Chapter 8 Nola
NOLA
Quid pro quo. The same term I used against Max is now what he’s dangling in front of me. The offer makes me pause. “That sounds like the premise of a bad made-for-TV movie. I have nothing you could possibly want—what do you think I could help you get?”
“I don’t know yet.” He swallows and moves his slice of pizza around the air while he talks. “I’m offering to help if you tuck away the knowledge that at some point I’ll ask for something in return.”
“That sounds indefinite. It also sounds like you are asking to cash in on something that could be construed as sexual harassment.”
A wide smile breaks out across his face. It makes him look boyish and for a second, I forget he’s mostly made up of grump. “That’s my bad. I promise you, I didn’t mean for it to come across that way at all. My sisters would dismember me if I was ever anything but a complete gentleman.”
“You have sisters?” I’m proud I remember to pretend this is news to me.
With a nod he expounds. “I actually have a twin sister, who is in the film industry, and we have an older sister, who is a Foreign Service medical doctor.” The way he proudly describes them to me is endearing, but I’m not entirely sure if it’s true.
A family that has siblings who are a (former) pro baseball player, actress, and doctor?
No way. That’s stuff from a romance novel.
“Wow. They’re too accomplished to sound real.” A noise from the other side of the room steals my attention and I turn as I disbelievingly ask, “Would I know anything your twin has been in? What’s her name?”
“Her stage name is Madelyn Ford and—”
I whip around at that name and my mouth gapes open. “No. Way. The star of Meet Me in New York is your sister? You are such a liar.” My morning sleuthing never mentioned famous actress Madelyn Ford as his twin sister. Then again I skimmed anything that wasn’t directly talking about him.
“Want me to FaceTime her?” He reaches for the phone in his back pocket as I hold out my pointer finger and run it very slowly down the side of his face.
From his eyebrow to jaw, I intently study the similarities of the man in front of me with those of the actress whose career I’ve followed since she took off fifteen years ago after starring in Sunsets in Paris.
His breathing slows as I trace a path through his stubble and I hold my finger too long on his jaw, before dragging it across his mouth and wiggling my finger back and forth against the dimple in his chin.
Pulling my hand back, I touch my lip with my finger and sigh in disbelief.
“Oh my gosh. I totally see the resemblance now. You two have the same eyes and mouth. Wait, is she not a real redhead?” I’m aware I’m overstepping all boundaries to ask for a potential piece of gossip, but her hair is absolutely gorgeous in a 1990s Julia Roberts kind of way and Max is an everyday medium brunette.
“Uh.” Max blinks rapidly, seemingly coming back to the present. His gaze drops to my hand and I realize what I’ve done.
“Oh, that was inappropriate. I’m so sorry.
” I wring my hands together as I try to explain myself.
“Two seconds ago I was talking about sexual harassment and then I touched you. It’s a bad artist habit—I’m a tactile learner and was doing my method of studying the subject.
Which in this case, is you.” A nervous chuckle bubbles out of me.
Color tinges his cheeks and he suppresses a smile. “Word to the wise, I recommend you don’t ever touch Stella.”
I bite my lip. “Good to know.” Trying to circle back, I run a hand through my hair. “The red hair though . . .”
“Yeah, she’s a natural. Stella was a redhead in her day and Madelyn was the lucky genetic recipient. Violet and I got Grandpa’s green eyes and his brunette hair. Violet’s hair is a darker brown than mine.” He laughs and looks away. “You didn’t ask for any of that.”
“No, but I like this. I like knowing about you.” I close the very small gap between us and bump him with my shoulder like he did to me a few minutes before.
He gives a half smile and takes a drink. “Sure, now you do—now that you know about Madelyn.”
I know I was adamant I wouldn’t get to know Max, but he’s easy to talk to and the little I know of him so far, he’s fascinating. Still. I can’t let him know I’m enjoying this and roll my eyes. “Stop. Tell me what your fancy-titled doctor sister does.”
“Violet is a Foreign Service medical doctor,” he reiterates slowly, “which is an over-the-top way of saying she is a doctor for government employees who live abroad. She’s currently working in the embassy in Vienna.”
“L.A., Austria.” I hold my hands up as if weighing the locations. “And you’re the lucky sucker who’s in Boise.”
