Chapter 2 #2
Thirty minutes of torture later, our brunch was over. I, as always, excused myself to the bathroom so I didn’t have to spend more time with my father than necessary.
As I washed my hands, I studied myself in the gilded mirror. Staring back at me was a stranger, someone with blonde hair smoothed into a sleek chignon, polished makeup, and high-necked navy dress. The epitome of demure. Despite the makeup, I could see the traces of dark circles under her eyes and the tightness in the set of her mouth. Like there was someone trapped underneath her perfect mask, just waiting to be set free. Elaine’s words came back to me: Your momma must be so proud.
This was not who I was supposed to be by the age of thirty-eight.
Stepping to the side, I glanced down, inspecting the aquamarine velvet peep-toe heels I’d worn today. I’d taken note of my father’s sneer four weeks ago when I wore my favorite red high heels. But I still couldn’t bear to wear ugly shoes today—or any of the other Sundays I’d come here. It was a small sort of rebellion, I suppose. Shoes and books had become my own joy-filled escape. If I could have a secret room that was all books on one side and all shoes on the other, it’d be my own personal heaven.
“Maybe in another life,” I whispered to the sad woman in the mirror before walking out.
The humidity of the early July summer enveloped into me as I went outside to collect my car, the large stone portico shading me from the direct sunlight. Glancing at the valet stand, warmth suffused my body. And no, it wasn’t the cloying Tennessee heat. There at the podium, not seeing me yet, was Jace.
Four weeks ago, at my first Sunday brunch, I’d used the valet service because I knew my father would expect it. Jeffrey had dropped off the Tesla the night before and told me to use it on Sundays—appearances and all that—as they both felt my Nissan SUV didn’t give off the right (and I’m paraphrasing here) “vibe" to his constituency. Then, having forgotten to bring money for a tip, I’d had to dig around the center console praying I’d find cash. I’d found cash alright, two twenty-dollar bills, nothing smaller. After palming one of the twenties, I whipped around to find a young man holding my door open.
Jace , his nametag had read. His black polo highlighted his strong shoulders and defined biceps, making him look like a living, breathing gym advertisement. He flashed a friendly smile at me as strands of his long curly brown hair fluttered in the wind, falling just past his cheekbones. He looked young, early twenties at most, but still young enough that I had no business noticing him. I definitely shouldn’t have noticed his bright hazel eyes that danced with humor or the fact that the dimple in his left cheek was deeper than the one on the right.
Then, he called me ma’am , breaking me from my spell. Sure, it was the South. Ma’am’s were dropped all the time. But that word had the undesired effect of making me realize that I’d been checking out a guy who was possibly a whole adult person younger than me —a thought that still made me want to stab a pen in my eye.
So, I unfortunately panicked and gave him all the cash in my hand.
An entire twenty-dollar bill.
Then after brunch, I’d felt obligated to tip Jace my other twenty bucks, the only other cash I had on me, when I picked up my car.
And even more unfortunately, because he kept being here every single Sunday, and I didn’t want to make him feel like he’d done a bad job, I kept up the same routine.
If you’re counting, that makes the cost of parking my car forty whole dollars each week.
But I digress.
I took a deep breath in and started toward the valet stand. Jace’s eyes lit when he spotted me.
He’s only acting like that because he knows he’s going to get another incredible tip, moneybags.
He started walking toward me, his expression set in that laidback way of his, just on the edge of a smile, causing my legs to go all melty. And like they were fourteen-year-old cheerleaders, my hormones started waving poms-poms in the air. I painted on a polite expression and told my body to cool it.
“Y’all set?” His lilted Tennessee accent was liquid honey. Ignoring my suddenly dry mouth, I nodded as I reached into my purse for the valet ticket.
“How was your brunch?” he asked, starting in on what I’d describe as our typical post-brunch conversation. It had been the same conversation every week.
“Good.”
“What’d you get?”
“The omelet and hash browns.”
After this, he usually smiled, took my ticket, and walked off. But today, his face fell.
“Oh no, didn’t anyone tell you?” He leaned closer to me. “It’s illegal to order the same thing four times in a row in Tennessee. Some state law. There could be a warrant out for your arrest right now.”
I furrowed my brow. “What law is that?”
“A crime against food.” Straightening to his full height, a playful grin stretched across his face. “A whole menu right there in front of you, and you order the same thing. It should be against the law.”
A startled laugh escaped me, so loud it echoed off the portico. He was teasing me. Or, was this flirting?
Jace crossed his arms. “If it were me, I’d have the avocado toast with sweet corn and chilis. Or the cheese and butter biscuits. No wait, the twice-baked French toast. Please tell me next time you’ll eat the twice-baked French toast and report back. I need to eat vicariously through you.”
