COOL BEANS (5 page)

“And now?”

She finally meets my eyes. “Now …” Her voice trails off, and she looks back at the TV.

Bill Pullman is paying his toll with a ring. I know what Jen’s thinking.

“It’d be nice, huh?” I say.

“Yeah.”

I nod and stand as the happy couple kisses. I walk into our tiny, nonfunctional kitchen. “Okay. No tortellini. We’re going the extra mile tonight.”

Especially since we’re both dealing with issues involving the same guy.

Awkward.
Awkward!

“What are we having?” Jen calls from the couch, looking at me over the high counter that’s directly over the sink.

I open the cabinet that serves as a pantry. “Pie.”

“Pie? Like pot pie?”

Ah, Jen. Ever the nutritional optimist.

“Like apple pie. Or cherry.” I have canned fillings for both. Never as good as my grandmother’s homemade apple pie, of course, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

And I can’t cook to save my tush.

“Maya.” She comes into the kitchen, her white collared shirt and skirt looking rumpled after lounging on the couch. “We can’t have pie for dinner.”

“Why not? We’re young. We exercise. And besides, this is the highest our metabolism will ever be. We should be taking advantage of this.” I’m waving the cans at her as I talk.

Jen works with a lawyer all day. She recognizes logical thinking when she sees it. “Okay, you win. But I’m fixing a salad.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Sugar nut.”

“Don’t say that in front of Jack; it’ll give him another nickname.”

She grins as she pulls a packaged salad from the fridge.

Ten o’clock Sunday morning. I’m slouched in one of the very uncomfortable folding chairs in a freezing-cold classroom inside Grace Bible Church. I’m cradling my coffee with both hands, slumped over, and my left eye is half open like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Jen’s sitting next to me, but unlike me, she’s sitting straight-backed, smiling, eyes wide open, her long, shiny blond hair in perfect place. She’s wearing a skirt and a subtle pink top and looks like Miss Teen California all grown up.

Ugh.

Definitely not a good idea to start the A&E
Pride and Prejudice
at ten thirty last night. It’s downright impossible to stop that movie in the middle!

So, there I was at two thirty at night, cuddled up with Calvin on my bed, sighing over Mr. Darcy’s faltering speech and dripping wet hair. “Beg your pardon, your family is in good health?”

How come nobody talks like that anymore? If I could time travel anywhere, I’d jump to England in that exact year. Bring a basket of deodorant, a pair of blue jeans, and Bath & Body Works soap, and I’d be a happy camper.

By the time I turned the TV off and fell asleep, it was
after three thirty in the morning.

Our singles pastor, Andrew Townsend, stops in front of me and pokes me in the forehead.

“Mmpgh.”

Andrew is way too much of a morning person. “Harken! She speaks!”

This is what I say: “Leave me alone.”

This is how it comes out: “Leefmaown.”

Andrew just laughs and moves on, greeting the people sitting in a half circle around the classroom. There are about twenty or so people here; most of them come to our Wednesday-night Bible study as well.

Andrew Townsend is twenty-nine, single, used to play hockey but still has all his teeth. I find this a big perk for an ex-hockey star. I heard he could’ve gone pro, but he decided not to because he wanted to be a pastor.

Anyway, he’s this big broad-shouldered guy with tons of thick, beautiful, sandy blond hair that he keeps on the longish side. It makes him look like a modern-day Viking. I’ve told him this before, and he said,
“Arg!
”

Which is actually more pirate-sounding than Viking, but what the heck.

Jack drops into the seat on my right. “You okay?”

“Mmm.”

Jen leans around me. “She watched
Pride and Prejudice
last night.”

Jack frowns. “So she’s depressed?”

“When did you finish it, Maya?” Jen asks.

“’Bout three or so.”

“Last
night?”

Jack is grinning. “They invented a Stop button, you know.”

“But good things came from this,” I say around a mouthful of coffee.

“Like what? Poorer posture? You can win in the Hudson County Fair Slumped Shoulders Contest?”

I blink at Jack. “They have that?”

“No, Nutkin.”

“Oh. No, I discovered I do not under any circumstances want to be a newspaper delivery guy. I heard him at three thirty this morning, and I think that’s a form of punishment. What did he ever do to deserve that?” I ask.

“They get paid really well,” Jen says. “So, I’ve heard it’s worth it.”

“Okay, everyone, chatter needs to cease,” Andrew says, pulling a little stool under him and sitting in the middle of the half circle.

It always is a little humorous to see big, stocky Andrew on the little, rickety stool. One day, I swear it will break.

It’ll be funny in a morbid kind of way.

He’s balancing a huge ceramic coffee mug on one knee that says:
Donate Blood. Play Hockey.
It’s filled to the brim with dark, rich coffee, and this is where Andrew and I have a connection. He’s a major coffee nut, too. He comes into Cool Beans on a regular basis.

