Sarah's Choice

by Rebecca St. James

Sarah’s shoulders tightened. Until then it had been a good night. She could keep it that way if she didn’t say what she couldn’t keep herself from saying. She at least tried not to sound like his father.

  “You’re not trying to sell gym memberships on the side again, are you?”

  “Hey, that’s not fair. That would’ve worked if they’d had free weights. How was I supposed to sell memberships without free weights? They were just too limited in what they had to offer.”

  Sarah leaned forward. “Like a realistic commission. You lost, what, eight hundred dollars on that, uh, business venture?”

  “Listen, here’s what’s gonna happen.” Matt set up the scene with both hands. “I’m gonna pass my Series Sixty-Five exam, and then it’s good-bye to the boiler room and hello big time. Okay?”

  Sarah took a deep breath. She’d promised herself . . . But she’d heard it before, this plan to pass the exam that would qualify him to operate as an investment advisor representative. She had in fact heard it the very night before when Matt told his father the same thing. She would probably hear again—and again—how advising disgustingly wealthy people on portfolio management strategies would set him up for life. Just for tonight, though, maybe she could pretend this was the time it would really happen. Especially after last night.

  “Okay,” she said. “I know you can do it.”

  Matt grinned, the way no one else could grin. There was always that.

  “So let’s do what we came here to do and celebrate,” he said. “C’mon, you want to start with a drink? Glass of wine?”

  Sarah checked in with her stomach. It was better but why chance it? “I’ll have a ginger ale.”

  “Ginger ale?” Matt looked like he was trying to figure out a quadratic equation. “What’s up? You don’t want a real drink? It’s Friday night.”

  “I’m cutting back.”

  “Because . . .”

  “I threw up this morning. And I have you to thank. That was the last time I’ll ever let you talk me into jalapeños—especially with your parents. Which brings me to . . .”

  Matt groaned. “I thought this was supposed to be a celebration—not a wake.”

  “You want to hear this,” Sarah said. “Trust me.”

  He pulled out his cell phone and glanced at it. “I’m timing you. You get five minutes. Then we’re moving on.”

  Sarah waited until the server took their drink orders and Matt told him to bring calamari too. Then she grabbed both of his hands.

  “I know why you wanted me to meet your parents—even though they were only in town for, what, two hours?”

  “No, see—”

  “Let me finish.”

  Sarah pulled out the mental drawer she’d parked all of this in the night before as she lay in bed seething. It was all there, ready for the telling. She’d discarded the part about Matt’s mother and father being the coldest, most unfeeling people she’d ever met, even in her line of work. Judging from the fact that even though they hadn’t seen him in three months, they greeted him like he’d been underfoot all day, he already knew that.

  “Your mother spent the whole time inspecting me,” she said, “and your father basically acted like I wasn’t there. So I figured out that you didn’t invite me so they could meet me and love me. You invited me so I could see why you don’t ever call them or go see them, and then I’ll stop telling you all the time that you should.”

  A slow version of the grin started its way across Matt’s face.

  “The whole evening was about your father grilling you about your future, and your mom grilling me about my past. And the really creepy thing was, they did it all under the guise of impeccable manners and witty repartee.”

  “You mean the jokes about the advertising business.”

  “And the cuts about your investment firm and your car and the color of my lipstick.”

  “Your lipstick?”

  Sarah leaned into the table. “When your mother informed me we were going to the ladies’ room, I knew it was so she could check out whether I get my cosmetics at the Estée Lauder counter or the grocery store. I thought about offering to strip down to my underwear so she could see the tags.”

  Matt’s smile faded. “I’m sorry, Sar. And you’re wrong. I invited you so my father wouldn’t be in my face the entire evening.”

  “How’d that work out for you?”

  He reached for his cell phone. “Has it been five minutes yet?”

  “Okay, so here’s the deal.” Sarah squeezed the hand that was halfway to the phone. “From now on I’m not going to get all up in your business about the Series Sixty-Five. I don’t care what your father says, you can do this. Okay?”

