Diving In (2 page)

He didn’t move. “I want to hear more about Thor.”

This is the part in the movie where I come up with an outrageous lie to save my ego and get ensnared in some long, dreary, embarrassing misunderstanding that only drags out the inevitable
. Nicki dropped her head, frowned at her faded black sneakers, and studied the vinyl kitchen floor for signs of a sinkhole.

Belatedly, Betty got sensitive. “Forget it. Thor’s blond. Couldn’t be you.”

“You write about me for Betty’s blog?” He sounded incredulous. “What do you say?”

Nicki would have to shovel some grade-A bullshit to get out of this one with her head high. She lifted her head and met his gaze.

Sinkhole or bullshit, sinkhole or bullshit…

“I write about how much I love you,” Nicki said.
 

His eyes rounded.

She put a hand over her heart. “I love you, Miles. I thought you loved me too.”

The cheap rental refrigerator hummed in the silence.

“Got you,” Nicki said, reaching forward to punch his arm. “Relax, you big oaf. I was just kidding.”

He released an audible breath. “Really?”

She snorted.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he said.

“Come on, Miles. I’d rather French kiss a llama.”

“I’m not Thor?”

“You? Thor’s an invincible, immortal god. You, my friend, are an aging college dropout with a bad back.” Nicki managed a convincing laugh, and after a couple of seconds, she watched the terror drain out of Miles’s face. Finally, he laughed with her.
 

“Have you set a date?” she asked.

“Sometime next summer.” He gave his fiancée a devilish grin that made Nicki want to die.

“How nice for you.” Her voice sounded far away. She hoped she looked more normal than she felt.

“Neither one of us wants a big ceremony, but we’ll have some kind of party.” Looking lovesick again, he pulled Lucy against him. Eventually, finally, the happy couple said their good-byes.

“Well, that was awkward,” Betty said as she dead-bolted the door after them.

Wiping the sweat off her upper lip, Nicki collapsed on the arm of the couch. She felt like a deer that had almost been flattened by a truck, but at the last minute had leaped onto the hood, and now clung for dear—so to speak—life, trying to catch her breath as the wind whistled through her antlers.

Except she was a female deer. She wouldn’t have antlers.

Typical. She couldn’t even get femininity right as an imaginary quadruped.

“The sad thing is,” Betty continued, “I think he would’ve jumped on you in a second if you’d ever made a move. You guys were practically dating.”

Nicki thought of all the coffees they’d shared, movies they’d seen, dinners they’d eaten; all the times she’d almost said something to him before panicking.

“I never had the guts,” Nicki said, standing. Her fears had always held her back; and now she’d lost Miles, the best guy she’d ever met, because she’d been too damn
nervous
.

“I’m not straight, but I know guys,” Betty said. “He would’ve had sex with you at least once if you’d let him know you were interested.”

“God, what if you’re right?” Nicki muttered, going to the window. She saw the giant man and his tiny companion kissing against the door of a compact sedan. They didn’t look as if they were afraid of being seen, of denting the steel, of a passing car striking them. They didn’t look afraid of anything. They were too happy.

I’m going to learn how to be like that
, Nicki thought.
If it kills me.

* * *

Ignoring his father’s third text message of the day, Ansel Jury-Jarski popped open the paint can and inhaled the scent of fresh wet latex.

Dad probably wanted to know why he’d taken over twenty thousand dollars out of the family accounts in the past month.

Twice.

Shaking his head, Ansel lifted the paint can. He wasn’t ready to explain. In a few days, the restaurant would be painted, the kitchen set up, the sign bolted over the door, and the menu printed. Then he’d call his father, email a few pictures, maybe invite him for the opening. When everything was ready. When
Ansel
was ready.

With the grace of a professional, he poured the paint into the roller tray. Not a single drop spilled on the pages of the
San Francisco Chronicle
he’d laid out along the wall of the dining room. Who knew unemployed playboys could perform real labor?

Grinning, he replaced the lid on the paint can and turned to his twin sister, Rachel, who was helping him. “You’re not the only one skilled in the painterly arts.” So she’d studied art in Europe. Big deal.

She flashed him a colorful thumb that was as well coated as a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone at Dairy Queen. “I knew you could do it.”

