Chapter 4 #2
It feels odd stepping into Hazel’s hotel suite. She didn’t check in until we arrived together, but somehow her scent swirls through the space like a magical spell. Roses and sandalwood ripple around me as I survey the room.
A full wall of windows frames the Willamette, its muddy banks lush with leafy oaks. There’s a gracefully arched amphitheater near the shore with a cluster of teenagers clowning around at the edge. A few yards downriver from that, a colorful carousel spins a riot of hand-painted creatures.
“Nice place,” I say, turning back toward the room.
“Thanks.” Hazel touches the back of a big velvet sofa the color of warm maple syrup. “I stay here whenever I’m in town.”
It’s a far cry from the basement apartment where I normally stay. “You’re here a lot, then.”
“Yes.” She nibbles the edge of her lip. “I try to see my father as often as I can. He doesn’t get a lot of visitors.”
I imagine so. Screwing your family will do that.
“Don’t say it,” she says, reading my thoughts. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Think so, huh?” Hell, she’s probably right.
“You’re thinking my father deserves what he got.”
“You said it, not me.”
“You thought it.”
“You’re a mind reader now?” I sincerely hope not. The number of impure thoughts I’ve had about that huge king bed in the corner hit six million the moment her teeth squashed that plush bottom lip.
“The shower is through there.” As Hazel points, her stomach lets loose a wicked growl. “Sorry about that. I should probably eat something more substantial than saltines.”
“I’ll let that ‘sorry’ slide because, yeah—I’m starving, too.” I should have had lunch before our appointment. “What can I get you?”
“You don’t have to g—”
“You’re incubating our spawn,” I interrupt. “The least I can do is feed you.”
She hesitates. “I promise I’m eating nutrient-dense food. Taking prenatal vitamins, getting plenty of calcium and whole grains and—”
“Hazel.” Why does she do this?
“I want jojos.” She bites her lip again. “Is that what they’re called? That’s what Lucy always called them when we’d pool our spare change and walk to the service station to split a double order with a huge side of ranch.”
“You mean seasoned, fried potato wedges?”
Her stomach growls again. “Yes. I’m not sure room service would have them.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t. But if that’s what you’re craving, there’s a gas station a few blocks away.” I’m already shrugging my coat on. “Anything else?”
“You don’t have to—”
“Hazel.”
“Extra ranch, please. And maybe a corndog?”
“On it. What else?” I press when she shuffles her feet. “Come on, Hazel. Tell me whatever you’re craving and I’ll find it for you.”
“Rambutan, okay? It’s this exotic fruit from Southeast Asia with a red, furry shell that you peel to get to the translucent flesh. I had them once in Malaysia on a trip with my mother, and for some reason I’ve craved them for weeks.”
That makes me chuckle. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but I don’t think I’ll find that at a service station.”
“You won’t,” she says sadly. “I’ve called every Asian supermarket and grocery store in the state and nobody has them. But the jojos sound great, and the corndog—” She stops as her stomach growls again. “I’m really, really craving those.”
“That I can do.”
“I swear I normally don’t eat so much fried junk.”
“You mentioned that.” I’m out the door before she can outline her doctor-approved prenatal menu.
What is it with her and needing to follow the rules?
I’ve watched her at Weirdoughs, hunched over a plate of those tiny, fancy pastries.
She always looks guilty, like someone might swoop in and snatch them, smacking her hand like she touched something dirty.
My walk to the gas station winds through a few sketchy blocks. Two guys in dingy coats dig through a dumpster while a woman in torn yellow rain pants pushes a shopping cart missing a wheel.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s where my dad ended up. Not homeless in Salem, though maybe that’s possible. Living like that could keep a guy from contacting his kids. Part of me wants to believe that’s what happened.
If not, he’s just a dickhead who abandoned his children.
By the time I get to the gas station and hose down my shoes in the parking lot, the sun’s sinking into the river. I peruse the selection of fragrant fried food and end up buying way more than Hazel requested. Jojos and corndogs and questionable meat I hope turns out to be chicken.
Cradling the bags in one arm, I pull out my phone and glance at the screen. No message from Ark Man, so I fire off a text.
Still need me tomorrow?
Reply bubbles appear right away.
Yes. Script coming shortly. Are you at the apartment?
I hesitate before replying.
Met up with a friend, so I’m at The Grand for a bit. Should be there in an hour or two.
A thumbs-up emoji appears, so that’s that. Shoving my phone in my pocket, I jog through the hotel lobby and into the elevator.
