank you.” She rose on her toes and I dipped my head for a kiss.

  While I finished cooking, she checked her phone. A frown appeared on her mouth as she scrolled down her screen.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Nothing. Some work stuff. No one died or anything.”

  “Put your phone away and eat.” I plated breakfast and set it on the island.

  “Yes, sir.” She hopped up on one of the barstools at the counter.

  As we ate, I asked her about her work schedule. Thanksgiving was two weeks away and then the madness of the holiday season would be in full force.

  “I’m booked with events next week. Then I need to fly to LA on Sunday for a client’s photo shoot and press junket. I plan to go from there to Scottsdale for the holiday. Back on Saturday. You?”

  “I never travel on Thanksgiving, unless I’m flying that day. Too many amateurs. I’ll probably volunteer at the food pantry or soup kitchen if they need help cooking.”

  She coughed on her coffee. “Honestly?”

  I nodded, feeling uncertain again. “Why?”

  “You have changed.”

  “I’d like to think this is the true me and I got lost for a while. Sadly, during the years you first knew me, I wasn’t the best version of myself.”

  “The prince inside of the beast?”

  “I thought I was Peter Pan? The boy who never grew up.” I poked her in the shoulder.

  “I was wrong. You have grown up.”

  “I’m adding an ‘I was wrong’ cross-stitch to the ‘you were right’ one for my office. I think they’ll make a nice pair.” I gave her a slow, soft kiss before she could say something snarky. Like any time we kissed, I didn’t want this one to end.

  In a daze, she opened her eyes again. “What were we talking about?”

  “Terribly boring things like schedules and planning.” I kissed the corner of her mouth. She tasted of butter and coffee. I could have her for breakfast every morning.

  She pulled away. “How’s your December looking? Maybe we need to plan further out.”

  “I have a wedding to go on December sixteenth, a few work events, then Christmas.”

  “I wonder if it’s the same wedding I’ve been invited to.” She sipped her coffee.

  “Tom and Hailey? I didn’t realize you knew them well enough to make the guest list.”

  “I was surprised when I got the invite. Hailey and I got to know each other through Cari and the calendar process.” She pointed at a small pine cone made of tarnished silver spoons. “I even bought one of her sculptures. Plus, I’ve seen Tom’s naked butt. Maybe that’s all it takes?”

  “Who hasn’t? If that were the case, most of the island is probably invited. Talk about an awkward reception.” Before Hailey, he’d been known as the original tomcat, so I doubted any of his past conquests and dalliances would be included. Given the huge Donnely family and their long history on Whidbey, most of the island would probably be in attendance, invited or not.

  “Want to go together?” I asked

  “To a wedding?” She stared at me with an expression I couldn’t decipher.

  “Sure. It’s a fancy dinner, a guarantee of cake, and possible dancing after listening to a short declaration. Think of it like a time-share presentation.”

  “Did you compare a wedding, a promise of lifelong love and fidelity to a condo sales pitch? You’re so romantic.”

  “I’ve never been guaranteed cake at a sales meeting. Say yes.”

  She sighed. “I can’t bear going to weddings alone. People cluck their tongues and pat my arm when they find out I’m single in my mid-thirties. I can see the word spinster appear in the imaginary thought bubbles above the mothers’ and grandmothers’ heads. By the time they were my age, their kids were in high school at the youngest. What do I have to show for my life?”

  “You have a stable of athletes and man-children. You should carry wallet-sized pictures of them with you to compare notes with the grannies. Little Jimmie got suspended? So did Jason. Barton got busted for drinking at a party? Abraham had a few grams of coke and a stripper driving his Ferrari when he got pulled over. You’d win any competition on worst kid stories.”

  Her jaw dropped and she snapped her mouth closed, before gaping at me for a minute. “First of all, what kinds of weddings do you go to where you meet a lot of grannies? Second, your perception of professional athletes is grossly distorted.”

