Confessions From A Coffee Shop (7 page)

My aunt cleaned up the gooey lasagna spills on each plate so they looked more presentable, and then casually asked, “Has Kat had any luck finding a job?” She glanced at me quickly, and then turned to the fridge to take out a prepared salad.

“Nope.”

Standing with the fridge door wide-open, salad bowl in hand, Aunt Barb replied. “I’m sure she’s working on some way to help you two.”

I shrugged. “I wish she’d start painting again; that’s what makes her happy.” I took a slug of oyster stout.

Barbara set the bowl down heavily on the counter. “Well, it’s not my place to say anything.” She adjusted her apron and tilted her head to make eye contact, as if waiting to see if I would say anything.

Luckily, I didn’t, because Mom and Kat walked in.

“Oh, Barbara, it smells wonderful in here.” Kat put her arm around my aunt’s shoulders. “I love these family dinners.”

“And we love having you here, dear. For years, I didn’t think Cori would actually settle down with anyone. She was headstrong from the moment she popped out.”

Mom’s laugh was genuine.

“One of her first sentences was, ‘Mommy, I want to sleep in my own bed,’” Mom elaborated. “She said that when I was sitting in a rocking chair, trying to get her to fall asleep.” She patted my back, somewhat tenderly. “Barbara and I never thought she would actually want to share her bed. Every time she went to a sleepover, she’d call me to pick her up early.”

I sucked in air slowly, waiting for Mom to make some sexual joke.

Kat came to stand behind me and wrapped her arms around my chest. Her hard nipples prodded my back, distracting me. Until I met Kat, I hadn’t understood why some men became blathering fools around beautiful women. I thought that, being a woman, I’d never be sucked in by a woman’s wiles.

Dead wrong.

Kat had me wrapped around her little finger the moment she spoke to me. I’d been standing in line at the grocery store when she tapped me on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, would you mind if I cut in front of you. I only have two items, and I’m in a huge rush.”

When I saw her, I couldn’t utter a single word. I tried to mumble, “Sure, go ahead” but found I could only motion for her to step in front of me. All of the men in the line gawked along with me.

When Kat didn’t have enough money, of course I paid for her stuff. What else could I do? In fact, I blocked the way of the man standing behind me, who was also going to offer to pay.

“I got it,” I asserted.

“Are you sure? I feel like an idiot.” Kat had blushed, and the reddish tint to her cheeks excited me even more. “I don’t know how I can thank you.”

“No worries. It happens to all of us.” I waved my hand, dismissing her humiliation.

Kat had thanked me and left. Her absence immediately sucked the air out of my lungs. I felt as though I would never be able to live my life to the fullest, knowing I missed my chance of being with the most stunning woman I had ever encountered. The mysterious beauty had opened a door for me, but I hadn’t entered it.

Two days later, we ran into each other near Harvard’s campus. I couldn’t believe my luck. Not wanting to blow my second chance, I offered to buy her a cup of coffee and clinched our first date.

Smiling at the memory, I patted Kat’s arms where they wrapped around me, and melted into her embrace.

Chapter Four

Before heading out to Fenway for the game, I sat at my desk and eyed a stack of mail. Correction‌—‌bills. Just once I would have liked to receive a letter that didn’t send shivers down my spine. I flipped through the envelopes: Gas bill, electric bill, cable bill, chiropractor‌—‌that one went to my mother‌—‌and then…‌AmEx bill. Slowly, I separated it from the rest and placed it on my desk. Each month, I sat down and went over the purchases. I picked up the envelope, weighing it with my hand. It wasn’t massive. Last month’s bill had nearly given me a coronary. Moving my hand up and down along the envelope, feeling the pressure, the weight of it, I tried to guess the amount. Outside, I heard Kat fire up the espresso machine. She knew I was in my office, taking care of the monthly expenses. I think she dreaded this day each month more than I did.

We never discussed her spending habits openly. It was always the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room.

I never knew how to broach the subject. Should I say, “Hey, what in the hell did you buy at Urban Outfitters that cost five hundred bucks?” Or would a more gentle approach work, such as, “Eight hundred bucks at Bed Bath & Beyond?‌—‌I hope we have some new satin sheets to break-in tonight. Oh, and I see you went to Victoria’s Secret as well,” and follow it up with a suggestive wink.

A year ago, sitting in our hot tub during a dreadful snowstorm, we had talked about our childhoods. Kat had mentioned that we could both benefit from therapy. She was joking, because we had both been mad enough to get nude and hop into a hot tub during a blizzard. I had seen the comment as a small window of opportunity. Maybe if she started therapy, she’d recognize her shopping addiction. The words to tell her that formed in my head, but when I tried to speak, I choked on them. How could I tell the woman I was madly in love with that she was making my life hell by spending every dime I made? And even spending dimes I hadn’t even made!

I grabbed my letter opener and tore open the AmEx bill.

Five pages.

Whew! Last month it was ten. Thank God. I scanned the charges.

Let me be clear, not all of the charges had been made by Kat. We both had cards for the joint account. I had always tried to convince myself that it paid off, since that way we accrued a lot of AmEx points. Someday we’d be able to go on an awesome trip.