He’s contemplative. “Idaho had never been on my radar before, but it’s growing on me.”
The way Max hides behind his raised glass as heat creeps up his neck makes me wonder whether a tiny part of that could be because of me or if it’s in direct correlation to how warm the room’s gotten.
What he probably means is he likes Boise for all the reasons it’s become a top ten city in the last few years.
The latter. Definitely the latter. This disappoints me until I remember we are not on a date, and I’m just the girl who kissed him that one time.
Grounded back to reality, I say, “I need to get home. Emma will be dropped off soon and—”
“No need to explain, I get it. I’ve taken up too much of your Saturday anyway.” He pushes back his barstool and stands.
“You never decided how long you can call in your favor.”
It takes him half a second to confidently announce, “A year.”
“Oh,” I laugh, “you think we’re going to be friends that long?”
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
Him questioning why we wouldn’t be reignites that dangerous hope inside. It’s been such a long time since I’ve had a male friend in my life and I’m enjoying Max—probably much more than he seems to be reciprocating. I hold my glass of Diet Pepsi high and toast, “To quid pro quo.”
Without hesitating, he clinks his glass against mine and repeats the cheer.
Tuesday comes way too fast. Emma and I spent Sunday hiking to Table Rock and then making homemade pizza and binging Gilmore Girls.
Watching it makes her feel like she’s grown up and she relates to the Lorelai and Rory mom and daughter dynamic, whereas the older I get, the more I find myself siding with Emily, the family matriarch, more often than not.
But any time she will spend with me, I’ll gladly take because it’s only a few short years before I’ll be nothing but all cringe to her.
On Monday, Callie and I rolled up our sleeves and got to work preparing a portfolio of my best work, from my career in abstracts before I blackballed myself and since opening my own business doing landscapes.
I change three times before settling on my mid-length emerald green corduroy skirt, crisp white blouse under camel leather jacket, and cute fall ankle boots.
Professional but artsy, authentically me.
Before leaving the house, I open my top dresser drawer and pull out the one piece of luxury jewelry I own.
According to Max, Stella is all about her brand.
She strikes me as a woman who wears a kaftan and enjoys fine jewelry at the same time.
I hope she will appreciate my effort trying to blend the comfy-upscale vibe together on myself.
The open circle pendant from Tiffany’s & Co.
was a gift from Elliott on our first wedding anniversary.
He’d saved up for it without me knowing and couldn’t wait to give it to me that morning in bed.
I’d never had diamonds of any kind, other than my very simple engagement ring, and I felt like a million bucks owning this piece.
Holding up the necklace, the numbers come rushing back to me.
He’s now been gone longer than we were married.
Emma’s been alive more than twice the amount of time she knew him.
The realization is always a punch to the heart.
The chain clasps effortlessly behind my neck, and I look at myself in the closet mirror one last time.
It’s the perfect addition. I like to wear it on special occasions, or in the case of today, when I know the company I’m keeping will appreciate its value.
I pat the pendant lightly and tell myself Elliott would be proud of his girls.
We’re living our lives and doing good things, even if the days are sometimes long and the years are hard.
Before I allow myself to think about it too long and tear up, I grab my leather tote bag and head out the door.
Callie meets me at the entrance of the assisted living center at quarter to twelve.
We check in at the front desk and are shown to the dining room, where we are introduced to Jacqueline, pronounced in a very pristine French accent.
The room is lively with residents enjoying their time in small groups throughout the space.
There’s the clang of silverware and the hustle of staff serving meals.
“It’s wonderful to meet both of you. Please, take a seat.” She’s middle-aged and flawless, tall and stunning in a trouser set. “Mrs. Hutchings should be coming out in just a minute. She was finishing up when I spoke with her a few minutes ago, and she asked me to come and greet you.”
The dining room mirrors the multipurpose room that held Bingo, except instead of getting a view of downtown from the floor-to-ceiling windows, we’re facing the foothills. The rich golden colors that blanket the hiking trails are particularly vibrant on sunny days like this one.
Our table seats four and Jacqueline sits across from Callie and me, her hands clasped, elbows delicately on the table. We discuss the weather and comment on the facility longer than necessary. Her eyes keep dropping to a gold watch dangling from her wrist. I begin to wonder what is keeping Stella.