Jingle Bell Hell (Bad Luck Club)

by Denise Grover Swank

  “Like cheating?” I ask in shock. Because I’ve never seen two people so clearly into each other as Molly and Cal. (I ignore the little voice in my head that whispers Jace’s name.)

  “No,” she scoffs, nearly choking on a sip of her drink. “He’d never dream of it. And not just because he knows I’d neuter him. No, he’s planning some sort of surprise, the dolt. But he can’t pull a fast one on me.”

  “Yes, yes, we all know you’re very hard to surprise,” Maisie says, rolling her eyes at me in commiseration. “But back to what I was saying. We’re here for you, Mary.”

  “Even Nicole is here for you, and she barely likes anyone!” Molly interjects. “She essentially started up a new Bad Luck Club just for you.”

  “Well, it might be a threesome soon,” I say with a little smile at Maisie.

  Our little sister lifts her eyebrows. “Kinky.”

  “Has Tina told you that she’s meeting Nicole tomorrow to talk about joining our group?”

  “Yep,” Molly says smugly. “And I even know why. It’s juicy as hell, but I’m not going to say a word. Presuming Nicole wants to maintain any of Cal’s rules—that’s something of a sore subject for him—Tina will tell both of you herself. But let’s not get too off-topic. Maisie was about to say something inspirational and supportive.”

  Maisie throws her a you scoundrel look and then turns back to me. “We all want the same thing. We want you to be happy. You just have to want it too. The thing is…you’re not neglecting Aidan by seeking out something for yourself. You’re not being a bad mom. What he needs most in this world is a happy mom. One who shows him what it means to be fulfilled.”

  Somehow, I have a feeling we’re not just talking about dancing anymore.

  My sisters exchange a glance, as if passing a baton, and then Molly says, “It’s not selfish for you to want an adult relationship with a man who’s not a pencil-dick asshole. Or a cheater like Dad.”

  There’s a wince of pain on Maisie’s face, and I’m reminded that she only recently learned about his extracurricular activities. Molly’s known for years, and me? I’ve suspected.

  “In fact,” Maisie says, rallying, “it’ll be wonderful for Aidan to have a good man in his life. One who can be a role model. He has Jack and Cal, of course, but that’s different.”

  I take a big sip of the wine, but it doesn’t stop me from blurting out, “I know. That’s exactly why I can’t be involved with Jace. Because Aidan needs him more than I do.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Maisie asks softly.

  Before I can answer, which is for the best since I don’t know how to answer, Molly asks, “Is he the kind of man who’d hold it against you if you broke things off with him? The kind who would take it out on Aidan?”

  Obviously not. He’s made that much clear.

  I don’t answer, but Molly continues anyway. “If not, then what’s the harm?”

  My heart. That’s the harm. My heart.

  If I let myself give it to Jace, I’m not sure I’ll ever get it back.

  I spend the next day decorating my room. The emerald duvet cover goes on, and I tuck the bra and panty sets into my drawer with a pinch of sadness. I wanted Jace to see them, but he won’t. Maybe no one will.

  Once everything is immaculate, I drive to the dance studio near Molly. I told myself it probably wouldn’t be open, but it is. I told myself the owner would be too busy to talk to me, but she confirms that she’s looking for some volunteer help. She’s a French woman named Anette, gruff but lovely, and five minutes into our conversation she asks me to dance for her. Old fears rear up—not good enough, not good enough, not good enough—but I remember what it felt like on Friday night. How it felt like I was flying again after being grounded for nearly half my life, and I dance.

  We make an arrangement: as much time as I’d like in the studio in return for helping with her ballet class for preschool-aged kids. The class is on Saturdays, so the first one will be next weekend.

  Excitement pulses within me as I head home. Weirdly, although I discussed the dance thing with Mary and Maisie, the person I want to tell is Jace. I put it off, though, because I said we could only be friends, damn it.

