Finding peace, p.15
Finding Peace, page 15
“Me too,” I say, “but, you know, from you.”
“Can you meet me at eight or so, anywhere you choose? Unfortunately that’s probably the earliest I’ll be able to break away.”
“Wow, work is demanding right now.”
“It’s not only work,” he says, “but I’d rather explain in person.”
“Cryptic. I like that more than I thought I would.” I tap the steering wheel. “Okay, well, I’ll already have eaten by then—I get crabby if I get too hungry—but I could meet you for dessert somewhere.”
“Name the place.”
“There’s a pie place that Paisley gushes about right by her old apartment.”
“Text me the address?”
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll meet you there if you promise to park that gosh-awful car far, far away.”
He laughs. “Deal.” Someone starts to talk to him. “Hang on,” he says, I think to the other person. “Hey, Anica, I’ve got to run. See you tonight?”
“Definitely.”
I have big plans to write every second between now and then . . . but after I write one chapter, I get kind of stuck. Which is probably fine. It’s not like I even know whether Avon will want it, so there’s no rush. Plus, I haven’t spent much time with Amy and Chase since I started my new job.
When I emerge from my room, Mary’s looking over something on her iPad and softly stroking a sofa cushion that has fallen on the floor with her free hand.
“Um, Mary? Why are you petting a pillow from the couch?”
Mary startles. “Oh.” Her hand freezes. “I thought it was Andy—I could swear she bumped my hand.” She rubs her eyes. “I might be losing it.”
“I think you just need a little break. Would you prefer a nap or an early dinner with Luke?”
Her eyes widen. “Luke!”
Seconds later, he charges into the family room with Jack half cradled in his left arm, scanning for danger frantically.
“Sorry if I frightened you.” Mary’s smile is suitably chagrined. “Anica said we can go to an early dinner, and I might have gotten a little too excited at the prospect.”
“Really?” Luke beams.
“I’ve got to leave around seven forty or so to meet Ethan for pie,” I say. “But as long as you’re back in time, absolutely.”
Luke hands baby Jack to me without another word, and Mary grabs her purse. They’re out the door before Chase and Amy even realize they’re leaving.
“What are you munchkins doing?” I ask.
“I’m making a Play-doh dinner,” Amy says. Her hot dog and ice cream cone actually look pretty decent. “And Chase is ruining all the Play-doh by pinching off a zillion tiny pieces for no reason and then grinding them into ugly lumps.” She scowls at him. “At least he’s wrecking his Play-doh this time.”
If I ever have kids, my house will be a Lego and Play-doh free zone. “Remember how we talked about using kinder ways to describe things?” Although, I kind of agree with her. What’s the point of doing what he’s doing?
“I don’t care,” Chase says. “Amy is always complaining. I just ignore it.”
I suppress a laugh. He’s not wrong either. Baby Jack starts to fuss, so I make him a bottle. The smartest thing Luke and Mary ever did was splurge on a bottle-making machine. You literally stick the bottle under the spout, press the button for the amount of formula you want, and it dispenses the formula, warmed to the right temperature and mostly mixed, into the bottle. Then seal it up, swirl it around, and bam.
No warming. No measuring. No powdery mess.
Although, I don’t have to clean the machine or keep it refilled, so I suppose they’re getting the short end of this stick. Oh well. Not my baby. I plonk down on the sofa and stick the bottle in his mouth.
“Mom wants you to try and keep his hands around the bottle at the top,” Amy says. “She’s trying to teach him to hold it himself.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Since when?”
“Since a few days ago.”
I love Amy, but she sure is a little dictator. I almost feel bad for her future husband. He’s going to be in for it, trying to keep her happy. She’s got the exacting standards of Mary and the energy of Luke. Amy leans over and shows Chase how to fill a plastic ice cream bowl with his shreds. “See? You can play too, if you make them into birthday cake ice cream.” And the generosity of her mom, Lizzie.
