by B. E. Baker
I put one hand on her shoulder. “You're going to be okay, and you know, Troy's lucky too, to have you for a mom.”
“You'd make a wonderful mother,” she says. “I've always thought so.”
I shake my head. “Never. I love my job, remember?”
“Some people do both, you know.”
“Not well. I've never met someone who's a truly good mother, and also manages a successful career.”
“What about Shauna?” Trudy asks.
“Shauna loves her daughter, but she sees her like five hours a week. I can't do that. I won't do that.”
“You aren't anything like our mom, you know. Or Dad, either.”
I don't need my baby sister's psychoanalysis of my brain, thanks. Especially since she was an inch from a breakdown an hour ago.
“I'll call you tomorrow to work out the details of you moving in with me.”
“We've paid for the entire month of December,” Trudy says. “And Chris is stuck paying the utilities. Maybe we should wait until after Christmas. I feel like Troy's been through enough as it is.”
I shrug. “Whatever you think.”
By the time I reach my car, I've got less than twenty minutes to reach Mr. Manning's house. Luckily traffic has died down enough that I make it with two minutes to spare. My GPS leads me to an RV park at the edge of Decatur. It's in a surprisingly nice area, practically surrounded by mansions, or as close as it gets to mansions this close to the square. I wonder how annoyed all the neighbors are that there's an RV park smack in the middle of all their posh housing developments.
A sign on the front entrance of the park reads: The Cove. One side of the hanging mechanism has broken off, leaving the sign to dangle alarmingly.
I'm pretty sure I've identified which submission was correct. I could've saved myself a lot of time if I'd thought to check out his address on Google maps. Live and learn, I suppose. Although now that I'll be taking the new job, I won't need to manage these situations anymore. This will be my last year to manage them at all. I choke down my disappointment, because now's not the time to wallow. I drive into the RV Park and move past lot after lot until I reach the space labeled 236.
I park my car next to an old Mustang sitting up on cinder blocks, and rummage around in the back seat of my sedan for an eligibility form. If I've come all the way out here, I may as well do the preliminary assessment and leave Mr. Manning the materials to finalize his family's enrollment in the program for this Christmas. I climb the steps up to the door, and knock softly in case children are sleeping. When the door opens, I look into Luke's face blankly. I can't seem to look away, and I have no idea what to say.
His light blue-green eyes look like the surf crashing over a white sand beach in this light, and his hair's slightly mussed. How can this be happening?
Luke's mouth drops and he looks over my shoulder, as though he's expecting to see someone behind me.
“Uh,” I sputter. I finally ask, “What are you doing here? And where's Mr. Manning?”
“I am Mr. Manning,” he says with his faint Australian accent, and suddenly it clicks. The voice on the phone I couldn’t quite place, because I’d only heard it once before at the time. “Lucas Manning, but I go by Luke.”
The world stops spinning, and I can't make sense of anything. The man I met in the bar at Bentleys? He's Lucas Manning, the guy who showed up on both lists for Sub-for-Santa? How?
“Mary, what are you doing here? Why are you being so weird about my name?” He steps outside, forcing me back down the steps. “I'd invite you inside, but it's a mess, and I have a meeting in a few—” he glances at his watch, “well, right now actually.”
He still has no idea why I'm here. “You're Lucas Manning.” I tilt my head and take in his RV. “Because you never told me your last name.” I scratch my head with my free hand. “Actually, you never really told me your first name either.”
“I go by Luke, usually. It's pretty common for people named Lucas.” His eyes glance down at my clipboard, and it finally hits him. “Wait, your charity that you run every year. It's Sub-for-Santa?”
I nod.
His laugh fills his belly and echoes against the neighboring trailers and RVs.
“It's not that funny,” I say. “And once you realize why I'm here. . .”
He snatches the clipboard out of my hands. “What's this?” He glances down at the forms and I clench my hands. He's a master electrician. He's taking me out to dinner, but he lives here? In a travel trailer in an RV park?
“You think I'm supposed to be a participant in the program?” His eyebrows rise precipitously.