  The grin reappeared, big and sloppy. “Wait, let me write this down. And I want you to sign it and date it.”

  He pushed a napkin toward her, but the server appeared with the drinks and set her ginger ale on it. When he was gone, Matt nodded at her glass.

  “Let’s get back to you throwing up this morning. Where did this happen?”

  “At home, and then—”

  “That was a serious waste of vomit. You should have saved it for work. Then you could have used it as an excuse to take the day off.”

  “And Thad could have used it as an excuse to snag the promotion. And besides—Matt—that is disgusting.”

  His eyes shone. “No, it’s smart, is what it is. So can you eat?”

  “Yes, I can eat. And I want everything.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Including dessert.”

  Matt decided to lay off the teasing for the rest of the evening.

  In the first place, she was being cool about his parents. They hadn’t been at the table at Los Compadres for two minutes last night before he knew it was a mistake. It was obvious his mother thought Sarah was a prospective wife for him—and that she wasn’t having it. Of course, Sarah had played up to him like she was, just to set his mother off. Yeah, he loved her for that.

  Besides, Sar was happier tonight than he’d seen her since—maybe ever. She’d worked her tail off for this promotion and she deserved some straight-up support. Not hard to do for a woman who was beautiful, smart, and as funny as he was, if not more so. What she saw in him he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t let himself toy with that question too often.

  When the server brought a dessert to share—a volcanic chocolate thing compliments of the house because Matt told him the lady was celebrating and deserved as much—Sarah gave him her biggest dazzler of a smile of the evening and said, “I love that we’re sharing this whole thing, Matt. You know it means a lot to me.”

  “I know.”

  Her brows knit together. “Which is why I don’t get Audrey.”

  Whoa. Sometimes talking to her was like watching a soccer game. You never knew where the ball was.

  “You mean the woman you’re replacing? The one that’s about to give birth in the parking garage?”

  “Yeah. I mean, she goes to college, then graduate school. She spends years working her way up through the ranks. She and her husband are obviously financially comfortable. And then she just gives it all up to stay home with a baby.”

  Matt scooped up a spoonful of molten chocolate. “You want kids someday.”

  “I do. But I want to be able to provide for them without constantly worrying about where I’m going to get the money to pay the bills.” She tilted her head, spoon suspended between her and the diminishing volcano. “Does that sound mercenary? Because it isn’t just about the money.”

  “No, but it’s a lot about the money.” Matt pushed the plate toward her. She’d picked through the whole meal. She probably had more room left than he did. “At least according to Uncle Clay it’s about the money.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “He and Aunt Jerri are having another baby. A surprise.”

  Sarah’s jaw dropped. “They didn’t say anything about it Saturday when we were over there.”

  “She just told him this morning.”

 
“That’s four kids, Matt.”

  “Yep.”

  “I really like Clay and Jerri’s family, but . . . that’s a lot of children.”

  “He thinks so. He’s completely freaking out.”

  “That part surprises me. He’s such a family guy. He was out there messing around on the snowmobiles with them longer than you were.”

  “I guess he thought they were done having kids. He’s forty-two. She’s, like, thirty-nine. Like I said, it’s the money thing. He’s already worried about how he’s gonna send the kid to Harvard.”

  “I get that.” Sarah pressed her mouth into a straight line.

  Matt leaned back in the booth. “In a way it’s his own fault.”

  “How so?”

  “He should’ve never stayed at United after he got his financial advisor license. He’d be making way more money as a midlevel broker anywhere else than as a manager there.”

  “Why’d he stay?”

  Matt felt a laugh bubble up. “Aunt Jerri was pregnant. Seemed like she was always pregnant. I guess the management job offered more security.”

  “Exactly my point. I want to have choices.”

  Matt nodded. “Yeah. It seems like you always lose when you let circumstances dictate your future.”