A wave of terrible loneliness washes over me. It’s one of the bizarre unknowable mysteries of life that sometimes my loneliest moments take place when I’m surrounded by people I love, but it’s inexplicably true. For some reason, when I’m with Amy and Chase, that’s when I miss Lizzie the most. She would love to be here, watching them, playing with them, teaching them.
“I miss you so much,” I whisper under my breath.
“Are you talking to my mom again?” Amy asks, her eyes as wide and curious as a kitten’s.
“Huh?” I sit up straighter, accidentally dislodging Jack’s bottle, and he starts to cry.
“I hear you, sometimes,” Amy says. “You get kind of a sad look on your face and then you whisper something. I didn’t understand why at first, but then I started paying attention and I think you’re talking to her. Are you?”
Something heavy presses on my chest and I can barely breathe. “Why do you think that’s what I’m doing?”
Amy shrugs. “Well, you always look kind of happy sad when you do it. I usually can’t understand much of what you’re saying.” She looks down at the floor. “But sometimes I talk to her, so I thought maybe you did too.”
Oh, God. Lizzie. You’re missed by more than just me. “Yes, sweetheart.” A tear rolls down my cheek. “When I look happy sad and whisper under my breath, I’m talking to your mom.”
“Do you think she can hear us?” Her upturned face is so hopeful.
“I’m sure of it,” I lie. “Just like I know that she’s proud of you each and every day.”
“And me?” Chase asks. “Is she proud of me even though I don’t talk to her?”
“Yes, precious boy. She’s very proud of you too, and you don’t need to talk to her to make her proud.”
“Oh good,” Chase says. “Because I don’t want to look crazy.”
Once Jack finishes his bottle, I set him on his play mat and make a deluxe dinner of fish sticks and oven fries. “Oh good,” Chase says. “That’s my favorite, and Mom almost never makes it because she hates it.”
“Well, you’re in luck,” I say. “Because Aunt Anica has a far less discerning palate than Mary. I actually like fish sticks as long as they’re cooked super-duper crispy.”
“That’s how I like them too,” Amy says. “I bet it’s because you’re my aunt that we like them the same.”
“No it’s not, idiot.” Chase chucks a blob of Play-doh at her. “Everyone likes them that way cuz otherwise they’re all squishy and wet.”
“Whoa, sir. We don’t say—”
“I’m sorry.” He folds his arms and his entire face stormclouds. Lips pulled tight. Eyebrows pulled together. Eyes intent on the ground. Some kids get so embarrassed when they’re corrected.
“I think while the food is baking, Aunt Anica needs to get a few loves.”
“Yay.” Amy runs toward me and hops up onto my lap.
Chase doesn’t budge. He’s always a harder sell.
“Uh-oh,” I say. “I’ve got a major issue.”
Amy giggles.
I wink at her and set her down, and then I drop to my knees and start to shake.
“What’s wrong?” Chase walks toward me slowly, the frown sliding away as curiosity takes over.
I sit up quick. “I’m in withdrawals.”
He inhales. “What’s that?”
“It means,” I say, “that I am in desperate, no, dire need of loves.”
His eyes widen and he tries to run, but it’s too late. I snatch him and clutch him to my chest. “Give me hugs you cute little guy. Right now.”
He laughs and laughs and laughs, right up until the timer on the fish sticks dings.
I freeze. “What do you think?” I ask. “Do we get them now? Or wait one more minute?”
Chase lifts one eyebrow. “Do I have to give you loves during that minute?”
I laugh. “Of course.”
“Then I think we eat them now.” He rubs his stomach. “Plus, I’m hungry.”
The kids both eat great, and I even get the kitchen cleaned and Jack bathed and changed into jammies before Luke and Mary return.
“Thank you so much,” Mary says. “I feel like a real person.”
“I should probably inform you that I’ve deprived you of a fan favorite.”
Mary glances at Luke and then back at me. “A what?”
“While you were gone. . . ” I lean toward her. “We had fish sticks. I’m terribly sorry you had to miss that.”
She laughs. “Is it that obvious that I don’t like them?”
