Better Love

by Daisy Prescott

  “Can I ask you something?” She rested her head against my chest, letting the water pour over her back.

  “Anything.”

  “Did you mean it when you said you wanted kids with me? Or were you trying to soothe the crazy woman?”

  “Can my answer be both?”

  “It can.”

  “And you?” I ran my hands down her back, resting them at the base of her spine.

  “I wasn’t sure before.”

  “And now?”

  “The sadness overwhelmed me and there wasn’t even a baby to lose. I didn’t expect to be so sad over wanting something that didn’t exist.”

  “We can try. If you want.”

  “I love you.” It wasn’t a direct answer to my unasked question, but it was enough. More than enough, it was perfect.

  I stepped us forward until her back hit the wall before picking her up. Her legs wrapped around my hips automatically. Kissing her, I gave up trying to figure out what tomorrow would hold for us. We could plan out our lives, setting goals, marking calendars, but somehow life always had a way of surprising us.

  We made slow, easy love in the shower until the hot water began to cool off. I didn’t focus on climaxing. Tonight wasn’t about getting off. I lost myself in her and found comfort.

  A few weeks later I visited Olaf at his house. I’d never been to his place before. All knotty pine inside, the modest ranch overlooked the shipping lanes and Olympic mountains with a million dollar view.

  I stood at the window watching a container ship slowly move south toward Seattle. “Might be time for you to hire a couple more bartenders, Olaf.”

  “You calling me an old man?” He rested in a leather recliner.

  “You’re going to need time to recuperate from heart surgery.”

  “Minor heart attack. Couple of stents. I’m fine.”

  “You should take it as a warning sign,” I advised.

  “You sound like my ex-wife.”

  “You should listen to her.”

  “Now you sound like my kids.” His grumbling turned into a deep, rumble in his chest.

  “They must be smart like you.” I deflected his bad mood with a compliment.

  He mumbled about “A bunch of vultures waiting for me to keel over so they can sell the building or lease it to McDonald’s.”

  I leveled him with a stare. “You raised them better than that.”

  “Eh, save your speeches. Playing to my ego won’t work like it did with your fancy corporate suits.”

  “See how you do. You could like having more free time.”

  “To do what?”

  “Kick my ass at chess more often?”

  “Where’s the challenge in that?” he scoffed. “I can beat you in my sleep.”

  I appreciated his ornery spirit was still in good form. “Think about it. I could send over one of my guys or help you hire someone. I bet John Day and Tom Donnely would help out if you asked either of them.”

  He muttered, “Those two idiots?”

  “Or the Kelso brothers.”

  “They couldn’t find a corner in a tea cup.”

  The logic of his example made me cock my head and laugh.

  “Erik runs a business and manages employees. They make drinks and pour beverages.”

  With a glare he silenced me.

  “So you’ll think about it?”

  “Not making any promises.” He winced and stilled.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine.”

  I wanted to tell him I was fond of him and how important he was in my life, but I knew it would only make him uncomfortable. Olaf reminded me of my own father, uncles, and grandfathers. Straight talking and no-bullshit-accepting men who fought in wars and kept their feelings to themselves. Unlike with my own father, I enjoyed spending time with Olaf. He told the best stories, knew all the island history, and didn’t judge me for walking away from the rat race.

  “You need anything, you call me, got it?” I touched his hand.

  Reaching over, he patted my hand. “Don’t tell the Kelsos I’m out of commission. They’ll try to steal my kegs.”

  The thing with growing up in a small town, everyone knew and remembered every stupid action and bad decision from your youth. Or last year. Or six months ago. That was one of the reasons I kept to myself. The less people knew about me, the less fodder they had for gossip. Now that I was older, part of me wished the idiot things I’d done with too much money and ego would serve as warning to the next instant millionaire. Ha. Like I would’ve listened to anyone who tried to give me wisdom back then.

  I knew everything.

  My bank account proved it.

  With a chuckle, I shook my head at my hubris and ego.

  “Distract me with something interesting. How’s the pretty Seattle PR woman?”

  “Roslyn? You think she’s pretty?” I teased him for noticing her beauty.

  “I know she’s fine looking and you get a stupid smile on your face you try to fight when someone mentions her name.”

  “I do not.”

  “Roslyn.”

  My traitor lips curled upward before I could consciously press them into a straight line.

  “Point proven.” He leveled his stare at me. “You’re in love.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Nah, this isn’t ancient history. Present tense. Must be why I beat you in record time last game of chess. You’re distracted.”

  “Not complaining.”

  “You going to marry her this time?”

  His words were a cold bucket of ice water dumped over my head. “Hadn’t thought that far.”

  “Bullshit. You love a woman, you make her yours forever. Like that song, you better put a ring on it.”

  “Did you just quote Beyoncé?”

  “Might’ve. You should listen to her.”

  “Love advice from a song?”

  “Best kind of advice. Except those country songs. They’re all about heartbreak and leaving the woman or man you love. Don’t pay attention to that nonsense.”

  “You giving me relationship advice?”

  “I’m telling you not to be a fool.” He gestured at his bruised arms and his chest. “Life’s short.”