  She nodded back.

  “Sarah?”

  Matt looked up to see that Nick person approaching from a table away. He glanced at Sarah to see if he should shake the guy’s hand or pretend he had the wrong couple. Sarah gave Nick the professional version of her smile.

  “Hi, Nick. This is your kind of place, isn’t it?”

  Sarah, you little minx.

  Nick turned to Matt. “It’s Mike, isn’t it?”

  “Matt,” Sarah said, before Matt could accept Mike and let it go at that.

  Nick gave him what Matt considered a frozen fish handshake. “Sorry about that. I think we worked together . . . ?”

  “You did an ad campaign for United Financial,” Matt said.

  Matt was a gofer then, the only job Uncle Clay could get him at the time, and he’d poured many a cup of coffee for Nick Kellog during planning sessions. The best thing that came out of that was discovering Sarah.

  Nick switched Matt off and focused on her. “Good meeting today. You handled yourself like a pro with Henry. And just so you know, he tries that joke on everybody who calls him sir. You’re the first person I ever saw who pulled it off without looking like an idiot.”

  “It was . . . amusing,” Sarah said.

  How she did that was beyond Matt. He himself could usually finagle his way out of any situation somehow, but Sarah had a way of saying the right thing the right way to the right person and somehow meaning it.

  He had zero hope of ever pulling that off. Or of achieving the polish Nick Kellog had shined onto himself. It was nine o’clock at night and the guy looked like he’d just shaved and put on that pricey jacket he’d probably been wearing since 7:00 a.m. Even with what was no doubt his third drink in his hand, his small talk with Sarah was as smooth as the bourbon in that glass.

  Matt rubbed at his cheek. This wasn’t the first time he’d wondered if somebody like Nick Kellog was what Sarah hoped Matt would become. He could hear his father delivering the line: If you can’t support it, don’t chase it. Probably the wisdom of experience from paying for all his mother’s Botox.

  When Nick was gone, Sarah narrowed her eyes.

  “How is it that every time I’m around him I want to launch into a diatribe on women’s rights?”

  “Forget him,” Matt said. “What next?”

  He shouldn’t have asked. Sarah broke into another smile not meant for him, and Matt twisted to look over his shoulder. He barely choked off a groan.

  It was Constricta.

  Actually her name was Megan, but Matt could never see her without thinking of a boa ready to squeeze the life out of any situation that included him. Even before she reached their table, her eyes were so tightly narrowed on him they were practically crossed. Any minute now they’d switch sockets.

  “Nick said you were here,” she said to Sarah.

  “You didn’t tell me you were dating him!”

  Megan’s eyebrows shot up. Matt always wondered if they were tattooed on. “I’m not,” she said. “I’d rather eat glass.”

  Huh. He thought they would’ve made a great couple. Two reptiles. It would just be a matter of who ate whom first.

  “We’re having a management dinner.” Megan tapped the table with a manufactured fingernail. “Next quarter you’ll be there with us.”

  Then she darted her snake-eyed gaze at Matt. Without even a flick of the tongue, she managed to get the message across: he wouldn’t be attending . . . it was way above his pay grade.

  When Constricta had slithered away, Sarah slid her hand across the table and touched his.

  “I’m sorry. I know Megan isn’t your favorite person.”

  “What I don’t get is why she’s yours.”

  “She’s not. She’s just helping me with this promotion and I appreciate it.” Sarah shrugged. “She’s about the only person I can halfway relate to at work, and besides . . .”

  She tilted her head at him, letting a curl or two whisper against her cheek. She could pretty much have anything she wanted when she did that.

  “Besides what?” he said.

  “I don’t have that much time for girlfriends. I spend all my free time with you.”

  “So-o-o-o, like I said, what’s next?”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “I could go for a kiss. Maybe two.”

  “Waiter, check please.”

  Sarah wrinkled her nose at him.

  It was all right again.