  “Is it? I’ve seen all of the football movies. I watch ESPN once or twice a year. These stories are ripped from the headlines, sweet Roslyn. You should know that.”

  “I know nothing and if I did, I’d never admit it, and deny everything unless there is video. Or pictures.”

  “Do you feel your soul slowly disappearing with each new crisis?”

  “What soul? I’m a ginger.” She smiled at me smugly.

  I chuckled. “Well, in that case, you’re perfect for the job.”

  “Remember when you had too much to drink at the Mariner’s game and tried to run on the field?”

  “No, that never happened.” It had totally happened. I’d gotten down to the dugout before two beefy security guys bear-hugged me to the ground.

  “Exactly. If someone were to look up that story online, they’d have to scroll at least five pages deep on Google.”

  “Your nickname should be the Gravedigger. You’re excellent at burying things.”

  “I’ve been called a Pit Bull before. I accept it as a compliment.” She bit off a chunk of bacon and held it in her teeth before chomping it into smaller pieces.

  She was fierce and funny, and I couldn’t wait to see her again. “Let’s go to this wedding.”

  “It’s a date.” She sounded genuinely happy at the idea of being my date in public. Or she really loved wedding cake.

  “One condition,” I added.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “We mutually agree neither of us will go for the bouquet or garter.” I didn’t know if either of those were even in fashion at today’s weddings.

  “Deal.” She gave me a funny look. “I won’t even grab the flowers if they hit me in the face. I’ll duck like I did in volleyball in high school whenever the ball came near my area of the court.”

  “I’m loving this image. I’m going to encourage Hailey to throw it in your direction to enjoy the show.”

  “Remember when I said you were nice? I take it back, Ashland.”

  At least the hole or hat weren’t implied at the end of my name anymore.

  “Plan to stay the night. No excuses this time.” I’d wanted to say those words since our dinner date at my house in October. “Hell, spend the weekend with me.”

  “Are you asking me to a sleepover?” she teased.

  “I am. No pajamas required.” That should be clear enough for her.

  BACK TO SAL’S on Monday, I opened our weekly staff meeting with an announcement. “Starting next Friday, we’re going to offer free pizza at lunch to whoever wants it.”

  If I was serious about becoming a member of this community, I needed to give back more.

  “Not charging? At all?” Jeff’s eyes bugged out. “On Black Friday? Are you a Communist?”

  “No, I’m not a communist. We’ll still operate like normal, but we’ll give away slices for anyone who asks on Fridays.”

  “You better put a limit on this,” Coop spoke up.

  “Okay. Two slices per customer. Cheese and pepperoni only, nothing fancy. Work for you?” I asked the gathered crew.

  “Maybe we should put a limit on the number of pizzas we make.” Coop sounded concerned we’d be inundated.

  “Let’s see how popular it is first.”

  “People are going to line up like the dark days of the USSR.” Jeff sighed. “You know, like the toilet pape
r and bread lines in the eighties?”

  “You reading Lenin again?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “We need to get you banned from the library in Langley. Or put on a blacklist for those kinds of books.” I held back my laughter until he got the joke.

  He grunted out a fake “ha ha” and flipped me off.

  “We need a gulag on the island.” I grinned at him before continuing. “I don’t want people showing up early and forming a line. This is for people who need a meal, for whatever reason. If they can afford to leave a little something, we’ll have a jar for donations to the food pantry. Otherwise, anyone else can come in and order food like any other day.”

  I hadn’t worked out the details yet, but the idea was solid. Whidbey didn’t have an obvious homeless population, but I knew from the statistics and attending a few county meetings, we had a food security issue. People, my neighbors, were going hungry. If I could help by handing out a couple of slices of pizza once a week, why wouldn’t I?

  Winning situation for everyone.

  “You know, I think you should build mini-pizza houses. Like those tiny free libraries. Only with pizza inside,” Coop suggested.

  Jeff and I stared at him for a beat or two.

