The Someday Jar (27 page)

“Want some more?”

Shock is frozen on his face.

Evan turns on his heel and yells before he slams the door. “You’ll regret this. You will definitely regret this.”

I doubt it.

Returning to my phone, I cradle it beside my ear and say, “Larson, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”

“It sounded like you just punched someone.”

“Really?”

“Ha.” He laughs. “Please tell me it was Evan.”

“The very same.”

“Good for you. He deserves it.”

“Thanks, Larson.”

“Hey, I think you just tried to call me.”

“Yes, I have something even more amazing than my fighting skills for you.”

“What’s that?”

“The perfect house.”

Six days later, I stare at a signed contract for the Murphy mansion. Larson made a solid offer and Bevy accepted. It’s a quick close, three weeks, no contingencies. Bevy has already flown to California to look for a new place and, by the sound of her voice, she enjoys giving her son a hard time. Hollis’s parents are buried outside La Jolla, as will Hollis be, so it’s fitting she’s near them.

I’m exhausted and plop into my office chair. It’s been a whirlwind. Once word spread that I listed and sold the Murphy mansion in a matter of days, my phone has rung nonstop. Mom signed on to work four days a week answering phones. She agreed once I promised good health insurance.

When Dylan is at school, Kit hangs out from time to time and helps me with odd jobs and difficult decisions, like where to order lunch. Even E stops after school a couple of days a week to do her homework or teach Mom computer tips.

Though the commission I’m about to receive will set me up financially for a very, very, very long time, and I should be elated with all that I’ve accomplished, I can’t bury this melancholy feeling still plaguing me. It drapes over me like a wet blanket and often, I meander around the office, lost.

I know what it is. It’s Wes. And as many times as I’ve told myself to stop thinking of him, I just can’t. It’s more than a crush. Much more. With a long sigh, I flick my Larry Fitzgerald bobblehead and watch it wiggle, recalling that walk toward the stadium, Wes’s hand in mine.

One Friday afternoon, Kit nudges open my office door with her butt and places a box on my desk. “I found this in the back room. What should I do with it?”

I peer into the box. “This is my stuff from Evan’s.” I poke through the picture frames, last year’s calendar I bought from the Girl Scouts, and a remote control that completely eludes me.

“Trash it.”

“What’s this?” Kit grabs a rolled tube of paper.

“These are blueprints for Orchid Lane.”
Wes drew them.

“Let’s take a look. I never saw the house.”

“Go for it.” I pull a listing from my file cabinet. “I don’t need to see Orchid Lane ever again.”

Kit slips off the rubber band and unrolls the prints, holding it wide with outstretched arms. “You know, maybe I should become an architect. I love to look at plans. Oh, that reminds me, I got you a subscription to
Architectural Digest
. I thought it’d be good to have on the coffee table. They do such cool covers.”

“Thanks.”

“Lanie?” she says a few minutes later. “This doesn’t look like what you described Orchid Lane to be. What’s all this?”

“All what?” I don’t lift my focus from my file.

“This. Take a look.” She lays the oversized papers across my desk and points.

With a quick study, I determine these aren’t Orchid Lane’s
finished plans. They’re mine.
My house plans.
They’re exactly as I described my ideal house when Wes and I spent the night at the chapel.

Drawn at the end of a cul-de-sac named Lanie Lane, the house boasts three bedrooms, a family room with a double-sided fireplace off the kitchen, a kidney-shaped pool, a garden, a winding staircase, a large master bedroom with a sitting area by the windows, twinkly lights in the foyer, and double front doors. It’s perfect.

“Kit.” I stare at her. “Wes drew these for me. I told him and he drew them.” I’m nearly speechless, barely able to make a coherent sentence. I trace the lines with my fingers, hoping Wes’s scent lingers, woven between the threads of paper.

“I knew he liked you.”

“What? You never met him.”

“Sure I did. At Lucinda’s speed dating.”

“It was pitch-black in there. He and I argued that day.”

