The Someday Jar (18 page)

“Anyone want a beer?” I ask.

“I’d love one,” Paige says. “Something cool on my lips.” She licks them with her wet tongue like she’s auditioning for the lead role in a porno.

Give it up, Paige.

“Evan?”

“No.” His tone is sharp.

“Wes?”

He springs up. “I’ll come with you.”

“Great.”

We take a couple steps up the stairs. “You met Larry Fitzgerald?”

“I did.” A smile spreads across my lips. “A lot of him, actually.”

Wes laughs.

Another few steps, and then I climb two at a time. Wes does the same. Soon we’re scrambling up as fast as we can, both vying for first place, laughing between breaths. Midway, he presses a stiff arm against my shoulder, slowing me down.

I clutch my football close to my side and yell, “Cheater!”

We poke and pull at one another until Wes reaches the top first. He shoots his arms in the air. “I win!”

“Were we racing?” I say, half a step behind.

“Come along, freak. I’ll buy you a beer.”

Later, after we drop Paige off at home because the beer “went straight to her head” and Wes at the City Core to meet for dinner with some of his associates, Evan is still mad about the
game. His white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel sets the tone for the ride home. Quite honestly I don’t know what the big deal is. What’s wrong with a little fun?

Kit’s text breaks the silence in the car.

Rob says he saw you on TV.

Yep. :)

He said you grabbed Fitz in the nuts?

Yep.

Swear?

Swear.

I CAN’T wait to hear the story!

Can’t talk now, Evan’s pissed. Call you later. XOXO

:(

We don’t say a word to one another until Evan approaches the intersection a block away from our condo and stops, waiting to make a right-hand turn. On the corner, twin girls with matching yellow ribbons in their pigtailed hair sit behind a makeshift lemonade stand. One of the girls reaches up to steady a teetering stack of yellow Solo cups while the other draws squiggly lines around the edges of a handwritten sign taped to the front of the table that reads:
YUMMY LEMONADE ~ $.50 A CUP.

It reminds me of the hot chocolate stand I set up when I was nine years old. I still recall the excitement bubbling through me as I organized the cups, sorted the marshmallows in groups of two, lined up the packets of cocoa mix, calculated in my mind how much change a customer would get from a five-, ten-, or twenty-dollar bill. Determined to raise money for a Totally Glitter Me manicure kit, I set up my stand on our street corner on Thanksgiving weekend.

Thing is, Thanksgiving in Phoenix isn’t always cold; sometimes it’s downright hot. That weekend in particular was a record-breaking eighty-four degrees. No one stopped for my hot chocolate. After three hours of sweating, watching car after car whiz by, with the ice for my milk melted into a pool of water, I started to pack up. Tears stung my sunburned cheeks.

Since that day, regardless of whether I’m thirsty or hungry, in a hurry, or forced to snake through four lines of gridlock, I stop at every lemonade or hot chocolate stand or bake sale. I’d make it a law if I could. Every single citizen must patronize enterprising kids. I’d hate for them to feel defeated like I did.

“Look, Evan.” I wave at the twins. “Those are the girls from down the street, the house with the ocotillo in the front yard that’s decorated like Santa at Christmas time. They’re adorable. Let’s stop.”

Evan looks briefly in their direction, and then after a quick glance for oncoming traffic, he roars past the girls toward his condo.

“Where are you going?” I spin around and watch the twins fade in the distance. “Why didn’t you stop?”

“It’s a lemonade stand.”

“Exactly.”

Evan pulls into the driveway and pushes the remote, opening the garage door.

I stare at him baffled.

“What?”

I hop out of the car and march toward the twins, muttering under my breath, “What type of guy doesn’t stop at a lemonade stand? What type of guy makes a big deal out of having a little fun? What type of guy wants to defame a man he
doesn’t even know?” I cross the street and pull a five-dollar bill from my pocket, then stop dead in my tracks. I peek back toward the condo. Evan disappears inside the house as the garage door closes behind him.

Am I with the wrong guy?

“Broken water line, huh? You’re certain?” I ask with hopes that the plumber on the phone will say,
Sorry, I goofed. There’s no leak
.

“No doubt,” he says.

“It’s definitely cracked underneath the kitchen floor?”

“Dead nuts.”

Thank you for that lovely description.
“There’s tile throughout the kitchen. Nice tile.”

“If this broken line isn’t repaired, water’s gonna bubble up through the grout of that
nice
tile.”

“What do you do? Jackhammer it all out?”

“We can. Or we can abandon the existing line and run new lines, overhead, in the attic.”

That sounds expensive. “I’ll need authorization from my seller. E-mail me an estimate.”

“You got it.” He hangs up.

I rub my temples in an attempt to massage away my headache. Two escrows are on the verge of falling apart, I’m on the sixth
counteroffer with a buyer for a duplex in Mesa, Evan and I have hardly spoken since our latest spat—how many fights have we had since Wes arrived?—and now I need to tell the sweet Somerset Lane sellers that their house has a major plumbing leak. What a day. It’s only noon.