“Even Chase knew,” I say.
Mary’s shoulders slump. “Ah, well. They’re smart kids.”
“That they are,” I say. “And I know it’s been hard for you to have me here, but I promise that I’m saving every penny I make and I’ll be out of your hair very soon.”
She opens her mouth, but I wasn’t trying to guilt her, so I cut her off. “I’ve gotta run, but Jack is ready for bed, and Amy and Chase are too, minus having their bedtime stories.”
“Thank you,” Luke says. “Truly.”
I shrug. “Any time.”
“You better run,” Mary says. “Your thing with Ethan is soon, right?”
I dart out the door and arrive just in time. And there’s no Porsche in sight. He either thought I was serious about parking a long way off, or he’s late.
“Hey,” a rough voice says from behind me. When I spin around, it’s Ethan . . . shutting the door of a tan Bronco and walking toward me purposefully.
“Please tell me you didn’t buy a brand new car because I teased you about your ridiculously expensive and fancy sports car.”
He laughs. “I hated that Porsche as much as you did, maybe more, and I’ve been eyeing these since they released. Or re-released? Is that what I should call it?”
I shrug. “All right, well, as long as this isn’t my fault.”
“Shall we?” He tosses his head at Pleasant Pie. “Because all I had for dinner was a microwave burrito that looked like it had been in the back of my freezer since the last owner found them on sale at Kroger. Last year.”
“Eww.”
“I’m kidding. I did have a frozen burrito, but I bought it myself last week. I was just going for the pity element and overshot the mark.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, pie.” But when we get inside, it’s pie overload. “Whoa. How many different kinds of pie are there?”
“We have twelve pies that are available every day,” the perky redhead behind the counter says. “But we also have four seasonal pies that rotate at all times. And of course, we have a selection of other pastries and treats, like muffins, croissants, and danishes.”
I don’t point out that my question was mostly rhetorical as I can see all of those things in the glass case right in front of me. “Okay, well, thanks.”
“I vote we get one of each and try them all,” Ethan says.
“You know, there are children starving in. . . ” I pause. “Where are they starving right now, anyway?”
“Well, I tell you what, whatever we don’t eat, I’ll have this nice lady wrap up and ship to wherever they are.”
“Uh, we don’t do that.”
The face Ethan makes at me is absolutely priceless. It’s a combination of what the heck is wrong with her and I’m glad I have you because you get me.
And I so do, which is why, instead of laughing and confusing the poor girl further, I lean forward until my palms lay flat on Ethan’s beautiful chest, and then I go up on my tiptoes and kiss him right on the mouth. “I needed to see you today.”
“Rough day? Because I’m still really excited about this cornucopia of pie idea, and I feel like enough pie can fix most anything.”
I laugh. “How about we pick three each.”
He nods his head slowly. “A three slice day. Got it.” He pivots on his heel and drops into a squat to examine the pie more closely through the glass cabinet. “My picks are cherry, chocolate silk, and Dutch apple.”
“Those are good choices,” the redhead says. “They’re my three favorites.”
Is she flirting with him? Right after I kissed him? The more time I spend with her the less I like her. “And I’ll take a slice of the bourbon pecan, the Snickers, and the pumpkin crumble.”
For all her other flaws, she’s certainly quick about popping our slices onto plates, but she mutters as she does. All I catch is “way too early for pumpkin,” but for some reason it makes me laugh. As if Ethan’s going to dump me because I ordered the wrong pie for the season.
Could he even dump me? Are we actually together? It’s not like I can ask on what is probably only our second date.
Moments after we sit, the grumbly girl sets our plates in front of us. “Thanks,” I say.
“Yeah, it looks great.” Ethan smiles at her and then turns to face me.
“So you’ve got news?” I ask. “Spill.”
“Turns out,” Ethan says, “my dad always knew about my boxing. And he found me on Sunday, when you totally ditched me to be a fancy writer, training at the gym.”
“Harrison’s?”