Jordan, his best friend and owner of the new restaurant, frowned at the glowing paint tray. “I appreciate your help setting up, guys, but…orange?”

“It’s not orange. It’s Coral Daze,” Rachel said.

“It’s orange,” Jordan replied.

“Haven’t you ever heard of color theory?” Ansel asked. “Warm color sparks the appetite. It’ll subconsciously spur your many patrons to order lots of items from the menu, drink to excess, and then post glowing reviews online.”

“You think?” Jordan asked.

“If it doesn’t work,” Ansel assured him, “we’ll hire somebody to redo it in another color.”

“I’m paying you back for all this,” Jordan said.

“Sure,” Ansel said. “Whatever.”

“I will.”

“Feed me when I visit, that’ll be enough.” Ansel wasn’t joking; Jordan had magical powers in the kitchen. If anyone in San Francisco should be running his own restaurant, it was Jordan Boyd, and that was saying something. Someday, Ansel would tease him that he deserved the credit because he’d contributed a little money and painted the walls orange. For now, he had to twist his old college roommate’s arm just to consider taking a dime.

“I’ve got a spreadsheet,” Jordan said. “I’m calculating the interest I’ll owe you.”

Embarrassed, Ansel ran the new fuzzy roller over the palm of his left hand. It felt so soft that he regretted the need to dunk it in paint. “Come on. It’s pocket change.”

“Fifty grand?” Jordan turned to Rachel. “Must be nice to be rich.”

When Ansel and Rachel were in third grade, their last living grandmother had died. The quiet old lady’s secret investments in a few local startups (in Menlo Park, Palo Alto, and Sunnyvale, California) had led to their mother’s shocking inheritance of ten million dollars. Their family’s life had changed overnight.

“It has its moments.” Rachel turned to the front of the restaurant. “What do you think about adding a mural over the doorway?”

“You’re already doing enough,” Jordan said. “Both of you.”

Ansel joined her, following her gaze overhead. “I think you should. It’s kind of boring.”

“Even with the orange paint?” Jordan asked weakly.

“It needs something more,” Rachel said.

“Maybe,” Jordan said.

“You’re a chef, not an artist,” Ansel said. “Trust Rachel.”

Jordan waved in resignation. “All right. I’m going back to the kitchen where I belong. Do what you need to do.” He started to walk away.

“You’ll love it,” Rachel said.

Ansel called after him, “You don’t have a problem with unicorns, right?”

With his hand on the kitchen door, Jordan turned, his mouth stretched open in horror. Rachel covered a laugh with her hand.

“Or rainbows?” Ansel added.
 

Jordan looked relieved, as if he’d decided they were kidding. “I love you, man, and I couldn’t do any of this without you. If you want to paint rainbows and unicorns on the walls of my restaurant, go ahead.” He grinned, patting his chest. “I’ll just paint over it when you move on to your next charity case.”

“You’re not
charity
.”

“I won’t be after I pay you back.” Jordan disappeared into the kitchen, the double doors slapping behind him.

“People are so stupid about money,” Ansel said.

“It’s because they don’t have enough of it,” Rachel said.
 

“Rich people are worse. Look at Dad.”

“What’s he done now?” Rachel asked.

“Nothing.” He returned to the paint tray and picked up the roller. “Just the usual. Unimpressed with my lifestyle.”

“Mom says he’s going through a midlife crisis,” Rachel offered.

“Since we were born? No, this is between him and me. Nothing I’ve ever done was good enough for him.” He looked around the unfinished space, imagining a crowd of people, the rumble of conversation, the smell of fantastic food. “But this restaurant will be different. Jordan—well, you know. His food’s unbelievable. The restaurant will take off. Even Kevin Jarski will be impressed.”

Rachel looked uncomfortable. “I hope you’re not doing all of this for Dad. He’s just not the type to—”
 

His phone rang in his pocket. Thinking about the ignored text messages, his stomach tightened. He took it out and stared at his father’s handsome face on the screen as it rang a second time. “Speak of the devil,” he muttered.

“It’ll be worse if you put him off,” Rachel said softly.

“I hope Mom calls you next,” Ansel said, pushing the button of doom. His sister was right; he’d run out of time. With a deep breath, he lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hey, Ansel, what’s up?” His father sounded easygoing, with the accent of the Southern Californian surfers he’d grown up with, but his voice was purely an accident of geography—Kevin Jarski hadn’t been mellow a day in his life.