The instant I open the door, Hazel pounces. “God, Luke—I should have insisted you shower before rushing out like that.”
“Why?” I hand her the grease-speckled bag, and she clutches it to her chest. “You think I handled your corndog with my toes?”
“No, but that’s gross.” She nods at my shoes, which are soggy but reasonably puke-free.
“Do you want to eat first or get cleaned up? I had some clothes delivered from the men’s boutique down the street.
I took a guess on the size for pants and a shirt, but your shoe size I remember from—” Stopping short, she blushes. “From when you were at my place.”
“Ah, yes.” I can’t help ribbing her a little. “I recall you were fixated on my feet.”
“Not your feet!” she insists. “At least, not in a foot fetish way. It’s just that I’d just never seen such big…shoes.”
“Big…shoes?” Grinning, I dig into my gas station bounty. “It wasn’t the size of my shoes you kept talking about.”
She sputters around a mouthful of potato. “Don’t be a jerk.”
“Don’t be a prude,” I fire back.
“I’m unmarried and pregnant,” she snaps. “Hardly a prude.”
“You want to get married?” It never occurred to me I should ask. “I’ll marry the hell out of you right now if you’re worried about our kids being bastards.”
“Nice, Luke.” Rolling her eyes, she bites into a jojo. Her exasperated sigh morphs into a moan, and she chews for a good seven seconds before grabbing another fried potato wedge. “You certainly know how to sweep a girl off her feet.”
“You took me by surprise is all.” The thought of marrying Hazel doesn’t freak me out like it should. “I can go get a ring, make it official.”
That earns me another eyeroll. “I have enough rings.”
“I noticed.” I nod to her hand, which is clutching the grease-covered bag.
“You had a big gold one with a blue stone and another one that looked kinda pinkish that day we conceived Clover and Beatrice. Then you had some sorta pearl and an emerald that day in the boardroom, and today it’s that big-ass ruby—”
“A red diamond.”
“That’s a thing?”
“It is.” She looks down at her hand like she’s seeing the sparkling red gemstone for the first time. “My father bought it for me when I graduated from business school.”
“Nice gift.” I bite into my corndog so I’m not tempted to snark about her father’s ill-gotten gains. Owen Spencer burned his own childhood home to hide evidence that his dad wanted the family’s land to go to the grandkids and not into Owen’s pocket.
“It is a nice gift,” Hazel insists. “He isn’t all bad, you know.”
“Most people aren’t.”
“Believe it or not, he was a really good dad.” She eats two more jojos, lost in her thoughts and greasy potatoes. “When my mom moved away, I was old enough that they gave me a choice which parent to stay with.”
“And you picked your father?”
“I did.” She takes a sip of the soda I brought her. “I was always more of a daddy’s girl. Mom grew up in an orphanage. I’m guessing that’s why she never seemed hardwired to be a mother.”
“That sounds rough.”
“It wasn’t, though.” Chewing a jojo, she gets a distant look in her eyes.
“My dad was a terrific parent. He taught me to fish and trade stocks. When I started my period, he drove to the store and bought a box of every single thing on the shelves.” She laughs at the memory.
“He also went to the library and checked out books like Period Power and Go With the Flow. Left them on my bathroom counter with the big bag of sanitary products.”
“That’s surprisingly sweet.” It’s also a side of Owen Spencer I never imagined. “Can’t say I pegged him as father of the year.”
“Funny you should say that.” Hazel eats another jojo. “When I was eight or nine, I wanted to buy one of those T-shirts that says World’s Greatest Father or maybe Number One Dad.”
“I always wondered about those,” I muse. “Like who decides on the world’s best dad? Is it based on barbecue skills or how fast you can change a diaper?”
“Luke—”
“I’m sorry, continue.”
Hazel swallows a mouthful of corndog. “I couldn’t find any Number One Dad shirts in Cherry Blossom Lake, so I decided to make one. I bought a plain blue T-shirt and some iron-on letters. But something went wrong.”
“You got hurt?” Concern pings through me. “Did you burn yourself?”
“No, nothing like that. I just meant the letters didn’t stick right. The shirt ended up saying Numr Ne Ad. I was mortified, but Dad loved it. He wore that thing proudly until it was nothing but threads. It became our inside joke.”
“Really?” Okay, this is kinda charming.
“I had Numr Ne Ad printed on a coffee mug I gave him for Christmas. He’d sign all my birthday cards from Numr Ne Ad.”
“That’s fucking adorable.”