Chapter 10
It was 5:59 p.m., and if Raquelle didn’t arrive to pick up Mikaela soon, Warren would be late for his date with Brittany. He hated being late. It went against everything his parents had taught him. Students lost instructional minutes if his dad’s school bus ran late. Children went hungry if his mom didn’t serve cafeteria lunches on time. The Berg family believed punctuality was essential.
Warren watched Mikaela’s face crumple as each second passed on the clock. His ex-wife had struck again.
Mikaela had been sitting on the ground by the living room window, staring out at the empty spot in the driveway for forty-three minutes. Her duffle bag sat in her lap as she waited to see her mom for the one visit a month that Raquelle occasionally made time for.
“Do you want to watch some TV?” Warren asked. He’d already offered her cookies, baseball, and reading aloud.
“No, thank you.” Mikaela hugged her knees and leaned her forehead against the windowpane. “She’ll be here any minute.”
“That’s right.” Warren checked his phone one more time to see if he’d gotten a text from Raquelle, but he hadn’t. “She’s probably stuck in traffic and will be here soon.”
When Raquelle had called him this morning and asked if she could take Mikaela for an overnight Friday instead of Saturday, Warren had said yes, even though it meant canceling the babysitting arrangements he’d made. Warren wanted Mikaela to have time with her mom, regardless of whether he thought Raquelle was a good influence or not. But now it appeared that Raquelle was either late or standing Mikaela up, and both were inexcusable.
Warren and Brittany had six-thirty reservations at the Parisian Café. Brittany could wait, as far as Warren was concerned. His daughter couldn’t, at least not by herself. Seeing Mikaela sit on the floor like that broke his heart. It made him think of the apartment where his family had lived in his senior year. They’d had no furniture until he brought home his first paycheck from Burger King and they had splurged on a thirty-two-dollar sofa from Goodwill.
Laurie and Alison would never treat Mikaela like this. They cared for her as if she were their own daughter.
It had been four days since the barbecue, and Warren was still reeling from their accidental proposal. The three of them had discussed it after Dawn and Sierra left that night. Trent and Ash’s birth father had been an anonymous donor, and Laurie wanted their next child to have more answers about their heritage than a DNA info sheet. Alison wasn’t so sure about asking for Warren’s help or having a third child at all.
“Well, I won’t worry about coming up with an answer until you two talk this out,” Warren had told them, which was good because he had no idea what his answer would be.
Warren worried about Mikaela’s loneliness as an only child. He’d always had Neil and Rudy to play with, but Mikaela had nobody. But if Warren did miraculously have another child, either through science or Mother Nature, Mikaela and the baby would be twelve years apart. That wasn’t the same thing as Rudy teaching him how to drive a stick-shift or competing with Neil for the last pancake. He’d already screwed up his chance to give Mikaela the enriching sibling experience he’d enjoyed as a child.
“I think I’ll read my book.” Warren picked up the study guide for the battalion chief exam and sat down on the floor next to Mikaela.
“You don’t have to wait with me,” she said stiffly.
“No.” He opened the manual. “But I want to.”
They sat there in silence for a few minutes, Mikaela glowering out the window and Warren reading his book.
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “You’re never late,” Mikaela whispered.
“Not for you, at least.” Warren check the clock on the wall: 6:07. “Your mom loves you very much, and I’m sure she’ll be here soon.”
Mikaela nodded. “Yup.”
Warren’s heart broke as he watched her wipe tears off her cheeks. “I love you,” he said, “ so much.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “You mean more than anything in the whole world to me.”
“I love you, too, Dad.” Mikaela sniffed really hard then blew her nose on the tissue Warren offered her. “What about your date?”
Warren pulled out his phone. “I’ll text her.” He was just about to open a chat window when Raquelle’s Mini Cooper turned into the driveway.
“Mom’s here!” Mikaela jumped up and stuffed the tissue into her pocket. “I knew she’d come.”
“Absolutely,” Warren said, struggling to feign confidence with that statement.
Raquelle honked but didn’t get out. She didn’t need to because Mikaela was already racing through the front door.
“Don’t forget your pillow!” Warren grabbed it and followed Mikaela out to the driveway.
Raquelle wore gigantic sunglasses, and her hair was two different shades of blond, golden on the top like Mikaela’s and corn-silk yellow on the bottom. The Mini Cooper’s radio blasted dance music so loud that the tiny convertible vibrated.