“Hi, Dad.”

Rachel took the roller out of his hand and tiptoed away. She knew better than to be around the two men of their nuclear family when they had a conversation, even over the phone.

“So,” his father said. “How’re ya doing?”

“I’m fine.” Ansel stood taller, bracing for the inevitable.

“Twenty-three grand,” his father said.

“Yes.”

“Then, a few weeks later, twenty-seven.”

Ansel looked out to the narrow street. More of an alley, really, and too far from the trendy neighborhoods for the rent to be outrageous. He wished he’d been able to give Jordan more money so he could open in North Beach or Pacific Heights, closer to where the
rich
hungry people lived, but Jordan had refused. “I’d wanted to make it an even fifty,” he said into the phone.

“What’d you spend it on?” his father asked. “Or should I say, who?”

Annoyed at his shaky hands, Ansel straightened his shoulders and lowered his voice. He wouldn’t let his father make him feel like a child. “Actually, I’m helping Jordan start a restaurant.”

“Jordan…”

How could his father not remember? “
Jordan
. You know, my roommate for three years? In college?”

“Forgive my memory,” his father said. “Your college years weren’t exactly in a row. And there were so many of them.”

Ansel clenched his teeth. He’d never been happy in school. He’d been terrible at it, never turning assignments in on time, always distracted by more interesting things. School was where he’d discovered how powerful a few dollars could be; how, with his help, the guy down the hall could travel to Peru for that archeological dig over the summer; or how the two women in his history class could devote an entire year to a political campaign they believed in.

Part of him hoped his father would see the restaurant as an impressive, practical enterprise. One that could make money. “Jordan’s a great chef. He just needed a little start-up funding.”

“Will you be sticking around to help him run the place?”

Ansel swallowed. This was the awkward part. Jordan didn’t want any long-term help. He’d refused it. He insisted on being the man in charge, the captain of his ship, the only cook in the kitchen. “No. I—”

“Just prefer writing the checks,” his father finished.

Ansel imagined his father sitting at the computer, managing the family investments; because of him, the Jury-Jarskis never ran out of funds, no matter how quickly the rest of them spent it.

“I like helping people who don’t have the same privileges I have,” Ansel said. “Isn’t that what you and Mom taught us to do?”

When Belinda Jury had inherited the ten million from her mother, she’d immediately formed a foundation to help people. She was especially active in Central America, never resting, always traveling, fundraising, working.

“You’re doing the easiest thing in the world,” his father said. “Spending somebody else’s money.”

“Does Mom know you feel this way about being generous?”

His father was silent for a moment. “Your mother is a saint. Giving money to friends is hardly the same as feeding orphans in developing countries, is it?”

Ansel put a fist over his mouth and stared at his feet. He noticed a streak of orange paint on his favorite sneakers.
It’s just Dad
, he told himself.
Just being his usual grouchy self. Don’t let him get to you.

Rachel came up beside him. “You okay?”

He met his twin’s concerned gaze, stuck out his tongue to lighten the mood, and said into the phone, “Rachel’s here. We’re painting the restaurant.”

“She’s an artist, not a contractor.”

“She’s doing a mural,” Ansel said.

“I hope Jacob appreciates what he’s getting from her,” his father said. “She’s got a gallery in Seattle already interested in scheduling a show, you know.”

“It’s Jordan, not Jacob,” Ansel said, but he flashed Rachel a genuine smile. “Gallery in Seattle?”

She flushed. “We’ll see.”

He punched her lightly on the shoulder. “I know a great caterer up there. Let me know when your opening is.” He’d helped a friend set up her business a few years ago, and it seemed to be doing well.

“It’s a pipe dream,” Rachel said, walking back to her paint tray.

“It’ll happen,” Ansel said. He heard his father clear his throat, so turned his attention back to him. “Anything else, Dad?” Of course his father wasn’t impressed yet; he hadn’t seen—or tasted—what Jordan was capable of. Next month, when the restaurant opened, or in a few months after that, when it was fully established, he’d bring his father there to see it in person. Then he’d understand. This was bigger and more serious than anything he’d done before. “We’re kind of busy. The paint’s drying out.”