  “Take a slice if you need it.”

  “That’s . . .” Jeff looked at me for something to say.

  “A creative idea, Coop.” I finished his sentence. There was no way I’d build tiny kiosks to hold cold pizza. Raccoons would be all over those things faster than humans could get to them.

  Free pizza for the hungry? Great idea.

  Pizza for raccoons? Bad, terrible idea.

  Had to hand it Coop, though, the idea never would’ve crossed my mind.

  “One more thing coming up. The first Saturday in December, I’m hosting a pizza party.”

  “Got it. The usual?” Jeff asked.

  “Not really. We’re co-hosting it with the elementary school.”

  “Kids? Making pizzas?” Coop genuinely looked nervous, and a little scared. “I think I have that day off.”

  “Have you read the paper today?” Jeff asked as soon as I walked into the kitchen the Wednesday after Thanksgiving.

  “Can’t say that I have.” I sipped from my cup of coffee and set his on the counter. “We get a write up about the free pizza? Seemed like it was popular.”

  “Glowing article, but let me read you the headline.” He unfolded today’s edition and flashed the front at me. “Seattle sports legend eyes long empty store front as his next home run.”

  “Is this about McPhee? That doesn’t even make sense. He plays football.”

  “Mixed metaphor is your issue?”

  “Read more.”

  “The subheading is MVP McPhee plans next comeback in Langley.”

  “Let me guess. He wants the corner across from the Dog House?”

  “According to this, he plans to bring ‘the quaint village into the 21st century’ with his newest business, a local burger joint.’”

  I froze. “What kind of place?”

  “According to McPhee, it’s a shame that islanders have to spend their hard earned money on ferry fares or make the long drive to enjoy what most Americans take for granted. Fast, fun, affordable food at a Mac Burger right here in the heart of South Whidbey.”

  “A shame?”

  “A real shame.”

  “Local? It’s a national chain started by those famous Mac brothers in Boston. How is that local? I don’t think he understands the meaning of the word.”

  “That’s not what the paper said.”

  “The damn paper needs to hire real journalists who can tell when they’re wading through complete bullshit and realize why their feet stink.” My voice rose with my anger. “No offense to the writer. They were probably hand fed the line of crap as an exclusive . . .”

  Snatching the paper out of his hands, I stomped into my office.

  “Don’t you know his manager? Maybe she can talk some sense into him,” Jeff shouted from the kitchen.

  “Publicist, but yeah, she should’ve given me a head’s up her client is planning to turn Langley into just another American strip mall.”

  I jabbed at my phone’s screen until Roslyn’s number appeared.

  “Morning,” she yawned. “Sorry. Someone kept me up late last night, then put me on a ferry at the ass crack of dawn. I don’t think mid-week sleepovers are a good idea. Too tired the day after. But only seeing you on the weekends sucks, too. Maybe you should spend the night at my place and do the reverse commute. Not tonight though. I need to get actual sleep.”

  I waited for her to finish yawning again before I spoke. “Read something interesting in the local paper this morning.”

  “Oh, did your free pizza get some press?”

  “Nice write-up, but that’s not why I’m calling. Headline was about a Mac Burger coming to South Whidbey. Did you know McPhee’s idiotic plans on the island include putting his franchise restaurant in a historic building?”

  “Slow down. I’ve only had two cups of coffee.”

  “Did you know?”

  “I can’t disclose private information about my clients’ business ventures or personal lives.”

  “Seriously, Roslyn? You’re giving me double-speak nonsense?”

  “Dan, it’s not a big deal. The county will reject the project. Probably out of spite over his building code violations on the Mutiny Bay property. Let Anderson play with his idea until he gets bored and moves on to engineering sports drinks or endorsing jock itch cream.”

  “Sure. We can waste our time and energy having to go through the motions until the giant man-baby gets distracted by something shiny and new.”