Watching him say this should be illegal. My cheeks warmed as I pictured him sitting across from me, intently watching my mouth as I take a slow bite of the French toast.
Forcing that image out of my mind, I answered, “I’ve never thought about that.”
And no, that wasn’t my voice sounding hoarse.
Nope.
Nope on a rope.
I held my valet ticket out to him, but he didn’t take it right away. Instead, he tilted his head, curiosity practically another color in his iridescent hazel eyes.
Stop noticing his eyes.
“You ever think about changing it up?”
I shuffled back a few steps, exhaling nervously at his question and held out the valet ticket more insistently.
He took the ticket with a smile and nod, then walked toward the parking lot. I glanced his way surreptitiously, noticing that he’d take a few moments to look up into the sky as he walked, his happy-go-lucky demeanor obvious to anyone watching him. What made him so carefree? What must it be like to feel that way?
Please let him be at least twenty-eight.
I fought the urge to both facepalm and laugh hysterically at the utterly absurd thought that popped into my head, I settled for giving my head a firm shake, as if I needed a physical jerk to clear it. Because I’d clearly lost my mind. First, it didn’t matter how old he was, he was still much too young for me. Second, my focus needed to be on my kids. Men were so far off my radar I’d have to take three airplanes, then portage just to find one.
At least real men, that is.
Fictional men were a different story. I couldn’t wait for the drive home, thirty blissful minutes of listening to my current book before reality sank back in.
I got out my phone to shoot a quick text to my best friend, Leah. Mrs. Simon wasn’t able to stay overnight at the house tonight while I was on call for my pediatric clinic, so Leah had very kindly offered to stay overnight instead. I was able to be at home when I was on call, only needing to keep my phone with me so I could answer any calls that came in from our remote nursing service. I had yet to get called into the hospital for an admission; still, I needed a backup caregiver at home to stay with my kids on the off chance I did get called into the hospital.
Polly : Still on for tonight at 7? I’m sorry again to have asked.
Leah : You need to stop apologizing. Oh no! I have to go to my friend’s house and enjoy a night without my kids in a house with an outside stone patio overlooking the mountains and home theater! Whatever shall I do?
Polly : I’ll make dinner.
Leah : Not necessary. I’m bringing wine.
Polly : I’m on call.
Leah : It’s not for you.
I huffed out a laugh. Leah had been my friend since the second grade, when her family moved to town. We remained close when I’d been forced to attend Eagleton after elementary school. After I moved away for college, we’d drifted apart, only seeing each other on the few occasions I’d come back for the judge’s campaign events. We had our first kids around the same time and reconnected over social media, sending funny videos which progressed to text messages and weekly check-ins. Since my divorce, she was the only true friend I had left.
A few minutes later, my car appeared, Jace in the driver’s seat.
He held the door open for me. “Thank you,” I said as I started to get into the car. On a whim, I suddenly turned and faced him, adding, “Jace.”
I’d never referred to him by name before; for some reason, today, it felt wrong not to use it.
Jace’s smile deepened and his eyes twinkled as he replied, “You’re welcome, Mrs. Alberton.”
Rearing back in disgust, I blurted, “I’m a miss! I’m not married. The judge is not my husband!” Revulsion slid down my spine at the thought.
Jace held up his hands quickly, eyebrows high on his forehead. “My mistake. I’m just used to the women here being a missus. I’m not sure what judge you’re talking about.”
Thoroughly mortified, I could only nod lamely in response, wishing for an eject button that shot me directly into space. As he closed the car door and gave me a thumb-up, I realized I hadn’t given him my customary tip. Holding up a pathetic finger, I rolled the window down a crack and inched the twenty-dollar bill out the window.
Jace took it, then even used it to give me a little faux hat raise. Flustered, I raised my hands in a weird hand-flapping gesture, then got the hell out of there.
Once out of sight, I pulled over and laid my head on the steering wheel dejectedly. I forced slow, deep breaths in and out of my lungs. Unfortunately, this only made me notice the lingering scent I’d come to recognize as Jace’s: fresh and clean, yet with subtle hints of sandalwood and warm vanilla. It made my mouth water. And as I did most of my book listening in the car, I may have . . . ok, very definitely have . . . pictured Jace as the hero in my books, each version of Jace having the same delicious smell.
I groaned. Something was very wrong with me. What I mistook for flirting today was probably mere kindness, or more likely, professionalism. Jace was only doing his job. He called me ma’am, for Pete’s sake! I might as well be a hundred years old to someone his age.
I finally sat back and turned on the stereo, waiting for my phone to connect. I was listening to The Seduction of the Shift by Angel Marie. It was the first in a shifter romantic fantasy series and I’d had a hard time putting it down. As it came on, I rewound it a minute to get me back to where I’d left off, then shifted into drive, escaping from all the chaos in my life as I began my drive home.
