5. A Quick Dinner
5
A QUICK DINNER
Ford
The next evening, I hauled the final two garbage bags out the French doors of Dad’s pastel and chintz 1980s-style basement. A long day of sweaty, physical labor clearing out the cluttered lower level had finally come to an end, and I was glad to have it done.
Considering how many people Dad had on payroll, I never understood why he let the basement fall into such disrepair. He had a maid and a groundskeeper—why not someone to handle the mess down here? Years ago, he’d told the maid to stop cleaning it, saying we kids were supposed to manage it ourselves. That never happened. It had become a dumping ground for our junk.
I stayed in decent shape these days, but clearing out years of accumulated crap had taken its toll. With four kids, we’d gone through a lot of hobbies—skating, skiing, fencing, football, you name it. After Mom died, all that stuff had just piled up, filling every corner. Like that insulation foam that expands and fills every crack.
I even found my old broken hockey stick from third grade in a corner of the unused home gym. It stirred up a little nostalgia.
Dad had worked with me for a while, helping sort through the mess. He’d even agreed to donate a couple of now-empty bookcases.
I dropped the garbage bags by the neatly arranged trash cans outside. The groundskeeper would handle the rest. The items for donation, I’d deal with myself.
Stretching, I took a moment to admire the sunset over the golf course next door. It was one of the perks of growing up here, this stunning view. The house was a relic from the 1800s, built by a Pittsburgh steel baron. The walk-out basement, though, was an ugly, mismatched throwback to the 80s. It didn’t belong with the rest of the house’s elegance.
I couldn’t help but think the basement reflected Dad’s disinterest. Like he’d locked away part of himself down there, hidden from the rest of the house—and the family. Maybe it was depression. Maybe he just needed someone to show him the light again, help him reclaim that vibrant person he used to be. The basement was symbolic, really. Renovating it felt like the first step in bringing some life back to both of us.
My stomach rumbled, and I checked my watch. Damn, 8:30 already. I’d planned on spending the day with Dad and grabbing dinner here.
At first, things went smoothly. Dad had been enthusiastic, even helped carry some of the bookcases out, but after a few hours, he’d gone pale and started sweating. “You’re wearing me out,” he’d said, and that sent me into a panic.
“Is this too much for your heart?” I’d asked, thinking of the heart attack five years ago. He’d seemed fine since then, but maybe I shouldn’t have pushed him so hard.
He’d scowled at me. “My heart’s fine. Just need more exercise.” But he’d rubbed his chest in that distracted way I’d noticed before. Habit or something more? Then, without warning, he’d mumbled something about an appointment and bolted upstairs before I could pry anything more out of him.
An hour later, I got a text.
Dad: Gone out. Won’t be home until late.
If it wasn’t physical, maybe it was emotional. Had I pushed him too hard to clean out the basement? Or asked too many personal questions?
Despite my efforts to figure out what was going on, Dad had stonewalled me all afternoon. My stomach growled again, reminding me I needed food. I decided to call Max.
“Hey, bro,” Max answered, barely audible over a blaring siren.
“You sound like you’re out somewhere.”
“I am. Just ate. A firetruck’s passing me. Hold on.”
I waited until the noise faded. “I was calling to see if you wanted to grab dinner.”
“Maybe tomorrow?”
“Sounds good. Hey, do you remember Conner and Dante from high school? They started a restaurant in Sewickley.”
“Sure, Not a Yacht Club. That place is fantastic.”
“Dante’s starting a men’s cooking class on Monday nights. Want to be my partner while I’m in town? It’d be a great way to hang out.”
Max paused. “How long are you here for?”
“A few weeks, why?”
“Nothing. Just didn’t think you’d be around long. Monday works. Might be our only chance to catch up before you head back to Hollywood.”
I smiled, relieved he’d agreed. “Perfect. I don’t know much about cooking, but I figure I can learn something.”
Max chuckled. “At least we’ll get to eat what we make, right? I’ll pick you up at Hailey’s.”
As we ended the call, I felt a twinge of regret for being so absent from his life. Especially after Dad’s heart attack. Max had stepped up, managing Ross Film Productions while I chased my Hollywood dreams. He’d gone through his own rough patches, including a scandal that wrecked his relationship with a woman he loved. I hadn’t been there for him, and now I had a chance to fix that.
My stomach growled again. It was too late to bother Hailey for dinner, so I thought of those truffle fries from last night. That, and maybe another run-in with a certain comic book shop owner.
Twenty minutes later, I slid onto a barstool at Not a Yacht Club and set my copy of Sandman on the bar—just in case I didn’t find anyone to talk to.
The bartender placed a cocktail napkin in front of me. “What can I get you?”