“Your name was written in both categories. That's why I came out in person, to figure out where you belong.” I don't mean to, but my eyes track behind him to the doorframe of his trailer.
He chuckles. “Church-going busy bodies. I suppose I should be grateful they care, but it's not helping my dating game, is it?”
I shrug. “Look, if you tell me you don't qualify, I'll remove you from the list. It's that simple.”
He snorts. “I'm not quite Bill Gates, or even Jeff Bezos, but I don't qualify for a subsidized Christmas.”
I smack my forehead. “Of course you don't. You don't even have kids.”
He clears his throat. “I don't qualify because I make plenty of money. We live in a trailer because it's more convenient for me since I move often from job to job. But if I were poor, I'd definitely be eligible.”
We?
Luke pushes the door behind him open further, and I hear the familiar sounds of Bubble Guppies streaming through the doorway. And he was reading Percy Jackson earlier. Not because he's in publishing. Not because he loves fast paced mythological stories come to life. Because he has children, of course. I'm so stupid.
“Of course you have kids. I'm so sorry. I have no idea how I missed that.”
“I didn't mention them. I usually wait until the second date for that. You'd be surprised how often women are put off by a man who has kids full time. But not you clearly, since you run a charity for children.”
“It's pretty rare for the dad to have custody,” I say. “Maybe that's the bigger surprise.”
Luke frowns. “I think Dad gets custody close to one hundred percent of the time when mom dies.”
My eyes bug out. “I am so, so, very sorry. I can't seem to pull my foot out of my mouth today.”
“It has been a strange day,” he says. “I think you get a pass. Beth's been gone for almost four years, and I still don't like to talk about it. It's probably my fault. It may also be why I wait to tell women until a second or third date. See, once they know I have kids. . .”
“You have to tell them what happened to their mother.”
He nods. “And it's kind of a conversation doorstop.”
“I guess so.” In fact, our current conversation has effectively ground to a halt. I rock back and forth on my feet.
“Well, now that I know I don't have a stuffy case worker showing up imminently, you're welcome to come inside.”
“Oh, that's funny. Because I'm the stuffy case worker.”
He shrugs. “Maybe a little less stuffy than I expected.”
“What a glowing recommendation,” I say, “but I can't stay. I have a lot of paperwork I didn't finish today that I need to do tonight. But if you and your children still want to help with Sub-for-Santa by sponsoring a family, I'm delighted to make sure you remain on the appropriate list and are removed from the other.”
He grins. “That would be great.”
He waves at me when I get into my car, and then ducks back inside.
I should've told him to his face, and explained in person, but it has been a long day, and I chickened out. When I reach my own house, and pull into the garage, I whip out my phone. I close my eyes and think about Luke's dimples. His beautiful eyes, his witty banter. It's been years since I've looked forward to a date as much as I was looking forward to tomorrow's lunch.
When I open my eyes
again, I've already gotten a text message from Luke, before even sending him one. It's a photo of Luke’s grinning face next to a little boy who looks just like him, sticking out his tongue. On the left, a dark blonde girl in pigtails is making a duck face, her lips pursed, her eyes sassy.
I wish he hadn't sent me a photo. It makes it so much harder for me to do what I have to do. But those beautiful children deserve a good mother. Luke deserves a wife who can take his first wife's place, not someone who wants to be chained to a desk. Not someone who will miss out on math competitions, and have no time to help with the science fair. Those kids need a mom who will give them fresh cookies and milk when they come home from school.
My mom left us for her job, and I will never, ever do that to a child of mine. If I didn't love my job so much, this wouldn't be so hard. But I won't ever abandon my child, because I'll never have one.
I should wait until tomorrow so it's not so painfully obvious. I should come up with a better excuse, but I don't have the energy or the patience.
I text Luke back. SOMETHING CAME UP AT WORK. CAN'T MAKE LUNCH ANYMORE. SO SORRY.
My phone rings in my hand, and caller ID tells me it's Luke. I'm so surprised that I drop it between the seat and the center console in my car. I couldn't answer it now even if I wanted to, which I don't. I slide my seat back and feel around underneath my seat for a few minutes before my fingers finally close over it. My voicemail chimes, telling me I have a new message.