“Today, lads and ladies, I want us to discuss your thoughts on how aggressive Christians should be in today’s culture.”

“You mean, like, evangelism?” Natalie, one of the girls in the class, asks.

Andrew shrugs. “Sure. In every area of life.”

Jack leans back in his chair. This means he’s going to speak. “I would say it’s enough to stand up for what you believe, not so far as to beat them over the head with it,” he offers.

“Explain that,” Andrew prompts.

“Well.” Jack adjusts his pant legs now. This means he’s not sure how to put his thoughts into words. “I’m not sure how to describe it. Like stating what I believe in a way that is loving, I guess.” Then he exhales. This means Jack is done talking for the rest of the class.

I smirk into my coffee.

“Very good, Jack.” Andrew nods and continues. We spend the next thirty minutes in discussion, and then Andrew tells us we’re going to read through the book of James. “This is such a great book on not backing down. So, get ready, strap your helmets on, and aim for the puck because this book is one of my favorites.”

Andrew sometimes forgets he’s a pastor and not a hockey player, I think.

He prays, and we all stand and start folding up the aforementioned uncomfortable chairs like we do every Sunday. I’m still freezing cold, and now I get to waste three and a half hours before I start the drive to San Diego.

“Jen, want to go to Kohl’s?”

This is sort of like asking a demolition crew if they want goggles. The answer is fairly obvious.

“No thanks,” she says sweetly.

At least I thought it was. I don’t even hear her answer at first; I’m so convinced I know what she’ll say. “Okay, we can go before — wait. What?” I sputter.

“Um. Not today.” She fidgets and smoothes her skirt. Jack is grinning. “Got something else to do, Jenny?”

She winces, blushes, and smiles all in about three and a half seconds. “Maybe.”

Travis.

I sigh. “Okay. Well, maybe another time.” I sling my purse over my shoulder, trying not to be depressed. Especially after such a great lesson. Great lessons by Andrew usually perk me up for the rest of the day, enough that Calvin and I usually discuss it on the way to Mom and Dad’s.

Jen looks at her watch and smiles softly. “Well, I have to go, guys. Have a great day!” She waves and is off.

I look at her swooshing hair as she leaves and then at Jack. He’s smiling one of those “It’s okay” smiles, which are perfected by the medical profession. I know. Zach does it.

“Kohl’s?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “It was mostly an excuse to burn three hours before I leave to go see Mom and Dad and Zach.” “Zach’s in town, huh?”

“Mmm.”

He gives me the same smile but pairs it with a shoulder squeeze. “Maybe he’s more tactful now.”

“Maybe.”

Andrew comes over as everyone else in the room has left.

“Hey. So?”

“Two thumbs up.” I show him my thumbs.

“Really? Cool beans!” He shoves his elbow in my ribcage. “Get it? Cool Beans? Like where you work? Get it, Maya?”

I rub my side. “Ow.”

“What’s the game plan for you today?” Andrew asks.

“I’m going to see the parental units this afternoon,” I say. “I think you bruised me.”

“Oh yeah, your Sunday tradition. Bruises are good for you; they toughen you up.”

“Tonight it’s at The Cheesecake Factory, so I’ve got three hours to kill. And I don’t want tough sides.”

“Get the key lime cheesecake; it’s stinking awesome.” He grins at me. “No tough sides? Like beef jerky or something?”

“Dude, I saw this woman at my apartment pool the other day,” Jack starts, covering his eyes with his hand. “Her skin looked like my mom’s suede couch. It was gross. There is such a thing as too tan.”

Andrew laughs. “Total agreement here, man. Hey, what are you guys up to for lunch?”

Both of us shrug, which spurs Andrew to clap his hands and order us to go to lunch with him at Kaiser, a local deli.

We arrive with the rest of the after-church lunch crowd and wait about ten minutes for a table. When we finally get seated, Andrew plops in his chair and grabs the menu. “Man, I’m starving. I can’t even remember the last time I ate.”

“Breakfast?” I ask sweetly.

“No breakfast. I’m out of Eggos. Ruined my whole morning.”

“There’s more to life than Eggo waffles, Andrew,” I say.

“But not more to breakfast.” He slams the menu down, and I jump. “I’m getting the number twelve.”

I look down at it.
Ham, turkey, pastrami, salami, bacon, and three fried eggs on a toasted bun with lettuce, tomato, cucumber, guacamole, and cheddar and Muenster cheese. Big enough for two!

“Looks hefty,” I remark.

“Sounds good,” Jack says. “Hey, what exactly is pastrami?”

“Beef, kid. Cured beef.”

“Basically, it’s left out to dry, and they run out and get it right before it spoils, then stick it on a sandwich,” I explain.

“Sounds great.” Jack says this unenthusiastically.

“Doesn’t it, though?” Andrew says, all cheerful. “My mom used to feed us pastrami and bologna on bagels for our after-school snack.” He inhales, getting nostalgic. “I never eat it
without thinking about her.”