* * *
An hour later I felt marginally better as I sat at my childhood home’s kitchen table—probably because I was inhaling a scone Mrs. Simon had “whipped up” while I was at brunch. It was smothered in her homemade apple butter, which she’d made that weekend and brought over so we could “put a few jars in the pantry for a rainy day.”
And did I mention there was sweet tea?
One glass of sweet tea and one and a half scones later, I was approaching something that felt like contentment. Mrs. Simon was literally humming while wiping down the kitchen island, the birds were chirping outside, and I was listening to Ryla’s happy chatter from the other room as she played with her stuffed animals.
“Can I have a word, hun?”
I paused mid-bite. Mrs. Simon’s anxious expression contrasted with the cheerful afternoon sunlight filtering through the glass patio doors behind me. Unease filled me as I nodded, then roughly swallowed.
“Well, it’s the darndest thing, really,” she started, making her way around the island to sit beside me. “But every Wednesday when I’m at the Piggly Wiggly, I pick up a ticket to play the Powerball. I’ve been playin’ it for years. It’s become a regular joke between my Bob and me, you see, but then a few weeks ago, I played and wouldn’t you know it, but I won. First time in thirty years.”
The sounds of my daughter’s playing from the living room were suddenly drowned out by the pounding of my heart.
“That’s . . . great, Mrs. Simon. How much did you win?”
“Well,” Mrs. Simon tilted her head side to side, her eyes flitting around the room. “With the total winnings being about twenty-five, my sister’s accountant tells us that we should expect about half that.”
“Twelve and a half thousand ?” I hedged.
“Million.”
Inhaling sharply, I choked on a few crumbs and coughed violently. Mrs. Simon patted me on the back firmly, as if she didn’t just calmly tell me she’d won twelve and a half million dollars.
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry, I should’ve warned you. Bob did the same thing when I told him—practically choked on the peach cobbler I’d made that night.”
Wait. Mrs. Simon had brought us a peach cobbler at least two weeks ago. It’d been the best I’d ever eaten. Did that mean she’d known she was a millionaire for two weeks and was only telling me now?
I struggled to find words. “That’s, well. It’s a lot of.” I paused, collecting my thoughts. “What does this mean?”
“See, that’s the thing.” Mrs. Simon covered my hand. “With that kind of money, my Bob and I could actually afford to retire down in Arizona and care for my momma. She has the dementia.”
The selfish, exhausted, I-just-can’t-do-this-anymore part of my brain wanted to shout, To hell with your momma! I need you!
Thankfully, the mature part of my brain won and asked, “When do you think you’re going to move?”
Mrs. Simon bit her lip, regret in her eyes. “Well, seeing as my momma just broke her hip and is in a state-run nursing home, I’m afraid we’d like to leave as soon as possible.”
I wanted to scream and cry. I wanted to get down on my knees and beg her to stay. I wanted to pack our bags and move down to Arizona with her and her Bob, offering myself as the in-home concierge doctor for her mother.
Of course, I did none of those things. I answered exactly as expected, perfect Polly mask in place despite my hopes and dreams plummeting from the side of a cliff now that my frayed rope had finally snapped.
“You have to do what’s right for you. I can figure something out. Please don’t worry about us.”
Mrs. Simon’s face brightened, and she clutched my hand. “Well now, that just dills my pickle! I’d been feeling so guilty these past days thinking of leaving y’all in the lurch.”
I smiled and nodded, searching for words to pacify her, to put her at ease, but finding none. I had to settle for a fake smile.
Having spent most of my adult life in Chicago, my accent became less Dixie and more Ditka as time went on. But I was back below the Mason-Dixon line, drinking sweet tea, eating homemade scones and apple butter, and sitting across from the woman who just metaphorically lit my last shred of hope on fire.
So, all I could think was hell’s fucking bells, what in the world was I gonna do now?
* * *
“Twelve million dollars?!”
Leah was nursing a glass of wine as we sat on the back patio.
I nodded, staring dejectedly at the Smokey Mountains in the distance, the sun had just set a few minutes earlier. I’d had to break it to my kids before they fell asleep that Mrs. Simon would be leaving us at the end of this week. Ryla, ever one for priorities, had asked if that meant she could still eat cookies every day while Max’s crestfallen expression making me fear that he was reliving his dad leaving him all over again.
Leah whistled as she shook her head. “Well, shit. I mean, good for Mrs. Simon, that woman is salt of the earth. When does she have to leave?”
“We settled on the end of this week. Her mom’s got “the dementia”,” I put finger quotes around that, “and a broken hip. I couldn’t ask her to stay.”