No thanks.
I'm in my kitchen when the text notification chimes. CALL ME BACK.
I don't respond. A bear never wanders off if you keep feeding it.
YOU DON'T HAVE A MEETING. COME TO LUNCH WITH ME TMW.
When I don't reply, he sends another.
AT LEAST TALK TO ME ABOUT IT.
I hold firm.
IT'S MY ACCENT, ISN'T IT?
I suppress a smile, put my phone on silent, and stick it in the top drawer of my nightstand. Then I grab a pint of ice cream out of the freezer and flop onto the sofa. Today has been a rollercoaster, which means tomorrow must be better. I light a balsam and pine candle, and turn on one of my favorite episodes of Gilmore Girls, when Lorelai and Luke finally become a proper couple. I fast forward through the mess with Rory and Dean, and by the end, I can almost smile again. I'd feel a lot better if Lorelai wasn't in love with someone named Luke. But at the end of the day, I'm way better off than she is. It's not like I'm secretly in love with anyone for years without being able to admit it to myself or to him.
I simply know myself, and I don't want to cause any more damage for Luke or for me by pursuing a relationship that can't go anywhere.
I brush my teeth and climb into bed, checking my phone one last time before turning out my lamp. I don't want this to be any harder than it needs to be, but for some reason I'm disappointed that he hasn't sent me any more texts.
Chapter 7
I'm brushing my teeth the next morning when Luke finally texts me again. WHAT'S THE MEETING ABOUT?
I roll my eyes, but a smile creeps onto my face anyway. I'M MEETING WITH RETAILERS ABOUT DONATIONS FOR THE SFS PROGRAM.
WHEN WILL IT END?
He's tenacious; I'll give him that. NO IDEA.
I'M WILLING TO GRACIOUSLY POSTPONE TO TOMORROW, BUT I WANT AN UPGRADE. DINNER.
My heart flutters, and I want to dance around my bathroom, preen in the mirror and maybe even text Paisley with delight. I'm obviously attracted to him, and he's funny, and it's exciting. But I can't keep stressing over something I know can never be. I close my eyes and imagine myself turning into my mother. Spending all my time combing hair and doing laundry and starting to resent being a mom. I don't want to give up my career, and I don't want to resent my kids.
I don't want to abandon my own children like she did, or implode like my dad did.
My hands are stiff and I keep having to delete and retype, but I finally force the words out. My index finger hovers over the send button, shaking. I swallow hard and hit send.
LUKE, THIS ISN'T GOING TO WORK. I'M SORRY.
THERE'S CHEMISTRY BETWEEN US. I KNOW YOU FEEL IT TOO. WHAT HAPPENED? IT CAN'T BE MY KIDS. THEY'RE ADORABLE.
The photo was cute, and I sound like a monster if I tell him it's the kids. I stick the phone face down on the counter. Until it buzzes again.
YOU DO NOT LIKE GREEN EGGS AND HAM, I GET IT. BUT TRY THEM TRY THEM AND YOU MAY...
Oh good grief. He's only reinforcing the fact that he's a father to two young children. No one else would jump right to a Dr. Seuss themed text. I only recognize the reference because Troy loves that book so much.
YES, I MAY. EXCEPT I DON'T WANT TO TRY THEM, NOT IN A BOAT OR A HOUSE OR WITH A MOUSE.
I watch my phone for a full twenty minutes, before deciding to stop fretting and get ready for work. He doesn't text me back on the drive into the office, or while I slink past Heather and Foster's office and into my own.
I congratulate myself on doing that without being spotted, and breathe a big sigh of relief. I begin the exhausting phone call and follow up email and letter process for each of our nominees, glancing at my phone after each one. I shouldn't care, because I told him I'm done. I can't date him.
I glance at my phone again. What's wrong with me? I try to forget about Luke through inundating myself in explaining the details of what aspects of the tax return I need to see. This is something I can handle, and it's something I know. It's one of the reasons I'm so good at running this charity.