  Olaf and I discussed philosophy and theology on a regular basis in the abstract, but we didn’t touch on our own mortality or fears of death. This was new territory for us.

  “Getting all touchy-feely philosophical on me?” I asked.

  “Most of that stuff is bullshit. We get one go around to get it right or wrong. That’s it. No repeats or do-overs.”

  “How do you feel about second chances?”

  “Mulligans are considered cheating in golf.” He coughed and waved me off when I stood up to hand him his cup of water. “You get a second chance to make something right, you take it.”

  “We agree on that.”

  “Now tell me what’s going on with the burger franchise? Heard they were sniffing around the empty property across the street from me. Talk of big money behind the guy who wants to open it up.”

  “I’m all for Mike’s old place being reopened, but I think we’re all in agreement it needs to be a local business. Not some sort of celebrity vanity project for an athlete. In fact, I heard a real estate trust is interested in buying the building.” I heard it because I told Roslyn my idea over dinner in my kitchen. No one needed to know who was behind the trust. At least right now. Having deep pockets would only incite more gossip and enflame Tom’s pizza mafia conspiracy.

  “You seem like you have a lot of inside information on this ‘trust.’” Olaf stared at me, daring to blink or flinch, revealing my secret. “Want to share?”

  “Don’t you worry about that. However, I can assure you a chain restaurant will never go into one of Langley’s historic buildings. Trust me.”

  “Are we talking a Hooters kind of joint?” He lifted his eyebrows in hope. I took it as a good sign he was on the road to recovery. That and all t
he smack talk he did about the Kelsos.

  “Thinking about hiring sexy waitresses to serve your beers, O?” I gave him a knowing but teasing head bob.

  “Their wings are pretty good.”

  “You’re kidding, right? That’s the kind of neighbor you want on First Street?”

  “I’m just saying they make good chicken wings. A good friend might bring some to a guy he knew was in the hospital recently.”

  “Pretty sure I’d get in trouble for bringing greasy wings to a heart patient.”

  “Fine. I bet I can get Donnely or one of those damn Kelsos to do it.”

  “Don’t try to play favorites.”

  With a long exhale, he laid his head back against the recliner. “Getting old sucks.”

  “That it does, but like Keith Richards, you’re going to outlive us all.”

  I added the Rolling Stones to my BTD concert list in my head.

  “If I’m not around, don’t let them turn my tavern into a Starbucks.”

  “Never.”

  “Now get out of here and go spend time with your lady. Bring her by and introduce her some time. Does she play chess?”

  “I don’t know. We’ve never played.”

  “Don’t. You’ll pout if she beats you too many times. No one likes a whiner.”

  I chuckled at his barb. “Glad to see you’re back to your normal sweet self.”

  “Thanks to you.” He steeled his expression. “I’m not a man who shares his feelings like you young guys, so I’m only going to say this once. I owe you my life. Thank you.”

  I gave him a pat on the shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

  “I’ll think about making some changes at the Dog. I don’t have nearly enough time to fish.”

  It was his way of saying I might be right.

  A plan hatched in my head to help him out, fight off developers in Langley, and do something for the community. I’d need Erik’s and Roslyn’s help before presenting it to Olaf.

  THE FEBRUARY RAIN turned into a gray mist long enough for me to break out my skateboard for some late morning errands around Freeland. After boarding down to the bank and post office, I spent the rest of the afternoon inside my office, returning phone calls and responding to emails.

  I’d forgotten about Maggie’s review until I saw Roslyn’s email with the subject line: Famous Sal’s.

  I never followed up about the blog post or searched for it. Why would I care how many hits or views or shares or whatever it got? A few people had mentioned seeing the review online and coming to try the pizza or knots. For that I was thankful.

  When we met in person, Maggie had been flattering about the food, while respecting my wishes to remain in the background. Why would I think she’d write anything different?

  Clicking the link at the top of the email, I read Maggie’s article. She’d done her research on me and gave a brief mention about my old bakehouse, Bread and Circus, without outing the full story. Someone familiar with my backstory or who had enough free time on Google could figure out the connection.

  Thanks to Roslyn, they’d have to dig deep to find anything of interest other than me selling the business and a few small pictures from society events—always with a different woman as my date.

  That life was all behind me.

  One old article about my deal had called me the Midas of Yeast.

  Could you imagine a worse title? Me neither. Everything I touched turned to yeast? Disgusting.

  Roslyn had almost burst a blood vessel laughing over that one. Years ago she’d framed the article and presented it to me in a lovely silver frame. It hung on my wall below the “You were right” and “I’m wrong” framed cross-stitches Roslyn gave me for Christmas.

  The funny thing about success, especially stratospheric success like mine, was the expectation of more and the copycats who happily rode on your coattails all the way to the bank. Everyone assumed I had a magic touch turning real dough into metaphoric dough.

  Now, according to Roslyn’s email, there was buzz about Sal’s. And not only from diners.

  She’d heard rumor of big names being interested in acquiring the business.

  People with deep pockets wanted my small town pizza place.

  Not happening. Not even if my body was carrion and the scavengers picked at my bones.