  It’s early afternoon, and Aidan will be back soon, but I have at least a couple of hours to fill before he returns home. I should probably focus on doing some online shopping—although I have most of Aidan’s gifts, plus spa gift certificates for both of my sisters, I still need something for my niece. And for Tom and Ruth. And for Dottie, who texted me a very sweet offer to babysit and asked about my dear little man. And maybe something for…

  My mind, unsurprisingly, turns to Jace—first, to the things we did together—something my mind will spend a lot of time dwelling on, I don’t doubt, and then to our almost argument before I FaceTimed with Aidan. Although it was pretty obvious Jace didn’t want me asking questions about his past, I find myself Googling the man whose car he wrecked. Lester Montague. He made a holier-than-thou statement about Jace’s arrest: “I’m speechless,” it starts, then continues on for long enough to suggest that (a) he has plenty to say, and (b) he’s a liar. “This is a betrayal of the highest degree. That boy is my godson. I’ve attempted to take care of him and his family for years, and this is how he repays me? He knew how much that car meant to me. Still, I’ve asked the court to show him clemency.”

  Now I know he’s a liar. Because if he’d actually made such a plea, Jace wouldn’t have gone to jail. There’s no way. The judge was probably his poker buddy, a thought that makes me want to punch through the computer screen to throttle him.

  Lester Montague’s online presence suggests he’s an upstanding citizen—a self-made businessman in the construction world, although on a much larger scale than Cal, with two kids, a girl and a boy, and a house with a literal white picket fence. But after all the years I spent married to Glenn, I know how easy it is to create a smoke screen to fool the world into thinking you’re (a) happy, (b) satisfied, and (c) innocent of any wrongdoing. Besides, there’s something off about him. Perhaps I’m toeing into Dottie territory just thinking it, but his smile doesn’t meet his eyes, and his mouth—the corners are too far up.

  She’d take one look at his aura and say it’s black. She wouldn’t even need to look at his tea leaves.

  I’m overstepping. No, this is way beyond overstepping, but I do it anyway. I send Lester Montague’s name and basic info to Dennis and ask him what he can dig up. I’ll cover the expense, of course, not the firm. Dennis is quick to agree. He’d already told me that he’s saving up to get his son an Xbox, so I know the extra hours are welcome.

  Then there’s a knock on the door, and my heart leaps into my throat, as if I’m about to get caught doing something wrong. I open it to Aidan, who gives me a sullen look.

  “Is Jace here?” he asks. For a second, I’m confused. Does he want him to be here? It’s hard to tell. I think about what Molly and Maisie said—how, if it worked out between me and Jace, great, and if it didn’t, he and Aidan could still spend time together. But I’m not sure I could take it.

  I shake my head, wanting to pull my son into a hug, but I can tell he won’t tolerate it now. Sometimes he loves being hugged, and sometimes to touch him is to invite a meltdown—or a rejection as casual for him as it is heartbreaking for me.

  He wanders off and proceeds to search the house, as if I might have hidden Jace in a cupboard somewhere, and Tom and Ruth step into the doorway. Ruth gives me a sympathetic smile. “We had a good time last night, but I think it might have been a little overstimulating. He’s wanted a lot of quiet time today.”

  It’s her way of telling me not to take it personally.

  “Come on in,” I say, waving them inside. “I know it’s a long ride. You really don’t need to drive both ways. We can split it up maybe, on these weekends. You can get him, and I can pick him up from your place.”

  “No,” Ruth says immediately. “No, we know how hard you work. We’re both retired, and it’s
the least we can do.”

  She doesn’t need to say why. We both know.

  “Now, I’ll apologize in advance,” Tom says, shuffling a little on his feet, his face puckered. “But I’m desperate to use your bathroom.”

  I wave him toward it, and he practically runs inside and shuts the bathroom door behind him.

  “You know Tom,” Ruth says with a wince. “Milk doesn’t agree with him, but last night, he practically drank a jug of hot chocolate. Besides, this gives us time to talk.”

  Oh, crap.

  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she wants to know about Jace. Still, she’s good to Aidan—good to me too—and I can hardly blow her off after she drove all this way. Especially since I’ve been around them often enough to know there’s a very good chance Tom will be in our bathroom for half an hour.