“Yes, but if he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have shown up.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter.” I step away from the plans. “He left. I haven’t heard from him since.”

“What’s he supposed to do? Draw a sword and fight Evan for you?”

“If he wanted me, yes. Is that so much to ask?” Tears pool in my eyes. “Look at me. I’m a mess. This is ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.”

“No, you aren’t.” She rolls up the plans.

“I have enough to worry about around here without clouding my head with thoughts of him. Look at my desk. It’s a disaster.” I spread my arms across my desk and shake my head. “This should be more organized.” Quickly, I grab a few files
and stack them straight. “This pencil cup is a wreck. Some of the pencils are upside down. Can you believe that? Where are my pens? I swear—”

“Lanie,” Kit interrupts. “Sit down for a second. You’ve gone nonstop for weeks.”

“No. I’m fine. I’m busy. Busy. Busy.” I wipe a tear with the back of my hand. “I need to stay busy, keep my mind focused. This would look better over here.” I grab my dad’s picture and the Someday Jar by its cork, moving it to a side table on the opposite side of my office. In my haste, the cork slips free and the jar falls onto the floor. It cracks in half.

“Damn,” I mutter, then plop onto my knees and bury my face in my hands. “I broke the jar.” More tears pour down my cheeks.

“You
are
a mess.” Kit wraps her arms around me and holds me for a moment. “Um, Lanie?”

“What?”

“I thought you emptied the jar.”

“I did.”

“There’s still a few slips in the jar.”

“Can’t be. I finished them all.”

“Look.”

I lift my head. Kit’s right. As I pick up the broken crock, three slips falls out.

“Kit?”

“Read them.”

I wipe my eyes, then unfold the fortunes. I recognize the handwriting, in capital letters, and for the moment I forget how to breathe. I stare at Kit. “They’re from Wes.”

She peers over my shoulder and reads out loud. “Ride a motorcycle from Alaska to Arizona. Throw the first pitch at
a San Francisco Giants game. Kiss Lanie Howard.” She smiles at me. “Honey, that’s beautiful.”

“It’s about time you found those,” Mom says from the door’s threshold. “I was about to break the jar over your head.”

“You knew?”

“Of course. Wes mailed them and asked me to stuff them in the jar.”

I swallow hard and stare at his words.
Kiss Lanie Howard.

“He’s here, you know,” Mom says.

“What?”

She slides the
Arizona Republic
’s business section toward me and points at a picture of the City Core. “Read it. He’s here.”

City Core Ribbon-Cutting Ceremony—Today 1:00 p.m. Phoenix mayor Judith Glaskey, along with Heuer Construction Group, is pleased to announce that it will hold a ribbon-cutting ceremony for its newly constructed multiuse complex, the City Core, onsite, at 1:00 p.m. today.

“We’re happy to introduce our latest accomplishment to both the city of Phoenix and those who helped bring this project to fruition,” said Derek Heuer, CEO of Heuer Construction Group. “We’re delighted that several of our investors, city officials, and Wes Campbell, our esteemed architect, will join us for today’s activities.

I glance at my watch. “One-oh-five.”

Kit’s focus meets mine.

“Swear?”

“Swear.”

“Let’s go.” I squeal, grabbing Kit’s hand, and lead us toward the door. “Mom, watch the office for a bit.”

“Go get him!”

Kit and I dash outside and climb into her car.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this. Aagh!”

“Move!” Kit shouts at the bicyclist slowly passing her parked car. She pulls away from the curb, honks her horn, and quickly switches lanes. Her Audi roars under her heavy foot. “I love that you’re doing this. Now if we can get these damn cars out of the way.”

I hang on to the dash and the door handle for support as she zigzags from lane to lane. “Don’t kill me on the way there.”

“Go, go, go!” she yells at a slow cabdriver in front of us.

Ten excruciatingly long minutes later, we pull into the parking lot of the City Core. Kit and I jump out of the car and run toward the shiny steel and glossy windows, gleaming bright in the sun. Hand in hand, we dodge through the side-street traffic and pedestrians until we’re swallowed in a sea of people and stand beside one of the several angled-steel spouting-water features on the north end of the project. The fences have been removed, the concrete swept, and the glass polished clean. The complex is stunning as it slants high into the Arizona sky. Tall, strong, and dominant.
Like Wes.