  Real scavengers like coyotes or hyenas, not the corporate vultures and buzzards who thought they could poach someone else’s idea and hard work, lie to them, and destroy everything that was good about the business for the almighty god of greed and entitlement they worshipped.

  No one would get me to sell out again.

  I opened the attached file and became apoplectic when I saw one of the parties interested in buying me out and developing a franchise model for Sal’s was none other than Mr. MVP himself, Anderson McPhee. I couldn’t think of a single time he’d been in the restaurant. My staff would’ve told me. Now his “business” interest felt personal.

  Roslyn’s phone rang before I even realized I’d dialed her number.

  “Calm down.”

  “I haven’t even said anything.”

  “I can hear your breathing. You sound like an angry silver back gorilla.”

  “Now is not the time to make jokes about my hair color, Miss Porter.” My voice rumbled in my chest as I tried to keep my anger on a short leash. “Why are you even telling me about McPhee? I thought you didn’t get involved in his business.”

  “I heard a rumor and wanted to let you know in advance. Remember the Mac Burger incident? When you read about it in the paper? I didn’t want to repeat my mistake. Did you read my email?”

  “I got through the important part.”

  “Then you know I’m not suggesting or formally presenting anything, but his business manager will probably get in touch with you at some point. I’m guessing this is more about not getting his Mac Burger franchise approved at the corporate level. He’s having a tantrum because he’s been denied the new toys he wants.”

  “You’re the toy he wants.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  I wasn’t going to argue with her. After his alpha asshole bullshit at the Edgewater, I knew he wanted Roslyn. I also knew this was one game he wouldn’t be winning.

  “Can you intercept the manager and tell him I told you to tell McPhee to fuck off? No need to let him think there’s an ice cube’s chance in the desert I’d sell to him. Or anyone. Make sure the world knows Sal’s is not for sale. Ever. I die, put my body inside the building and light it up. Best funeral pyre ever.”

  “Not overly dramatic at all.” She chuckled. “I’d take a great deal of pleasure in telling the McPhees of the world where to go and where to stick it.”

  “Then you should. Quit. Fire all of them. Save your soul. Life is too fucking short to work with assholes.”

  “What should I do my with time when I have no more clients left?”

  “Move to Whidbey and make babies with me. Get a new roster of clients who aren’t asshats. Make ‘no asshats’ your new life motto. Maybe help out some local businesses with PR and marketing. Mentor Ashley. Donate your time and skills to some non-profits. Learn a craft. Take up gardening. Master cooking.” I paused to inhale. “I can keep going if you want.”

  “Go back to the beginning of your list.” I could hear the smile in her voice.

  “Huh?” Confusion defused my anger.

  “The thing you said first.”

  Mentally, I repeated my suggestions. Crafting, cooking, mentoring . . .”Making babies?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about it?” We hadn’t discussed babies or kids since the non-pregnancy meltdown.

  “Let’s do that one.”

  “Are you serious?” I stood up and then sat back down.

  “You’re right. I’m tired of placating egos and dealing with adult tantrums.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I don’t want to work with the McPhees of the world any more. You’re right. This who
le Sal’s thing is bullshit and I should tell him to fuck off. He’s not the alpha dog he thinks he is.”

  “Can I be there when you tell him off? I’d love to see that go down.” For the first time since we got on the phone, I laughed.

  “Sure. You can act as my wingman.”

  “Just say when and where. Now let’s get back to this baby making business. When can we start on that? Do you have plans tonight?”

  “I’m on the ferry now. Should be there by quarter of seven.”

  I stood up so fast, my chair spun in a circle. Grabbing my jacket and keys, I rushed through the kitchen and out the door before realizing I should probably let the crew know I wouldn’t be back.

  I flung open the backdoor and popped my head through the crack. “You’re in charge, Jeff. I’m off for the night.”

  Not waiting for a response, I hopped into my truck and headed for home.

  Soft laughter filled the cab. “Hello?”

  I’d forgotten I was on the phone with Roslyn. “You’re still there?”

  “I am. I’m guessing I should meet you at the house,” she chuckled. “You have at least twenty minutes to get there before I arrive. Don’t attempt to break any land speed records.”

  Something outside triggered the motion sensitive flood lights on the garage. Light blazed in through the living room windows facing the driveway. Looking out the front window, I didn’t see Roslyn’s SUV.

  Probably a deer or coyote crossing the lawn or near the edge of the woods set off the sensors.

  In her position on the front porch, Cat flattened her ears and her fur stood on end along her back. Out of her mouth came a low and menacing growl, followed by a hiss.

  Whatever was out there didn’t sit well with her.

  “Let’s see if there’s anything on the cameras.” I strolled over to the monitor in the kitchen and flipped through the various screens displaying different areas and angles on the property.

  Movement in the woods caught my attention. Definitely not a coyote.

  I tracked the creature along the driveway, heading away from the road and toward the house.

  I didn’t own a gun. Somewhere in the loft above the garage lay a bow from my brief obsession with archery and a softball bat from my former life when I played on a corporate team. I thought about grabbing one of them, but I needed the element of surprise.