  “Of course,” I say, surreptitiously glancing around, as if there’s a chance there’s been a condom wrapper on the floor this whole time and I somehow missed it. “Let’s sit down.”

  Her gaze catches on the bare Christmas tree.

  “We’re decorating it this week,” I hear myself saying. “Aidan’s buddy, Jace, is going to come over. I’m sure he must have mentioned him to you. The school put us in touch with a volunteer organization, Butterfly Buddies, which pairs kids with older mentors. I was over at his apartment on Saturday organizing the whole thing.”

  Might as well get ahead of the whole Jace discussion.

  An arrangement like that could easily be made over the phone, of course, but Ruth is too polite to say so.

  Aidan bursts into the room, a smile blooming on his face. “What day is he coming over, Mom? Do you think he’ll want to do that model with me too?”

  “Maybe the model can be for a different day, sweetie,” I say, both because it feels unfair to bombard Jace with requests and I haven’t bought one yet. I’ve been a little distracted. “It’ll take us a long time to decorate the tree.”

  “Can we make Jace ankylosaurus cookies?”

  “Maybe I can make them while you guys work on the tree.” I don’t want to be stuck in the kitchen while they decorate—every bit of me wants to be with them—but maybe it’ll give me an excuse if it’s too hard to keep my hands to myself.

  Ruth gives me a long, weighing look that tells me she’s not convinced by my story.

  “I’m glad you’re both making friends,” she says, and leaves it at that.

  “Me too, Nana,” Aidan says. “Jace is the best man I know.”

  Glenn is the one who’s putting that look of pain on her face, so why do I still feel responsible?

  Quit apologizing, Nicole seems to whisper in my ear.

  So I listen. We spend the rest of Tom’s very long trip to the bathroom discussing dinosaurs, Christmas, my new arrangement with the dance studio—Ruth reacts with surprise, as it turns out she didn’t even know that I used to dance, because neither Glenn nor I ever told her—and basically everything except the very big, very handsome elephant in the room.

  Nicole is apparently satisfied with Tina’s “sob story” (actually, she called it “epically entertaining,” which makes me worry about what she tells other people about me), but she insists that Tina should tell me in person. She won’t be joining the club until the end of the month, though, because apparently, she has several odd jobs in addition to her Tea of Fortune gig, and they’ve all amped up to an alarming degree because the holidays are around the corner. That, and her parents would “murder her”—Nicole’s words—if she didn’t come home for Christmas.

  I’m lying in bed, tucked under my new duvet cover, about to set my phone down on the nightstand, when I catch a whiff of Jace’s scent on the pillowcase. I changed the sheets this morning—something I always do on Sundays—but I found myself leaving the same pillowcases on so I could breathe him in. Fresh soap and a hint of something spicy. It’s his smell, so weak yet so potent, that drives me to pick my phone back up.

  I have to text him, I tell myself. He needs me to set a date for the tree decorating.

  It’s true, and Aidan talked of literally nothing else over the dinner he pecked at, but that’s not why I finally type out a message.

  Would Tuesday evening be acceptable for decorating the tree?

  Tuesdays and Thursdays were supposed to be the days when Aidan saw Jace for Butterfly Buddies. Schedule changes are hard for him, and it’ll be easier if we can stick to the original arrangement, or a facsimile of it.

  It’s only after I send it that I realize it’s the kind of message I’d send to a work colleague or a client. Not any kind of friend. Which is why I add, We’d both love it if you’d stay for dinner. I promise not to burn the food this time.

  There’s a pause after the “read” notification shows up, and I wonder whether he’s decided not to have anything to do with us after all, but then those fateful three dots appear. I hold my breath until his reply shows up. That sounds great. What time on Tuesday?

  Aidan and I usually get home by 5:15. Any time after that would be great.

  He responds with a thumbs-up emoji, and I get this weird, panicky feeling, like I ruined everything. Like he and I will never even be friends, beyond polite exchanges about Aidan. So I write, I went to a dance studio today. You sort of inspired the idea, along with some not-so-gentle pushing from my sisters. I’m going to practice at the studio and help teach a class for the younger girls. Thank you. Maybe I’m crossing a line (again) for saying so, but your support means a lot. You made me feel beautiful.