Leah murmured an agreement then took a sip of her wine. “What are you gonna do?”
I leaned back and rubbed my hands over my face. My force of habit was to say, I’ll be fine , or We’ll be ok, but I went for the truth, too exhausted to keep up the polite pretense.
“I have no idea. I’m exhausted. Brunch days with the judge are never good, but this one almost put me over the edge.”
“What’d he say this time?”
“I think his exact words were, ‘a failed marriage isn’t an excuse to drop the ball.’” The persistent sting of that comment made me wish I wasn’t drinking water.
Leah made a fist and beat it into her palm. “The divorce wasn’t even your fault! You’re not the one who packed your bags and left to be a full-time yacht person or yachtsman, or whatever the douche called it. And while we’re at it, what self-respecting forty-year-old man has a midlife crisis to be a yachtsman?”
My ex-husband, David, ran a yachting adventure company. His company’s brand focused on bringing luxury accommodation to remote locations all over the world. A company I helped fund with my entire sign-on bonus, any savings we had in the bank, along with any of my salary that wasn’t going toward expenses or repaying my loans.
This was the same yachting company he started when he left his IT job only a year after Ryla was born.
Did he know how to yacht when he told me he was starting this new business? No.
Did he own a yacht? Also, no.
I grinned, remembering when I’d called Leah after David asked for a divorce. Leah and I so rarely talked on the phone, that she’d answered on the first ring, alarm in her voice when she asked, “Polly?! Who’s dead?”
A year ago, I’d come home late after work to find my husband of twelve years sitting in our foyer. He’d only just come home from a six-week-long yachting trip a few days prior, so I was surprised to find him a pair of large suitcases next to him, his captain’s hat atop them. I was more surprised when he calmly asked me for a divorce, then left for parts unknown.
Leah, upon hearing the story over the phone, called him every name in the book, swore revenge, and offered me an alibi. It was exactly what I needed.
She then proceeded to be there for me, even from a different state, even though she was busy with her own life, teaching third grade and raising two kids. She took time to support me throughout my whole divorce process, where I was essentially cheated out of every figurative penny I had.
Leah narrowed her eyes in question. “What did he tell you that night? Something about it being time?”
“He said it was time for him to take to the seas,” I recalled flatly, then swung my eyes to Leah whose lips quirked. “I always thought that husbands left their wives for the nanny or a yoga instructor,” I continued on, “but nope, not my husband. My husband wanted to . . .”
“Take to the seas,” Leah wheezed out, leaning forward in her chair, covering her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking in silent laughter.
“He didn’t even have the audacity to be a cliché.” My voice was increasing in pitch, the odd hilarity of the situation finally catching up with me. “He hated being married to me so much that he literally sailed away from me . . . on a ship!” I was full-on laughing then, having a hard time getting words out. “Did I tell you that he’d bought a little captain’s hat . . .”
“Stop!” Leah was breathless, holding her belly.
“And it was just sitting there,” my breaths came in short gasps in between laughs, “on his suitcases.”
Leah had tears in her eyes and her hands covered her mouth. I buried my face in my arms to stifle my laughter, not wanting to wake the kids, my stomach aching with each round of laughter.
“I’ll be sure to ask around school to see if anyone knows of a good sitter in the area,” Leah said when our laughter finally quieted. “And I’ll see about getting Max and Ryla into the summer school program at the elementary school. There’ve been a few kids who’ve dropped, so there’s room in my class. Max can stick tight to me if he wants. I know he’ll have some trouble feeling nervous. You know I’ll do whatever I can to help y’all.”
“I know. And I’m grateful.” A tight lump rose in my throat at her words. Her instant understanding. I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my still aching stomach, the laughter easing some of the weight from my shoulders. I felt lighter than I’d had in months. “I think that’s the first time I’ve really and truly laughed since the divorce.”
“Come on, you must have laughed some other time. No one goes ten months without laughing at least once.”
Her words made me think back to my conversation with Jace at the country club this morning, when I’d laughed in surprise at his teasing. “Other than with my kids, only once that I can remember.”
“That’s the most pitiful thing I’ve ever heard.” Leah frowned, picking up her wineglass. She wasn’t one to beat around the bush, this best friend of mine.
“I unfortunately agree.” Because it was pitiful—I couldn’t recall a single time during my entire marriage when I laughed that hard with my now ex-husband. And while laughter wasn’t going to help me find a new nanny or tap me out with the kids when my patience was running low, it did feel good to laugh with someone. I glanced at Leah out of the corner of my eye as I reached for my water glass, picking it up to give her a little toast in the air. “But I do feel better.”
Leah held up her wineglass in kind. “That’s what they say, right? Laughter’s the best medicine.”