I'm hunched over a pile of papers when I hear the tap on my door. I glance at my phone one more time before looking up. Nothing.
Because Luke is standing in my doorway, holding a bouquet of roses. Gorgeous roses—white with frilly pink edges.
“I don't know what I did wrong, and you said you didn't like green eggs and ham, so I thought I'd bring flowers instead. If you're just not that into me, I'll leave you alone.” His fingers form an x over his heart. “Cross my heart. But I haven't been as excited about anyone in, well.” He runs his free hand through his hair. “In years, if I'm being honest. And you seemed to like me almost as much as I like you before you saw where I live. I just want to reassure you, I'm not a charity case or a con man. I even brought a birth certificate, and social security card and a driver's license for verification.” He gestures at his back pocket with half a grin.
I drop my face into my hands. “It's not that at all. It's more complicated than that, and has nothing to do with your address or the fact that your home is on wheels.”
“What is it, then?” He takes a step into my office and sets the roses gently on the edge of my desk.
“Look, the thing is—”
Foster appears in the doorway. “Uh, who's this?” He looks so smug, and I think about how he's got everything he wanted from me from someone new, like a year after I turned him down.
Fury flares in my chest. Foster thinks I'm a loser, he thinks I'm broken. He thinks no one will want me, since I won't grow and pop out a baby. I stand up and pick up the flowers, bringing them to my face and inhaling their light, sweet, fragrance. “Isn't my boyfriend the sweetest?”
Luke frowns at first, but he must see something in my face, because he winks, and turns toward Foster. “Luke Manning, boyfriend extraordinaire. Nice to meet you. You must be the man who's planning to dismantle Mary's amazing Sub-for-Santa program.”
Foster frowns and shifts, narrowing his eyes at Luke.
I'm impressed that Luke stares him right in the eyes, completely unintimidated. Since Luke's wearing a polo shirt with cargo pants and work boots, and Foster's wearing one of his many designer suits, it's even more impressive that Luke doesn't bend under the Bradshaw glare.
“Foster Bradshaw. I'm the President of the United Way chapter here in Atlanta, but my family has been in oil for years and years. And I'm not dismantling anything. I'm merely handing down a mandate passed down to me.”
“Surely the buck stops with the President?” Luke leans against the doorframe comfort
ably, like he owns my office.
“My family may carry great weight,” Foster says smugly, “but I try not to throw my weight around.”
Luke glances my way with wide eyes, and a half smile. He turns back to face Foster slowly. “I forgot my pedigree chart when I left the house today, sadly. Running the entire chapter of United Way sure sounds like a lot of work. I'm not nearly as industrious. In fact, I'm borderline lazy. I've been independently wealthy ever since I discovered the key component to the creation of LED light bulbs.”
I laugh and shake my head, because otherwise Foster's going to feel threatened and tear into poor Luke.
“Luke's a stand up comedian in his free time,” I say. “But seriously, he's the master electrician for the Citibank building downtown. Which means he's pretty good with his hands.”
Foster's nostrils flare. “That building is an eyesore. I signed the petition against tearing down the old Stonefield building.”
Luke shrugs. “I came in long after all those decisions had been made. I'm not the architect, or anything fancy. I'm just there to make sure the lights all work when it opens in two weeks.”
Foster looks down his nose at Luke. “In any case, I walked down to see whether Mary would have time to run a projection for me, now that my gorgeous fiancé and I will be married before the end of the year.”
I know, I should not still be doing taxes for my ex. Ugh. “Maybe you should find a new preparer?”
Foster's jaw drops. “Why?” He turns to Luke. “Does it upset you that Mary does my taxes? Because it's really a compliment. She's the best, that's all.”
Luke holds Foster's gaze. “This is the first I've heard about it.”
I sigh. This is getting tedious. “Oh fine, but next year, you need someone new. When do you need it by?”
Foster exhales heavily. “Thank goodness. I didn't think I could find anyone in the next week or two, and I know quarterly payments aren't due until January, but I'd love a feel for what mine will be before the end of the year. Then I can make some charitable donations if I need to.”