“Hey, baby girl,” Raquelle said with a huge smile on her face. “Hop in, and let’s go.”
Warren scanned the backseat and saw it was empty. “What happened to the booster seat I bought you?”
“I threw it away.” Raquelle tossed her hair behind her shoulders. “Junior high kids don’t use booster seats.”
Warren felt his stomach clench. “But I told you that the law in Washington State says that Mikaela’s not tall enough to ride without a booster, no matter how old she is.”
Mikaela clutched her duffle bag in front of her and didn’t budge. “It’s against the law, Mom.” Her eyes grew wide.
“It’s a ridiculous law, that’s what it is.” Raquelle pushed her glasses up on top of her head and rolled her eyes. “Are you getting in or what? I had to wait through rush hour traffic for you.”
Mikaela looked up at Warren with an uncertain expression, clearly seeking his guidance.
“I’ll grab your booster from our car,” he said. “Okay?”
Mikaela nodded, her face relaxing at the solution. “Thanks.”
He ran into the house to get the keys to his Nissan Xterra, raced back to the vehicle, then removed one of the three booster seats. Installing it in the backseat of the Mini Cooper took twice as long. Warren had to fold himself like a pretzel to get the damn thing back there properly.
“Be safe,” he whispered to Mikaela as he helped her into the car.
“I will be.” Mikaela surprised him by kissing him on the cheek. “See you tomorrow.”
As he watched them drive off in the minuscule vehicle, Warren found himself wishing that Mikaela had a cell phone. Instead of a luxury item that would addict her to screens, it suddenly seemed like an important safety tool that he’d denied his daughter. What if Raquelle crashed the car and Mikaela couldn’t reach him? What if Raquelle was speeding at this very moment and Mikaela was afraid? If it were possible, Warren would have texted Mikaela right then to check that she was okay, but he couldn’t.
He could, however, text Brittany. It was 6:33, so he was already three minutes late. I’ll be there in ten minutes, he messaged her. I ran into childcare issues.
No problem, she responded. She added a kissy-face emoji for good measure. I’m running late too.
Brittany’s understanding was a huge relief. Warren locked the front door and drove off as fast as the speed limit allowed.
The inside of the Nissan reeked of cheese crackers. Hopefully, Brittany wasn’t one of those people who judged a guy by the car he drove. Warren usually took scrupulous care of his Xterra, washing it and vacuuming out the interior every week. But on the twins’ final day of preschool, one of the boys had accidentally dumped out his lunchbox on the ride home. Now, the middle seat was bright orange, and no amount of fabric spray had been able to remove the color or the cheesy odor. Thankfully, Warren was meeting Brittany at the restaurant instead of picking her up. He would need to schedule a professional car detailer appointment before a potential second date.
Since it was Friday night, downtown Harper Landing bustled with people. Warren had to park four blocks away from the restaurant. As he strode toward the Parisian Café, he passed a shiny Porche Boxster parked in front of a fire hydrant.
“Asshole,” Warren muttered. Normally, he would have reported the license plate to the Harper Landing Police non-emergency line, but he didn’t have time. If there was a fire, Station Two or whoever showed up would enjoy smashing those windows to hook up the hose.
Warren arrived at the restaurant at a quarter to seven and found Brittany waiting in the lobby. Her black leather pants and shoulderless sweater made her look like a rock star instead of a single mom in her thirties.
“Look at you ,” Warren said in an admiring tone. “I’m sorry I was late.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She stalked toward him. “I just got here myself about two minutes ago.” Brittany rose onto her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. She smelled like musk and roses.
Hot damn . This date was starting out good. Warren claimed her hand and held on tightly. “Shall we?” he asked.
She giggled. “We shall.”
Dim lights lit most of the lobby, but spotlights flooded a mural painted on the back wall. The Eiffel Tower stood next to the Pantheon and Notre Dame Cathedral. The artist had looped the monuments together with a garland of purple iris blossoms. Napoleon guarded one side of the mural with a bayonet, and Marie Antoinette graced the other, standing next to a guillotine with her husband’s bloody head. At the bottom of the painting, a parade of poodles marched across the scene, wagging their pom-pom tails.
“Wow.” Warren tried not to cringe. “That’s some mural.” It confirmed his opinion that he never wanted to visit Europe.