The phone rings yet again. “Good afternoon, Evan Carter Realty.”

“Dentist suffers fatal allergic reaction to toothpaste.”

I laugh in spite of the dentist’s misfortune because Hollis sounds chipper. “How are you?”

“Fantastic. Bevy and I just finished our swim.”

“Good for you.” I’m glad to hear he’s feeling better. I think about the arrangement I made with Evan. Despite the arguments we’ve shared lately, I’m still determined to make broker. On my own terms. No dirty play. No cheap shots. No trash-talking. That’s why the other day, I assembled a portfolio demonstrating my marketing ideas and messengered it to them. I flip open my copy and scan the first of my two suggestions. An exclusive, champagne, invitation-only property preview party limited to agents who solely represent high-end, prequalified clients. Any agent in their right mind will want a premier showing of the Murphy mansion. Those agents not invited—the poor saps clawing at the door to get a peek—will rush to their office and pull up the listing on the database just to see what they’re missing. A win-win.

My other plan is to use technology and incorporate mobile marketing where any agent or potential client can scan a code—listed on every sign, flyer, name rider, social media site, et cetera—linking their smart phones to a full property profile including pictures, data, and video. It’s efficient and effective and they’re sure to love it. Well, I’m not certain Hollis will
understand the benefit, given he doesn’t even have a cell phone, but something tells me Bevy will. Hollis mentioned once that Bevy keeps up to date with the latest technology and is obsessed with her iPad. Hollis thought it was a remote for the TV.

“Bevy wanted me to call and thank you for the marketing ideas.”

“You’re welcome. Now, I know you haven’t decided to list your house, and even if you do, I know you don’t care much about the extra steps and precautions I’ll use to make the sale as painless and noninvasive as possible. Nor the marketing and promotional tools I’ll implement to facilitate a speedy sale. You’d rather call me and tell me straight what to do.”

He laughs. “You know me well.”

“Indeed. But I had a feeling Bevy might be curious.”

“Oh, Lanie, you’re a good girl. Do you know that?” He sighs. “That’s why it pains me to say this.”

My heart sinks. “Oh?”

“Hold on a sec, Bevy’s handing me my pills.” I hear him swallow. “Ugh. Awful stuff.” He coughs, then says, “I gotta tell you, Lanie-Lou, getting old is for the birds. But that’s not why I called.”

I bounce my knee like a hummingbird flaps its wings, hoping he’ll rattle off another quirky obituary. Hoping he’s teasing. Hoping he doesn’t have anything painful to say.

“My nephew-in-law, Timothy Bane, is a real estate developer in Gilbert. Did I ever tell you that?”

My head surges with regained pain.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Just as Evan suspected.
“No, you didn’t, but I’m aware of him.”

“He’s a pompous ass,” Hollis says. “So he makes a few bucks, big deal. The boy carries a man-purse. Have you seen
those things? It’s leather with a silly tassel-tie wraparound thing. It’s ridiculous.”

A snicker escapes my lips. “I’m sure it’s nice.”

“If you’re a woman.” He coughs again. “Anyway, Bevy says I need to call him and discuss the house. Says he’s family and if we decide to list, we owe him a chance. I hope you understand.”

He
is
going to list his multimillion-dollar mansion with someone else. Can this day get any worse? Evan will be crushed. He’s reminded me countless times that this listing carries weight beyond the commission. It carries stature and a level of prowess to secure the Valley’s most desired clients. Not to mention, it carries my promotion.

“Sure wish I could talk Bevy out of working with Bane. It’s just a hunch, but I don’t quite trust him. But my Bevy’s adamant. Says a man-purse isn’t reason enough not to like someone. Unless I can convince her otherwise, she’s hell-bent on him.”

Though I didn’t agree with the practice, I have done as Evan suggested and investigated Bane. Evan was right. There are more than several questionable dealings on his record. A couple of kickback implications and two fines for misrepresentation. Worse yet, he spent thirty days in jail for a DUI and assault on an officer after a domestic dispute with Hollis’s niece eighteen months ago. A fact that Hollis would find unforgivable. Bane must’ve pulled a few strings, because this information hides under the radar from public knowledge. I only know because I called in a favor from Chett.

Should I reveal this damning evidence and salvage this deal? Switch to broker mode and fight for this listing? Is this what a successful businessperson does? What a good fiancée would do? Is this how the game is played? Hollis would never stand
for such immoral conduct; hell, he didn’t approve of Evan and me premaritally living together. He’d be aghast at his drunk nephew-in-law beating up an officer. As he should be.

If I don’t tell Hollis the truth, I’ll lose the listing of a lifetime. I snap the pencil I’m holding in two. Without this deal, I won’t earn the half-million-dollar commission. Without this listing, I won’t be promoted to broker. Without this deal, I won’t complete the slip in my jar. This deal means everything.

But I can’t. I can’t highlight Bane’s behavior. I won’t stoop to that level. I toss the pencil in the trash, deciding that Bane may be lower than pond scum, but Hollis is smart enough not to be snowballed. He doesn’t need, and likely wouldn’t respect, me pointing it out. Nor will I dishonor a man, deserving or not. Bringing up Bane’s infractions says more about
me
than it does him.