“What’s good for dinner tonight?”
“Spaghetti and meatballs. Our chef uses his grandmother’s recipe—it’s truly excellent.”
I’d spent plenty of meals at Dante’s house growing up, and his grandmother’s sauce had been legendary. “I’ll take it, with an order of those truffle fries.” My gaze landed on a familiar bottle behind the bar. “And a glass of that cabernet sauvignon.”
He nodded and headed into the kitchen. There were more people here than last night, but no one I recognized. It felt strange to be out in public and have no one know who I was. That never happened in LA.
The only other solo diner at the bar was an older guy with a sour expression, hunched over his plate like a feral dog guarding its meal. A guitar case sat next to him on the floor.
Looks like I’d be eating alone. With a resigned sigh, I turned to Sandman . In a few moments, I was immersed in its world, where the personification of sleep was imprisoned in a glass cage.
Someone claimed the stool next to mine. I glanced up, and there she was—Mara. “I see one of my comics has sucked you in,” she said with a smile. “Be careful, they can be addictive. Pretty soon you’ll have a stash hidden under your bed.”
Her eyes, those captivating brown eyes that had haunted my thoughts all day, flashed with humor. Warmth settled in my chest. She was exactly the person I’d hoped to see tonight.
“I’m working on shaking a prejudice that’s been skewing my perception of the genre,” I said, tilting the comic to show her the cover. “This is setting me straight.”
Mara grinned. “Good to hear. You never know what you’ll find if you open yourself up to something new. Not everyone is willing to do that.”
“Not when a clever woman takes the time to set me straight,” I replied, our eyes locking. There was a flash between us—a connection.
“How was your day?” she asked.
My smile felt tight. “Good question. Eye-opening, I guess. I haven’t spent much time at home in years, and... things have changed. Especially with my dad.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Is he okay?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “He seems healthy, but my sister says he’s been canceling appointments, staying home for days. She’s worried.”
I hesitated, unsure whether to say more, but there was something about Mara that made me want to open up. “It could be something emotional, maybe depression.”
Mara’s expression softened with sympathy. “That’s tough. Have you talked to him about it?”
I shook my head. “I’ve tried, but no luck. I’ve only been here a day.”
“Keep trying,” she suggested. “Sometimes knowing someone cares is enough to help.”
I nodded, feeling a weight lift. Her words had a calming effect, making me feel more at ease than I had in a while. “I think we all see our parents differently as we get older. More like peers, maybe.”
“I guess that depends on whether they still treat you like a kid,” Mara muttered. “I wish I’d opened my store on the other side of the country, far away from mine.”
Her comment made me wonder about her relationship with her parents.
Our conversation was cut short when Conner arrived, his demeanor guarded. “Mara—good to see you. Dante’s working on your order. Should be ready soon.” He turned to me with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So, you’ve met Hollywood. He isn’t giving you any trouble, is he?”
Mara didn’t miss a beat. “He’s been fine. Stopped by my store yesterday and stocked up on some quality reading material.”
Conner rubbed the back of his neck. “I hear your dad did CPR on some guy at the grocery store last week. Did the guy make it?”
Mara nodded. “Last I heard, he’s doing great. Mom told me all about it.”
“Your dad’s really something,” Conner said. “A real asset to the community. Bet you’re proud.”
Mara’s smile was tight, like there was more to the story than she wanted to share. “Absolutely.”
Conner turned to me. “Her parents moved here a few years ago, but it’s like they’ve lived here forever. Mara’s a more recent addition.”
“That’s right,” she confirmed. “I’ve only been here a year.” There was something in her tone—discomfort, maybe—and I wondered what had brought her to this small town.
Dante emerged from the kitchen carrying a white paper bag. “Your order’s ready,” he said, setting it in front of Mara.
“Thanks,” she said, grabbing it.
“Enjoy,” Conner added.
“See you around,” she said. Her gaze lingered on mine before she turned and walked out.
I watched her go, her hips swaying in denim, ponytail swinging. I couldn’t seem to look away.
Conner slid onto the stool Mara had vacated, cutting off my view. “You two were looking cozy,” he said, straight to the point.
I huffed out a laugh. “At least you’re direct. I like her.”
“Yeah, I could tell.” He rubbed the side of his nose. “Just be careful. She’s tight with my sister Courtney. Mara hasn’t been in town long, but her family’s rooted here now. Parents moved in a few years back while she was still in college. Her younger sisters went to Sewickley High, and her mom’s a big-time volunteer. You hurt her, it’ll get around fast.”
“I don’t mess with people,” I said, a little sharper than intended.