The hostess, a slim teenage girl with long feathery hair, smiled at him from behind the podium next to the image. “Merci,” she said. “I painted it myself.”
“And it’s stunning,” Brittany gushed. “Warren, this is Lily Parson. Her father, Dave, owns the place.”
Warren scrambled to find something positive to say about the artwork. “I could tell right away what everything was,” he said.
Lily beamed. “Merci beaucoup. My dad thought I should have squeezed the Bastille in there, too, but I told him that would have ruined the composition.”
“Yeah.” Warren nodded. “I can see your point.” Despite its garishness, the mural did have balance. “We’re here for a six-thirty reservation under Warren Berg.”
Lily checked a clipboard on the podium. “Great.” She collected two menus. “Follow me.”
“Dave always gives me the best tables here,” said Brittany.
“Why’s that?” Warren asked. “How do you know him?”
“He’s a major client in my advertising periodical, Harper Landing Delights. He always takes out a full-page spread.”
“Cool.”
Lily stopped and laid the menus on a table. Warren pulled out a chair for his date. Brittany was right—this was the best table in the joint. It offered a stunning view of the Harper Landing-Port Inez ferry. Warren surveyed the room and noticed they were probably the only couple who didn’t qualify for AARP cards.
“Thank you, Lily,” said Brittany. “That will be all.”
“I’ll tell the server you’re here.” Lily darted away.
Warren sat down, opened the menu, and had a minor heart attack when he saw the prices. Twenty-eight dollars for snails? Hell, he could ask Ash to collect some in the backyard for free. He scanned the menu for an entree with a backbone. He wasn’t an adventurous cook, but he enjoyed trying new foods when he had the opportunity. That meant a no to the grilled chicken Caesar salad, which seemed inauthentic, and yes to the free baguettes, because Warren never turned down free food.
As for his entree, he deliberated between the coq au vin and chicken cordon bleu. He’d had chicken cordon bleu before, because it was Dennis’s favorite thing to cook for C Shift when he was on dinner duty. Dennis was a horrible cook, but he could heat up frozen meals from Costco. By the time the waiter arrived, Warren had decided upon the coq au vin since he’d never tried it before.
“And I’ll have the poached salmon,” said Brittany as she handed the waiter her menu.
They made small talk for the next ten minutes. Warren told a joke he’d heard from Dennis that was only mildly funny. Brittany laughed loudly, winning his approval. She told him about the mole problem in her backyard and the lengths her landscaping crew had taken to irradiate them. Warren knew a solution that might have solved the problem—sending her son out to pee in the holes—but he kept that suggestion to himself.
The waiter brought out a breadbasket just as Warren’s stomach started to rumble. He sliced open a mouthwatering baguette and slathered on butter. If the food here tasted half as good as this bread smelled, he was in for a treat that would be well worth the cost. Mikaela would have loved these baguettes.
Thinking about Mikaela made him worry about her riding off to the city in Raquelle’s tiny little car. “You have two kids, right?” Warren asked Brittany.
“That’s right.” She rubbed her fingertip on the rim of her water glass. “My daughter’s in tenth grade, and my son’s in eighth.”
Warren shook his head. “Amazing. You don’t look a day over twenty-nine.” It wasn’t exactly the truth, but the best brotherly advice Rudy had ever given him was to lay the compliments on thick.
“Thank you.” Brittany fluffed up her hair. “I used to date younger guys—closer to my own age—but they’re just so boring .” She reached across the table and walked her fingers up his right arm. “I bet you’ve had loads of adventures as a fireman. Have you ever carried someone out of a burning house?”
“Yeah, I’ve saved people from burning buildings,” he said. “Lots of people, actually.” He hoped Brittany wasn’t the type of person who didn’t care about anything but his job.
“Do you have a Dalmatian?” she asked next.
Oh boy, here we go. Brittany probably thought he posed on charity calendars or something, which he actually had. But that was fifteen years ago, when thieves vandalized the Methodist Church’s storage shed and the toys for their free holiday shop for needy children were stolen. The only reason Warren had taken off his shirt and posed for the camera was to save Christmas.
Warren shook his head. “No Dalmatian. Some firehouses allow pets, but ours doesn’t.”
“Wise choice.” Brittany picked apart a baguette but didn’t eat it. “Pets are so messy. How many times a day do you slide down a pole?”