I realize what this means. Securing the phone between my ear and shoulder, I uncork the Someday Jar and dump out the few remaining slips. There goes my business cards with
Lanie Howard, Broker
printed on them. There goes my chance at truly feeling equal in the business. There goes my promotion. Gone. Like a puff of smoke.

This sucks.

I fiddle with the slips until I find the right one.

Make a sacrifice.

“Did you hang up on me?” Hollis breathes heavily into the phone.

Business is business and my disappointment is no concern of this kind old man. With a professional and respectful voice, I say, “No, I’m here. And, I know that nothing comes before family in your eyes. You should call Bane.”

“All right, dear. Thanks for your understanding.”

We hang up and I pace around my desk.
Damn. Why did his niece marry a real estate developer? Why couldn’t she have fallen in love with a taxidermist?

I let out a long sigh and wonder how I’ll break the news to Evan. This revelation will only add to the tension between us.

Ugh.

Evan’s out of the office, so I call his cell phone. He doesn’t answer and I don’t leave a message. It’s not something I want to leave on a voice mail.

A couple of hours later, without any sign of Evan, I nearly scale the walls with the energy and anxiety bubbling inside me. I leave the office at quarter to four and head toward Rudy’s for class, knowing I’ll feel better if I punch the crap out of something.

As I drive toward the gym, I’m prickly. Though a large part of me says not to feel guilty about the jar, a tiny part wonders if I shouldn’t have embarrassed him on the field like that. If I should have been more concerned about his soiled pants. Massaged his shoulders and tried to ease his stress about Orchid Lane, the wedding, and the Murphy deal. We’ll be married soon and I should consider his feelings. His sensitivities. Regard the reputation of the firm. Besides, didn’t I promise to do that?

“Hi, Howie.” Blue’s chipper voice lightens my mood as I set my bag on the bench. She’s wearing her customary velour tracksuit. Sea-foam green this time, with a matching necklace and jeweled clip fastened to her bun.

“Hi, Blue. How are you?” I join her on the mat.

“Fantastic.” She eyes my gloves, which are on the wrong hands. “You okay, sweetie?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“Liar. Spit it out. I’m an old woman, my days are numbered.”

“Don’t say that.” Whether it’s her age-spotted hands or lipstick creeping into the wrinkles around her lips, something about her feels unassuming and comforting. I’m completely at ease sharing my private world with this relative stranger and I say, “Lately, I haven’t been the best fiancée.”

“How so?”

“Well, for starters, he’s not a fan of kickboxing.”

“Why not?”

“Too dangerous.”

“Hogwash.”

“I threw up on his pants.”

“On purpose?”

“No, I was sick from scuba diving.”

“Okay. And?”

“And, the other day, I embarrassed him in front of a lot of people.”

“Any harm done?”

“Not really.”

“Then who cares?” She waves her hand as if swatting away a fly.

“It’s just he’s been so stressed about work, our house, and the wedding. Maybe I should be more considerate of that, focus more on him rather than myself.”

Blue leans close and whispers, “Bat those gorgeous green eyes and show him a good time in the sack. Trust me; he’ll get over it. Hell, it’s worked for me for years.”

I laugh. “I bet it has.”

“Sounds like you’re an adventurous girl. Surely he knew
that before he proposed. He shouldn’t be too surprised by your behavior.”

“Actually, kickboxing and scuba and everything else I’ve done lately is a reach for me. Normally, I’m pretty reserved.”

“Honey, you’re far too young for a midlife crisis. What changed?”

“A childhood keepsake from my dad resurfaced, my Someday Jar. It’s full of my goals. I’m tackling them one by one.”

“Really? Now isn’t that a hoot. Hell, I might steal that idea for my grandkids.”

“You should. I’m enjoying it.”

“Good for you, Howie. What else is in your jar?”

I think about the remaining slips, especially the one that hovers in the back of my mind, the one I can’t conceive a way to complete. “Only a couple are left. One is to volunteer as a Big Sister and the other . . . well, I’m terrified to try.”

“And if you don’t?”

“I’ll likely regret it forever.”

“Don’t be afraid, Howie. Fear reminds us we’re still alive. Regret will dig us an early grave. Finish that jar.” She pats my thigh.

“Thanks, Blue.”

“Ready, Lanie?” Rudy calls me toward the bag.

She points at him. “Go kick his ass.”

Inspired by Blue’s calm, matter-of-fact confidence in me, I convince myself that not only can I open the jar, but I can knock Rudy’s bag over with one punch.

“Today’s your day.” He smacks the bag.

“Today’s my day.”
One punch, Lanie. You can do this.
I step into my horse stance, inhale a deep breath, and, with a loud kiai, thrust my fist into the padded bag. It topples over.

“Holy shit! I did it!” I give Rudy a hug.

The women cheer and the girl with the yellow wrist straps offers me a high five.

“You did it.” Rudy rights the bag. “I told you. All you had to do was believe in yourself.”