  “You sound mad. I didn’t do anything out of my normal responsibilities. I’m not advising him on business. Or did you forget my job is to protect his image and clean up his messes?”

  “Tell him this is dumb. He’ll listen to you.”

  “I’m not telling a client he’s stupid. Some people might want easy access to fast food. I missed the part where you were elected food sheriff.”

  I bristled at the cold tone to her voice. Gone was the woman who had laughed and giggled this morning when I kissed her good-bye. “It’s not part of our island culture.”

  “This isn’t Lost or Survivor. You’re not completely cut off from civilization.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “A big world exists with people doing amazing, interesting things. Your island isn’t reality.”

  Roslyn’s words popped the bubble I’d created around us. No matter what my body wanted and my heart felt, our realities and goals were at odds once again.

  “I need to go,” I said, drawing devils around Anderson’s name on the paper.

  “Don’t hang up mad. I’m still planning to come over on Saturday. Am I still invited?”

  “I suppose.” I sounded like the petulant spoiled brat I’d accused Anderson of being. “No, I don’t mean that. Come. I always want to see you.”

  Typically, I provided free pizza for school and sports fundraisers, but that was service from a distance. I couldn’t wield a saw or welder’s torch like some of the guys, but I had excellent big picture organizational skills.

  Or so I told myself as thirty seven-year-olds squealed and ran around Sal’s dining room on Saturday morning. Good thing I hid all of the knives and other sharp kitchen tools.

  “Remind me again what good this does for the community?” Roslyn stood with her back against the wall next to me, trying to stay out of the chaos.

  With her schedule, travel, and the holiday weekend, we’d had almost no time together in weeks. The last thing I wanted to do was spend it with her trying to wrangle tiny humans. I’d rather be naked with her doing R-rated things. Instead, the two of us were caught in a stampede.

  I raised my voice to be heard over the excited kids. “It’s part of a farm to classroom program. Get the kids thinking about whole food. If they see the process of growing
plants from seed to harvest, then cooking with those ingredients, it’s supposed to inspire a healthier life.”

  “Did someone give them bags of sugar before they arrived?” she whispered in my ear.

  “They do seem high energy.” I scanned the crowded room for a teacher or parent, hoping to find some other adult who was in charge.

  “If you’re looking for someone to save you, you’re out of luck. I saw the teacher duck outside on her phone.”

  “Hopefully she was calling for backups.” I eyed one dark-haired boy sticking his gum under a table.

  A high-pitched whistle startled me. The kids settled down immediately and faced the sound of the noise. The teacher and her assistant gave me a sheepish smile while holding her arm in the air.

  Roslyn elbowed me. I realized I was the only person not raising his arm.

  “Great, now that we’ve burned off some energy and everyone is focused, including Mr. Ashland, let’s turn off our mouths, and turn on our eyes and ears.” Miss Warner used a soothing tone to her voice, lulling the kids into attention. “Okay? Ready?”

  Roslyn elbowed me again.

  “What?” I whispered while smiling.

  “You can put down your arm.”

  Apparently, I was a terrible second grader and didn’t follow directions well.

  “Right. Let’s have some fun.” I gave my standard introduction and showed the kids how pizza dough was made. Each kid was supposed to proof some yeast and knead dough at their stations. The majority of them were pros. Except for the girl who drank her warm sugar water before adding the yeast. Two girls ate the raw dough, while the three boys at the corner of table blew flour in each other’s faces.

  I cracked up at their antics, and got a stern look from Miss Warner. I wondered if part of learning to become a teacher involved a class on “the look.” She’d mastered it.

  Once we played with making dough, I handed out the already prepared and proofed dough, sauce and toppings so each kid could make their own pizza.

  Maybe kids weren’t so scary. My eyes sought Roslyn and found her helping a quiet girl flatten her dough into a disc.

  Roslyn would make beautiful children. The way she handled a room full of kids impressed me. I guess she was right that years working with spoiled man-children had prepared her. If she wanted kids.