“We don’t have a pole. Our living quarters are on the ground floor. But the kitchen appliances do turn off automatically when we leave for a call, so we don’t have to worry about leaving the stove on.” Warren realized he needed to take control of the conversation quickly, or he’d be stuck answering inane questions all night. “When did you let your kids have cell phones?” He reached into the basket for another baguette.
“Phones?” Brittany wrinkled her nose. “I thought we were talking about hoses.”
Warren laughed. “Well, I guess I know what your next question would be. Fifty feet. Or the biggest hose you’ve ever seen,” he added with a wink. “But seriously, how did you know when it was the right time for your kids to have phones? Or do they have phones? I should probably have started with that.”
Brittany snorted. “Of course they have phones. My children always have the latest models of everything: phones, cars, tech-toys, everything.”
“Perks of their mother being a successful business owner, huh?” Warren wiped crumbs off his mouth with the napkin then folded it across his lap.
“That’s right. And let me tell you, giving Porsche and Zach their own phones as soon as they were old enough to text was the best decision ever. Now, I don’t have to communicate with their ogre at all.”
Warren raised his eyebrows. “Ogre?”
“My ex-husband. He’s a nightmare.” Brittany gulped down her water. “Where’s the waiter? I need something stronger if we’re going to talk about Brad.”
“Your ex?” Warren didn’t want to talk about former spouses but sympathized with Brittany’s need to vent.
“He’s a forty-two-year-old toddler.” Brittany waved her arm until she caught the waiter’s attention and ordered a glass of Chardonnay.
Warren wanted a beer, but not enough to pay eleven dollars a bottle.
“Brad owns a driving school that is such a piece of crap, I don’t know why anyone would send their kids to it.”
“I’ve always wondered about those places,” said Warren. “Why don’t kids just take driver’s-ed at school for free?”
“Because the schools are broke and don’t offer driver’s-ed anymore. Besides, anyone who cares about their children sends them to private driving schools, so they don’t have to ride around in the backseat while some bozo classmate learns to drive.”
“I took driver’s-ed at my high school,” Warren said in a tone as rough as steel wool. “And my parents cared about me.”
“Oh.” Brittany’s cheeks flushed pink. “Well, things were different back then. Nowadays, Brad makes a bundle from Heaven on Wheels. That’s the name of his stupid company. He’s an idiot, but he knows how to make a buck, which is a good thing for me because I get half of everything he earns for three more years.”
“I’ve seen those cars around. The blue Mazdas with clouds painted on the sides, right?”
Brittany nodded just as the food and her Chardonnay arrived. Her bright-red poached salmon rested on a bed of romaine lettuce with wilted asparagus on the side and a squirt of what looked to be Dijon mustard. Warren’s entree wasn’t much better. It looked exactly like the chicken cordon bleu Dennis heated up from Costco.
“Excuse me,” he said to the waiter. “But is this the coq au vin?”
The waiter nodded. “That’s the wine sauce right there.” He pointed to the brown drizzle across the top of the chicken breast.
Forty-one dollars for this? Warren felt ripped off.
“So anyway,” Brittany said around a mouthful of lettuce, “giving my kids phones solved multiple problems at once. Brad and I communicate via the calendar app, and that’s it. When he calls to wish them goodnight, he can reach them on their phones instead of mine, and I no longer have to pretend to keep the ringer off.” She laughed and took a large drink of wine.
Warren recoiled. The thought of any father being unable to reach his kids to say he loved them sickened him. He sliced into a piece of chicken and reconsidered everything he’d previously thought about Brittany. Sure, she was gorgeous on the outside, but this wasn’t a woman he wanted to introduce to Mikaela, no matter how successful Brittany was on a professional level.
“How’s the campaign trail going?” Warren asked before taking a bite of rubbery chicken.
“It’s grueling .” Brittany stretched out the word like she made it do splits. “You would not believe how many people in Harper Landing are a waste of my time.”
“Huh?” Warren had visited thousands of homes in the community and seen his neighbors at their worst, but he would hardly describe any of them as a waste of time. The arsonists were worthless but not the average citizen.
“They refuse to remember my name, even though I mail them a new flyer every week.” Brittany rolled her eyes. “I mean, can you believe it? The ones who do know how to read want to talk about low-income housing—as if we need more of it.”
