Chapter 7 Nola
NOLA
Reese’s mom, Julie, pulls into my driveway with a packed minivan of tweens, ready for a day at the indoor amusement center.
I went around my daughter’s wishes and made a goodwill offer to go along to help supervise, but she turned me down.
Julie told me her husband and sons were making a day of tailgating in the Boise State parking lot before going into the stadium and this got her out of the house for a little self-care with some audiobooks.
Moving around the family fun zone after the girls would be easy.
Emma climbs into the van and immediately jumps into the conversation with her friends, while Julie rolls down her window.
“Whole day to yourself—what’s the plan?” she asked, pushing her sunglasses up on her head.
I smooth down the front of my chunky navy blue sweater tucked into high-waisted bronze-colored, wide-leg pants. “I’m forever catching up on house stuff and probably should rake the yard now that most of the leaves are down.”
Her lips hike up. “I appreciate a woman who gets dressed up for a Saturday of housework.”
Of all the school parents I’m friends with, Julie is the one I’m closest to, but I’ve always kept things close to the chest. She’s married and has a whole life that doesn’t include a needy single mom brain dumping all her thoughts.
And where this is not even a thing worth mentioning, I’m mum.
At least I don’t think it’s a thing? I don’t know why Max invited me to go with him today or what I’m walking into, but it feels premature to give any kind of mention.
I look down at my clothes. “Oh, yeah. Right after lunch, there’s a volunteer thing I got roped into going to. ”
She slides the glasses back over her eyes and gives me a subtle nod.
“You don’t have to tell me, Nola. I know you like to be secretive, but whatever it is, you deserve it.
Enjoy!” As she rolls her window up, I hear her tell the girls to double-check that they’re buckled, and One Direction fills the van.
I wave them off and head inside to pull up the internet search I’d started last night.
The night of the bachelorette party, Max was just a stranger in a bar who was very good looking and seemed way out of my league.
I kissed him on a dare, never expecting to see him again and that was that.
He morphed into Coach, the mean P.E. teacher at my child’s charter school, who (initially) gave her a B for the quarter.
Then he became Max, the unfortunately sexy pirate who asked me to meet him for Bingo at the assisted living center up the road from the school.
Before me now are a dozen open tabs, showcasing a million articles, photos, and interviews on Maxford Hutchings, the disgraced Texas Armadillo third baseman.
It’s been a treasure trove of reading—each piece explaining him as some legendary man.
Once at the top of his game and twice named MVP for the league, he got caught up in a doping scandal.
During his eighty-day suspension, his contract expired and the team passed on renegotiations.
The league more or less showed him the door and his career disappeared overnight.
What I can’t find is why he moved to Boise—his online presence ended with the dismissal from the Armadillos, almost like he ceased to exist. There are lots of fluff pieces about his formative years I skim over.
Everything talks about being raised in Palm Springs, California.
He lost his parents in a small plane crash when he was around Emma’s age; his grandparents raised him and two sisters.
He’s a twin, afraid of snakes, and can juggle.
I simultaneously can’t stop digging but also need to look away and let him tell me about his life on his own terms.
What I’ve found explains his aloof and gruff persona.
He offers smiles but they’re guarded and his good cop/bad cop classroom management routine is straight out of what he knows from years in a locker room.
Understanding him better makes going to Bingo this afternoon easier.
He’s a guy who is still reeling from his fall from grace and maybe is a little lost in life. This resonates with me.
I close my laptop and throw on a playlist. Dishes during Harry Styles, vacuuming through Coldplay, and laundry through a mix of Dashboard Confessional’s catalogue. Eagerness and hesitancy throughout it all.
At quarter to one, I walk through the doors of White Pine Assisted Living Center and a staff member directs me to a large room off the main hall.
Nobody’s in here yet, giving me a chance to take it in.
It’s a multipurpose space with a large wall of floor-to-ceiling shelves full of books.
They’ve put simple fall decorations on the round tables and a gas fireplace makes the room cozy.
There’s great natural light and the city blazing with red, orange, and yellow trees as a backdrop out the windows makes the room dreamy on a day like today.