“Wow,” Kit says, looking above the crowd at the towers.

A woman’s voice echoes through the speaker system. A stage is assembled on the south end, near the tower’s entrance doors, quite far from Kit and me. “We appreciate the community’s support and look forward to a mutually beneficial relationship in the future. Thank you for coming.” Cheers and claps spread through the crowd as the lady steps away from the podium.

“Oh, no, it’s over.” People swarm around us, heading
toward their cars. “There are so many people, Kit. I’ll never find him.”

“Yes, you will. We’ll think of something.”

How? How will I find him in this mass of business-suited heads?

I get an idea.

Quickly, I climb on top of the concrete wall surrounding the water feature.

“Be careful. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Help me look for him,” I shout, standing above the crowd, scanning.

“How?”

“He’s gorgeous. Find the cutest guy here.”

Within minutes, a large-muscled man with
Core Patrol
emblazoned across his uniform shirt points up at me from the driver’s seat of his golf cart with a red siren affixed to the roof, and says to me, “Ma’am, you’ll need to get down from there.”

“No, it’s okay.” Kit stands between the guard and me. “She’s trying to find someone. She’ll just be a second.”

The guard steps from his cart and says again with a stern voice, “Ma’am, get down.”

I don’t see Wes anywhere. Several others in the crowd, some way across the plaza, also point at me.

“My purse. It’s been stolen. Help!” Kit screams.

The guard ignores her. “Ma’am, I’ll ask you one more time. Get down.”

“Just another second, please,” I beg, focused on the crowd.
Where is he?

“I’ve been stabbed and I’m bleeding to death,” Kit says.

“Are you trying to cause a disturbance?” he asks with a less-than-friendly tone.

“If it’ll buy her some time, then yes.”

“Ma’am—”

“Can’t she have a minute?” Kit pleads. “She’s trying to find someone.”

“Who?”

“Wes Campbell.”

“The architect?”

“You know him?” I crouch down toward the security guard.

“Say, you look familiar.” He eyes me with curiosity.

“Wes? Where is Wes?”

“He’s over by the stage.” The guard shakes his finger at me. “Hey, aren’t you the chick who grabbed Larry Fitzgerald’s—”

“Yes.” I glance at his cart. “Think you can give me a ride?”

The guard laughs and reaches his arms out toward me, helping me down. “Get in.”

“Kit, c’mon.” We jump into the cart and the guard steers his way through the slow-moving crowd.

Without asking, I flip the switch and the siren flashes. The crowd parts and lets us through.

He shoots me a look.

“Punch it,” I scream.

“I am. This is a golf cart, not a Maserati.”

We reach the other side of the plaza and before the cart comes to a complete stop, I thank the guard, jump off, and run toward the stage. Kit follows close behind.

There are many groups in twos and threes of suited men and women, congratulating one another with pats on the back, posing for photos, shaking hands, and clinking glasses of champagne.

No Wes.

I rush toward the stage, prepared to climb on and shout his
name into the microphone, when out of the corner of my eye, I see him.

He stands beside two older men, talking and pointing at the roofline of the towers, in a charcoal suit and white tie.

He’s here. In front of me. Ten feet away. And he’s gorgeous.

Every strand of hair on my scalp tingles. My toes curl inside my pumps when Wes lifts his gaze from the gentlemen and finds me. His lips bend into a full smile.

The sounds around me silence. Heat rushes through my entire body as he excuses himself and steps away from the men, toward me. The huge smile across my lips is meaningless, for I know my eyes reveal everything I feel as I walk toward him, narrowing our gap.

Only a couple of feet apart.

He’s delicious.

He’s strong.

He’s married.

Guilt clamps around my heart.
What in the world am I thinking? God, Lanie, you’re an idiot.
I spin away from Wes.