  Chapter Five

  “Catfish, you seriously need to get a real job.”

  Sarah leaned over to pick up what looked like a kindergarten art project slid under the door. Bad move. Last night’s filet mignon teased at her throat. She took a minute to sag against the wall before she opened the latest PAY THE RENT! notice, written on an origami spider.

  She tossed it on the desk with the others and returned to the daybed and her peppermint tea. Hopefully that would go down and stay down. Enough with the stomach thing, already.

  Actually, it probably wouldn’t go away until this mess was taken care of—the mess in question being the bills in the plastic compartments, the ones she always paid first. The ones she was manning up and facing this morning. A few hundred dollars here, a little heartburn there. It was a chronic pain in the financial stomach.

  Especially when new surprises kept showing up. She picked up the one that had come yesterday and simultaneously fought off another urge to toss her cookies. The ringing of her landline saved the day. Until she saw that it was her mother. She was in a compartment by herself.

  Okay, do not answer with, Mom, do you realize it’s only 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday? Do. Not.

  “Hi, Mom,” she said.

  “Hi, honey. I didn’t wake you and Matt up, did I?”

  Sarah’s jaw tightened. “Matt. Why would you wake up Matt?”

  “I know he stays over now and then.”

  Fifteen seconds into the conversation and Sarah was already throttling her tea mug. She’d never defended her stance on sex with her mother and she wasn’t going to start now. She couldn’t imagine herself saying, “Mom, I no longer care that the church tells me it’s wrong to have sex outside of marriage or that God will be disappointed in me if I do—so what difference does it make?” She might as well set her mother on fire. It wouldn’t even help if she told her she would never sleep with any guy she didn’t have feelings for, which had eliminated everybody before—

  “Sarah, all I’m saying is that this is not God’s plan for your life. You have all the benefits of marriage with none of the responsibilities.”

  Sarah glared at the Sea of Accounts Payable she was drowning in. “Mom, there is no way you can say I’m not responsible.”

  “In many ways you are, but—”r />
  “Is this why you called?”

  In the long-suffering pause that ensued, Sarah closed her eyes. She hadn’t meant to be so abrupt, but if she didn’t cut her mother off she was in for the Sermon on the Mount.

  She went for a sunnier tone. “What time’s your party tomorrow?”

  “That is why I called. I wanted to tell you what I want for my birthday.”

  Good. Safe territory.

  “Too late,” Sarah said. “I already got you something.”

  “I’ll take that, too, but I want to see you at church tomorrow for my birthday.”

  So much for safe.

  “Mom, I don’t know. I’m not feeling well.” Which wasn’t a lie. Sarah set the mug on the bedside table and hauled in a deep breath. She’d be lucky to get through this call, much less a sermon.

  “Funny how you’re always sick on Sunday morning.”

  Another silence, which Sarah made no attempt to fill.

  “Can’t I have my two daughters sitting by my side in church at least once a year?”

  That Sarah could imagine because she’d done it for months after her father died—sat beside her mother on Sundays because she was so fragile a refusal to go would have shattered her. Sat there and shut down week after week after week while the praise songs told her God loved her more and more and she believed it less and less. Church had only given her something to bang her angry head against. She’d stopped going the week she’d moved in here and didn’t have to see her mother looking the way she probably did at this exact moment: white-knuckling the phone, blinking rapidly, rubbing her other hand up and down her thigh. It wasn’t worth it to leave her that way. Given her emotional fragility, this could go south fast.

  “Okay,” Sarah said.

  “Thank you, honey.” Mom’s voice shook. “You know how much this means to me. More than the party.”

  “We’ll be there for that too—”

  “I’m thinking a nice ham with scalloped potatoes—or maybe that sweet potato casserole with the little marshmallows the boys like. Which sounds good to you?”

  Sarah got out, “Whatever you want, Mom,” before she plastered her hand over her mouth.

  “All right, I’ll see you tomorrow. The service is at ten—”