“Is this her?” a voice asks, and I turn to the doorway to see Max escorting two women into the room. The one with the short and stylish gray bob, wearing a burnt orange kaftan, eyes me up and down. Leaning into Max, she says loudly, “You weren’t wrong. She’s very pretty.”
“Stella,” he mutters and helps her into a chair. Then he pulls a chair out for the other woman, more conservatively dressed in a cozy cotton tracksuit.
The second woman pats him on the cheek and whispers something that makes him look at me and bite back a smile.
“Stella, Opal, this is Nola. She’s here today to offer us some competition.” I wave hello and he says, “Nola, this is my grandma, Stella, and her best friend, Opal. Opal’s daughter is none other than our fearless leader, Principal Bennett.”
Ah. Nepotism. I pull out a chair on the opposite side of the table, content to finally understand this small world connection that landed him his job, and Stella clears her throat, nodding her head at Max.
He steps over and takes the back of the chair, scooting it in as I sit. Both women have a pleased look by his actions, and I clear my throat. “Thanks so much for letting me crash your game today.”
“We love having visitors,” Opal says. She’s short like me and reminds me of my grandma as she properly straightens out her Bingo card and chips. “Oh, Max, dear, can you please put my money on the front table?”
He takes the bill she’s waving at him, and Stella’s too, as another group comes in, calling Max’s name and stealing his attention.
I watch him walk away, wearing simple jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, rolled midway up his forearms. Similar to what he wore the night at the bar.
I like this look on him—I’m not blind; I can acknowledge and appreciate when there’s a good-looking man in the room.
Stella clearing her throat brings my attention back to the women across from me. They both have conspiratorial looks on their faces and I need to shut that down now. “How long have you two lived here?”
“I’ve been here two and a half years and Stella got here last year,” Opal says, cut and dry. She’s friendly but holding back to let her friend vet me.
“How did you meet my grandson? He hasn’t told me.” Stella’s mouth forms a straight line, and she leans her clasped hands on the table in front of her.
I sputter a cough. At first glance, they appear to be two kind grandmothers who are up for a fun day of Bingo, but I can tell underneath that exterior they are two women who are bored with their lives and looking to give Max his best one yet.
That means putting all their energy into finding him a wife.
Little do they know, I can take them. “My daughter is in his P.E. class.”
They twist in their chairs to confer privately in front of me. “Do you know if Lisa and the board frown on teacher/parent relationships?”
Opal’s face goes serious. “It’s not appropriate. Especially where Max would always be the P.E. teacher for her child, it would be wrong for them to start anything up.”
“Don’t you have any pull? Can’t we simply donate a new wing to the school or something?”
“Stella, what is it with you and paying your way for everything? First for the carnival and now Max’s love life.”
“Hi, um, can I jump in here a second?” They give me their undivided attention. “You don’t need to worry—we aren’t dating. The truth is, we hardly know one another. He gave my daughter a bad grade, then we were forced to work together at the carnival dunk tank the other night, and here I am today.”
Stella’s eyes suddenly sparkle in recognition. “You’re that woman? What’d you say your name is again, sweetheart?”
“Nola Adler.” My name causes her to sit ramrod straight, and I watch her try to place how our paths would’ve ever crossed before now or how she’d have heard of me, with being relatively new to the area. My hotel accounts are nothing to scoff at, but I’m not a local celebrity name by any means.
“Adler, Adler.” She lets my last name roll around in her mouth and soon her eyes go wide. “Adler, the artist?”
“Yes,” I say, letting my eyes move to the corner of the room where Max is still caught up with the group of older men next to the fireplace.
I’m not embarrassed by what I do for work, but I don’t want Max to find out about my profession and my own downfall in front of his grandmother.
The way she’s eyeing me makes me think if she’s heard of me, she probably knows that piece of my story as well.
I attempt to hurry this along before he comes back to us.
“I am an artist and I specialize in curated landscapes for brand-name hotels across the country.”
“You’re—” she begins just as Max breaks away and heads back to us.
“Yes, at the height of my career, I painted a piece that was seen in the abstract art community as a huge failure and now I’m building my way back into their good graces.” It comes out at two-times speed and I’m hopeful I’ve answered enough.