Conner’s gaze shifted toward the end of the bar, his expression hardening. “Hold that thought. I need to deal with that musician before he leaves. Too many complaints.”
I followed his line of sight to the surly guy with the guitar case. “Mr. Sunshine over there? What’s wrong with him? Can’t play?”
Conner shook his head. “Nah, he’s talented—just an asshole. Makes my job harder than it needs to be.” With a sigh, he got up and made his way over.
My phone buzzed, and the name on the screen made my stomach flip. I took a steadying breath before answering. “Hey, McCormick. How’s life on the West Coast?”
McCormick chuckled, his voice holding its usual blend of smugness. “Weather’s perfect, traffic’s hell. The usual. What the hell are you doing in Pittsburgh ?” The way he said ‘Pittsburgh’ made it sound like I’d exiled myself to Siberia.
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
“They have snow there, right?”
“Only in the winter.”
He snorted. “I assume you’ll be back in L.A. long before that.”
“I know you like snow,” I shot back. “Remember Tahoe? Two years ago? You in the hot tub every night, sub-zero temperatures, like some Viking out of time.”
“True, but it’s more fun to give you shit for being in Pittsburgh.”
“Bullshit!” The musician’s outburst cut through the bar.
I turned away from the brewing drama and focused on McCormick. “Pittsburgh’s a great city. You might actually like it if you gave it a shot. Lush and green, miles of untouched forests—nothing like the brown desert out there.”
“You live here too, you know.”
That gave me pause. “Good point. Maybe being here is reconnecting me to my roots.”
“Whatever. I’m a third-generation Californian. No roots back east to reconnect with.” McCormick cleared his throat, shifting to a more serious tone. “You probably know why I’m calling.”
My chest tightened—a mix of anticipation and unease. This was the moment I’d been waiting for, but now that it was here, I wasn’t sure. “I have a guess, but I’d hate to assume.”
“Spoken like a cautious man.”
“I just don’t like misunderstandings.”
A clatter of chairs and thumps pulled my attention to the now-livid musician storming toward the exit, banging his guitar case into everything in his path. Conner watched with a resigned expression. “Some people can’t take constructive criticism,” he muttered before heading back into the kitchen.
McCormick’s voice came back on the line. “I want you to consider directing this Superman movie I’m producing. You’re at the top of my shortlist. Interested?”
I leaned back in my chair, processing. “I could be.”
A pause. “What’s holding you back?”
“I haven’t read the script yet.” I scratched my chin, choosing my words carefully. “You want an origin story remake, right? But making Superman feel fresh and new? That’s a challenge. You know me—I want great writing, solid dialogue, and character arcs that actually go somewhere.”
McCormick gave a low, rumbling laugh. “You artist types. I just want a movie that’ll break box office records. I’ll FedEx you a copy of the script. Where should I send it?”
I forced myself to let the comment slide. “Artist types” made great movies, but people like McCormick rarely saw it that way. I gave him my address.
“Got it,” he said. “It’ll be there tomorrow. Call me back within the week. Let me know if you’re in.”
A knot tightened in my gut. A week to decide. I’d been hoping for more time. “Sounds good,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral.
I ended the call and checked my watch. It was already past nine, which meant it was around three in the morning in Amsterdam. I wouldn’t be able to catch Sheila until later, but that gave me time to think.
The bartender set my spaghetti and truffle fries down, the aromas filling the space around me. I pulled the phone away and told him, “You can bring the check now.”
I needed to clear my head.
By the time Conner returned, I was almost done eating. He swiped one of my last fries, and I let it slide. “That guy’s not coming back,” he said with a weary sigh.
“Figured as much.” I set my cash on top of the bill. “Feels good to be back in Sewickley.”
Conner nodded. “I get it. When I came back a couple of years ago, I didn’t expect to stay either. But... here I am.”
I tucked Sandman under my arm and stood. The place had emptied out, and the large windows facing the river were closed, trapping the stuffiness of the room. I needed air—to get out, walk, and process everything. Between McCormick’s offer and my dad’s situation, my thoughts were in a knot.
“See you Monday at Dante’s class,” I said.
Conner groaned. “Why’d you have to remind me?”
“Dante’s right. If you’re gonna run this place, you should know something about cooking.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “Maybe it won’t be so bad. Are you planning to stay long?”
I hesitated. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? You’ve got a knack for cutting through the bullshit. Should’ve been a journalist.”
I tapped the bar with a quick rap of my knuckles, feeling a growing frustration. My dad’s issues were gnawing at me.
“So... are you staying?” Conner pressed.
“I’ll let you know once I figure it out,” I said as I headed toward the door, ready to walk off the weight of everything on my mind.