  Those three dots show up again, driving me mad, and finally he sends: You ARE beautiful. Anyone who made you feel otherwise is an absolute asshole. You’re going to be wonderful.

  I’m trying to think of a clever response, one that doesn’t reveal the way his words impacted me, when he sends another text.

  I feel like I should tell you that Cal offered me some weekend work.

  It’s about the last thing I expected him to say. Molly’s Cal???

  That’s the one. Are you okay with me taking it, or is that crossing a line?

  Not at all. I’m glad. Cal’s a good guy. Does this have anything to do with the surprise Molly suspects he’s preparing for her?

  His response makes me smile. I plead the fifth.

  As a lawyer, I can’t object to that.

  I’m glad you’re dancing again, he wrote next, his words igniting a flush in my cheeks. Someone who can dance like you should be doing it all the time.

  New dots pop up, suggesting he has more to say. Speaking of crossing lines…you mentioned there was something else your dance teacher said to you back in high school. Am I overstepping if I ask you what it was?

  That awful memory was running through my mind last night when I met with Molly and Maisie, especially after my little sister suggested the whole volunteer dance thing. Maybe it’s never stopped running through my head.

  Jace and I probably are crossing lines, decimating boundaries, but I find myself telling him anyway.

  I heard her telling her friend that she had a thing for my father. That was her main reason for encouraging me, up until then, because she wanted to spend time with him. I wanted to think that he wasn’t interested in her, but he was always such a flirt. And then, after he died, I found out he’d been cheating on my mom with another woman. It made me wonder whether he’d strayed before.

  He doesn’t respond right away, and I panic, because that was much too personal. I might as well have unzipped myself and invited him to rummage around inside. What is the matter with me? At least I refrained from telling him the rest, about Molly finding out about the affair and telling me after my parents’ accident. About my refusal to believe her, even though I had every reason to think it could be true.

  But he finally responds with: Confession for a confession. No, my sister didn’t know why I destroyed Lester’s car. I called her again yesterday. I tried to explain, but she refused to listen, not that I was surprised. The thing is, Ben answered my call. I got to
talk to him for a few minutes for the first time in years. So, thank you for that.

  My heart’s pounding double time in my chest. I should tell him about hiring Dennis, I really should. But I don’t want him to tell me not to do it. Or insist on paying for it. Because if I can figure out a way to get Ben back into his life, I’m going to do it. I have to.

  So I settle for: It’s like they say: We can’t choose our family.

  No, but we can choose our friends. Mary, whatever else happens, I’d like to be your friend. Yours and Aidan’s.

  Warmth spreads through my chest, like I just gulped down a hot toddy. I’d like that too.

  I tuck in for the night, content to pretend that’s all I want or need from him. It’s at 11:30 that my text alert goes off again, waking me from sleep.

  My first thought is that it’s from Jace. Maybe he’ll tell me he was dreaming of me, the way I’ve been dreaming of him—his head between my legs, his scruff both tickling and sending pulses of pleasure up my thighs as his mouth and tongue work me to a higher peak—but it’s not.

  It’s from Glenn.

  Thank you for the updates last weekend, Mary. I’ve been doing some soul searching. In a lot of ways, you are right. I might have been shortsighted in my decision to take a step back. It seems I have a lot of thinking to do.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jace

  I’m nervous as I park in front of Mary’s house on Tuesday. I haven’t seen her since she walked out on Saturday, and I’ve been grateful for the distraction of Cal’s project. He told me to work whenever I can fit it into my schedule, but I’ve been at his house a lot—most of Sunday, plus Monday after I had dinner with Roger. Cal’s house is an old Victorian that needed a lot of work. He’s had some of his crew helping, so it’s three-fourths done. Thank God, because between his day crew putting in hours when they weren’t working elsewhere and me putting in time on evenings and weekends, there’s still no way we could have gotten the whole place done by Christmas, even with Cal dropping by to help.