“I hope that my future kids remember me for more than nearly spoiled beef,” I say.

“You sentimental fool.” Jack grins at me.

The server, a cute brunette who can’t be more than five foot one, comes to take our order.

“When did Zach get in town?” Jack asks me.

“Uh, yesterday, I think.”

“They going to be here long?”

“I don’t know, actually. Mom didn’t say how long they are here.”

“Excuse me?” Andrew waves over the server. “Could I get extra cheese on that number twelve?”

“Extra, sir?” She sounds like he just ordered a pig with an apple in its mouth. “It comes with cheddar and Muenster already.”

“That guy who just got served?” Andrew points nondis-creetly at the table next to us. The guy, a nice-looking man in his forties, looks at Andrew and holds up his sandwich like the monkey holds Simba on
The Lion King.
You can almost hear the African safari music starting.

“Yes?” the server asks.

“Is there swiss on there?”

“Yes, sir. Swiss and colby jack.”

“Yum. Could I get both on my sandwich, please?”

She nods. “Sure. It’ll probably be extra, just so you know.”

“Fine”.

She leaves, and Andrew turns back to us. “What were we talking about?” he asks.

Now I know why Andrew is the barrel-shaped giant he is. “Glad to see you’re taking that Atkins diet to heart,” I say.

“I’m not on Atkins. I could never survive without Eggos.” I just smile.

It’s three fifteen, and I’m busy grabbing a few things for my weekly trip. Calvin is racing excitedly around my ankles. He loves Sundays.

I’m still debating if I should take him. On the one hand, he’ll be ecstatic to ride in the car. On the other hand, he’d have to wait in the car through dinner because we’re not going to Mom and Dad’s first.

“Roo! Rooooo!”

Take him, I decide.

“Ready, baby?”

“Roo!”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” I pop a collar around his neck. It’s bright cherry red and Calvin’s favorite.

Jen isn’t here, neither is a note from her. If I had to guess, I’d bet she hasn’t been back all day. Her car isn’t in her allotted parking spot, so there’s no telling where she is.

I pull a Dr Pepper from the fridge and a box of Junior Mints from the pantry. I’ve got my jacket for later when it gets dark and drops the whole ten degrees that makes us Southern Californians cold. And I changed clothes from jeans and a sweatshirt to my black pants and a cerulean silky long-sleeved top. It makes my eyes look really blue, and with my hair fixed curly, I look fairly decent, if I say so myself.

You might think this is too dressed up for The Cheesecake Factory. I would completely agree with you. But Zach is always dressed in Dockers and usually has a sport coat with him. And Kate, his wife, typically looks like she has stock in Ralph Lauren or something.

Me? I’m all about denim. Give me a quality pair of jeans and I’ll wear them until they fall off my body in tatters that would make that “Feed the Birds” lady on
Mary Poppins
proud.

I open the door, and Calvin runs out, down the steps, and over to my car, wriggling excitedly. I grin, lock the door, and then go open the car for him.

We listen to my classic Elvis collection on the drive over. Calvin has his head out the window, tongue flapping, for the entirety of the trip.

I get to The Cheesecake Factory at exactly 4:57, which officially makes me early. I remind myself of a few rules: “Make friendly conversation, keep Travis and Jen out of it, and order the Godiva chocolate cheesecake.” Turning the car off, I look over. “Sit tight, don’t eat the seats, and stay out of my Junior Mints,” I lecture Calvin, who then falls with a huff on the passenger seat.

He curls into a little ball and looks up at me like, “Fine, whatever.”

Climbing out, I straighten my shirt and try to see my reflection in the Jeep window. Too dirty. “Cal, how do I look?”

He closes his eyes and conks out.

“Helpful.” I grab my purse, press the lock down, and shut the door. There’s the tiniest nip of chill in the air, which means San Diego’s excuse for winter is on its way. Where’s the snow? Where are the happy ski bums? Where’s the Dean Martin music?

They’re all in Colorado, I guess, because neither San Diego nor Hudson gets squat when it comes to snow. I have at least fifteen adorable scarves that I never get to wear, and if I do wear one, I have to crank up the A/C. I’m moving to the Rocky Mountain state ASAP.

I walk through the doors into the dark, crowded restaurant. People are pressing in all around the hostess station, making the two poor girls tending it duck for cover behind the menus.

“Maya!”

I turn right into my mom’s hug. “Hi, baby,” Mom says, pulling me tight. “The drive was good?”

“Yeah.” I pull away to give Dad a hug as well. “Hi, Dad.”

“How’s the Jeep running, Maya?”

This is Dad’s code for
How are you?

“Good,” I reply. “How are you?”

“Fine. Good to hear that. Bring it by next week, and I’ll have a peek under the hood.” Dad shifts, looking uncomfortable in his slacks and collared shirt. I give him a sympathetic look.

Zach and Kate stand up from the bench where they were seated, and immediately three little kids plop down on it.