He nods. “I was finally making some progress on my holds, and Harrison thinks he can get a fight for me in a month. A qualifying fight.”
I blink. “Wait, like a real UFC fight?”
“Yep.”
“And your dad knows?” I’m struggling to keep up here.
“He had followed me, long story, and yeah, he wasn’t even surprised. Like he’d been expecting me to be tapped for—” He freezes. Then he shakes his head.
“What? Did your dad completely flip out?”
“No, he was eerily calm about all of it. In fact, he said it would be good for the company—and then he dropped another huge bomb.”
“The audit thing?”
Ethan swallows. “Yeah, that, and he told me he’s stepping down at the end of the year. He wants me to take over and run the company.”
“Whoa.” I sit up straight. “Is that a shock? Or did you already think it would happen?”
“He’s only a few years over fifty,” Ethan says. “I figured I had a decade and a half or more.”
“Wow. That is a big day—and a lot of information.”
“Right?” He takes a huge bite of cherry pie, and his eyes go round. “Oh man, that’s good. Paisley’s a genius.”
I try a bite of the Snickers. It’s a little too rich, but it’s not bad. “So what does that mean? You’re supposed to be a UFC fighter? Or you’re supposed to be stepping into . . . what is your dad anyway?”
“He’s the executive chairman and the chairman of the board,” Ethan says. “And the single largest shareholder.”
“But it’s a publicly traded company, right?”
He nods. “It is, but he owns such a large chunk of stock that it almost doesn’t matter how anyone else votes.”
“Almost?”
He shrugs. “It’s complicated. There are a few other major stakeholders, but they’d never move against him.”
“So it’s a done deal? Do you even want to take over? Didn’t you say you wanted to go back to Hawaii ASAP?”
Ethan’s shoulders slump. “I loved it there.” He looks up at me. “But I was lonely, too.”
He loved it? Does that mean he’s not planning to go back? Is he saying he wants to stay . . . at least in part . . . for me?
“But Dad also told me he wants me to fight—at least a fight or two, I think. He wants me to prove that I’m scrappy, or something. That this isn’t just being given to me, maybe?”
“Weird,” I say.
He nods. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to be training for a fight, which a lot of people literally devote all their time to doing, and I’m also supposed to repair the management mess of the Riviera Grand, and I’m supposed to help with this audit mess. All to win him, and presumably the board, over so he’ll actually choose me as his successor.”
I place my hand over his. “What do you want?”
He sighs. “I’m not sure.”
“I think that’s the first thing you need to work out.” I wish I could help him, but the only person who can decide what Ethan Trainor really wants at the end of the day . . . is Ethan Trainor.
13
Ethan
Anica’s advice is solid gold. Of course, my first task is to figure out what I want to do.
I wish it was as simple to make the decision as it was for her to identify my choice. When I think about taking over the family business—and hopefully running things as competently and effectively as Dad—my heart swells. It has been my end goal since I was in high school, and I’ve always assumed that someday I would.
I just didn’t realize it would be so soon. I’m not sure I’m ready—but maybe I would never have been ready until I was forced to figure it out.
Dad helps me carve out time to train—especially since I’ve still got a lot of work to do learning how to do holds, and how to effectively counter against them. It’s hard for me to trust that Dad’s team and the one I’ve begun to assemble at the Riviera Grand can handle the tax audit without micromanagement. I want to look at every single step of every single review myself—which isn’t feasible, especially with the extra things Dad wants me to evaluate and get up to speed on from a business perspective.
That might be further evidence that I’m not cut out for upper level leadership.
When I step into the boxing ring each afternoon, I feel alive in a way I never have anywhere else. I may not swell with pride, but something deep inside me that never felt quite good enough bares its teeth and roars.
Is it wrong for me to feed that? I wish I knew.
“You’re not going to get good enough at kicks in the next few weeks to make a difference,” Harrison barks. “We can keep working on them, but focus on boxing strikes and holds for now.” He waves Justin into the ring—Harrison’s best fighter at the wrestling holds and grabs.