“Well, yeah. We do.”
“For what?” Brittany raised her eyebrows. “To dilute our property values? I don’t think so.” She picked up a spoon and viewed herself in the reflection to wipe some lipstick off her front tooth. “Oh gosh.” She put down the spoon. “You don’t rent, do you? If so, I’m sorry.”
“Um... no. I own my home.” Barely. He’d had to refinance during his divorce, resulting in a steep mortgage payment.
“Well, see? People like you and me are exactly why we don’t want a bunch of losers moving into Harper Landing, burdening our school systems with poor performers.”
Rage blew through him like bellows on an open fire. “Schools are a safety net for the kids who need them most,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm.
“Exactly.” Brittany nodded. “I wish people who couldn’t afford children would stop having them.” She clicked her fingernails across the tablecloth. Each nail was painted a different shade of red. “Don’t get me wrong,” she said quickly, like she had noticed his stricken expression. “I’m not anti-housing. I think adding more condos to Harper Landing is a great idea, especially near the water where they’ll command killer views.”
“Pricey views,” Warren muttered, remembering what Dawn had said a few days ago: “The beach is a great equalizer because all income levels can access it.”
“Exactly.” Brittany beamed. “You remember Will Gladstone from the safety committee, right? He said condos on Second could go for two million apiece, easy. But only if the city relaxes their zoning laws.” She planted her palm on the table and stared at him intently. “Do you know what those property taxes would do for Harper Landing? We could become the next Bellevue or Mercer Island.”
Warren hated Bellevue and had never been to Mercer Island. He didn’t want to live in a place swimming with so much money that ordinary people drowned. “What would changing the zoning laws entail?” he asked.
“Raising the height limits for one thing.” Brittany cut into the salmon with her fork. “The two-story limit is ridiculous. But really, I’m getting ahead of myself. All of that would need to happen after the Marina Bridge project.”
“Because safety comes first,” said Warren, relieved to agree with her again.
“Um... Yeah. Right. Of course.” Brittany swigged from her wineglass and looked away.
Her evasiveness put him on alert. “Why did you vote for the bridge, instead of the other ideas we discussed at those meetings?” he asked casually. “Like the fireboat or the extra station or even a tunnel?”
“Because I heard what you said about cost and depreciation values,” she said. “And I agreed with you. Plus, having a bridge will make it easier for vehicles to reach the marina.”
“ Service vehicles,” Warren clarified. “It would be an emergency access route that would bypass the train tracks, not a full-fledged bridge that citizens could use.”
“Uh huh.” Brittany opened the dessert menu, even though she’d barely picked at her dinner. “Let’s order the soufflé.”
“Sure,” said Warren. He didn’t want to spend any more time with Brittany than he had to, but alarm bells rang inside his head. He needed to find out what she and that slime-ball property developer were up to. This was his opportunity to dig for information.
An hour later, a much wiser Warren escorted Brittany to her car.
“This has been so much fun.” Brittany dragged her fingernails up his chest and laced her hands behind his neck. “How about a kiss goodnight?” she purred.
Warren thought about it for half a second, or at least his loneliness did. But then he reconsidered. He was that tenth grader who had moved in with his uncle Mike above a cabinet making shop in Tacoma. He was the teenager who had relied on free breakfasts and lunches at school and who fell asleep in the backseat of a beat-up driver’s-ed car because he’d woken up at three in the morning to sand wooden boards. Warren was the guy who had cried tears of joy when his mom had called him at the beginning of his senior year and told him their family qualified for Section 8 housing and could be reunited.
“Not tonight,” said Warren, disentangling himself from Brittany’s clutches. “And not ever.” He pointed to her Porsche parked in front of the fire hydrant. “I don’t date women who park in the red zone.” He walked away with a fierce edge to his step.
“Stop!” she cried. “That was an accident. I didn’t see it.”
“Nice try,” Warren growled. “But I don’t date liars, either.” He pointed toward the horizon, where the sun glowed across the water as it sank behind the Olympic Mountains. “And I sure as hell don’t date women who care more about ‘killer views’ than making sure that all kids have a safe place to live.”
He stormed down the sidewalk toward his car, hoping that the school directory would tell him where Dawn lived. He needed to tell her what he’d learned about the bridge plan as soon as humanly possible.