Pen in hand, I read each charge, noting where and how much. It was pretty typical. Kat loved to buy certain things: clothing, lingerie, shoes, items for the house, and groceries. She was an amazing cook.

One charge at the art shop by Fenway caught my attention. When Kat moved in, we had converted one of the small guest rooms into an art studio for her. At first, she spent the majority of her time in there, painting. But for the past year, she hadn’t stepped foot in there‌—‌at least not that I could tell. I know it’s awful, but I go in there to see if she’s been painting again. It’s her passion, and she’s damn good in my opinion. But when I tell her that, she laughs. She knows I’m the only one in my family who doesn’t “get” art. I can appreciate it, but I can’t analyze it like my aunt. Even Mr. Tube Socks has a better eye than me. When I tell Kat she’s good, she smiles and says, “Yes, but you also like paintings of dogs playing poker.”

I’m not
that
bad, but I’m close. I was only in Kat’s art studio yesterday, and I hadn’t noticed any new supplies. The dust hadn’t been disturbed on any of her paints or easels. So what in the heck did she buy at the art store?

Squinting‌—‌I refuse to admit I need reading glasses‌—‌I noticed it was dated one week ago. Damn, trash day was two days ago. More than likely the receipt had gone into the recycle bin. Kat was fastidious when it came to cleaning, and she insisted on recycling every scrap of paper, including receipts.

Sighing, I set the bill aside on my desk. Sounds coming from the kitchen suggested breakfast was almost ready. Smearing a smile on my face, I went to say good morning to my drop-dead gorgeous spendthrift.

Make more money, Cori, and it won’t matter. Or finish your fucking novel. You promised her a lavish lifestyle, and you aren’t upholding your end of the bargain.

* * *

Before I could say good morning, Kat handed me my espresso and planted a wet kiss on my lips. “Morning, darling. How do the bills look?”

I almost pissed my pants. She had never asked me that before.

“Not too bad, actually.” Questions about the art supplies were forming, all I needed to do was spit them out.

I opened my mouth.

Kat looked at me, grinning like a fool in love, which forced the words back into the pit of my stomach. Instead, I licked my lips. “It smells good. What’s for breakfast?”

I’m pathetic.

She had opened the door to that conversation, and I’d slammed it shut like a terrified child who’d just heard a noise in the attic.

“French toast.”

I wanted to laugh. Kat knew it was bill day, and that French toast was my favorite breakfast food. Did she realize how obvious she was being?

“Sounds wonderful.” I walked to the fridge and peeked out the glass door leading to the back deck. The recycle bin was completely empty. I gulped down half of a tiny bottle of orange juice from the fridge.

Maybe Kat had signed up for a painting class and was keeping the supplies there. I could hope, at least. When she painted, she was content. And when she was content, she didn’t shop as much.

“You excited about the game today?” Kat set our plates on the kitchen table and took her seat.

I sat opposite and poured organic maple syrup on my French toast. “Yep. I know this sounds silly, but I couldn’t sleep a wink last night. I can’t believe my father is taking me to a Yankees game. I usually get the tickets no one wants.” I took a bite. After swallowing I asked, “What’s your plan today?”

“I’m going to your aunt’s today. She needs help setting up a new exhibit.” Kat placed the daintiest mouthful of food in her mouth. Not once have I seen her take an enormous bite of food. She eats like a surgeon operating on a brain: slow, delicate, and calculated. I could eat three meals in the time it takes her to eat half of one. Looking up from her plate, she added, “Don’t forget dinner with Phineas and my mother tonight. Six sharp.” She punctuated the word sharp by stabbing the air with her knife.

* * *

Leaving Fenway, I was on cloud nine. The game hadn’t started well for the Sox. In the second inning, Alex Rodriguez, nicknamed A-Rod, hit a homerun. In the third, the Sox were down six runs. Boston’s manager yanked the starting pitcher, Lester, off the mound. It was clear he was having a bad day at the “office.” The Yankees’ pitcher already had four strikeouts and no runs.

Dad and I contemplated leaving the game and having a late lunch. Losing was bad. But getting a beat-down by New York was hideous for die-hard Sox fans.

Then the Yankees’ manager pulled Sabathia, their starting pitcher, off the mound in the sixth since he thought the game was locked up. The score was eight to one. I could see why he felt safe. That’s when the game turned around completely. The Red Sox lit up one reliever after another. By the eighth inning, they led by two runs. In the ninth, the Yanks tied the game.

Ortiz hit a homer in the eleventh and won the game. By the time I arrived at the restaurant to meet Kat and her parents, I was in the best mood. Nothing was going to get me down, not even Phineas Finn.

I strolled in wearing my green Sox baseball hat and a large red foam finger that proclaimed the Sox were number one. Did I look silly? Absolutely! But I didn’t care. The Sox won‌—‌that was all that mattered.

Kat looked amused as I slid into the booth next to her. A child at the nearest table was eyeing my foam finger, so I happily handed it to him. His astonished parents thanked me profusely, and I was sure Kat’s parents were glad I had managed to rid myself of the silly thing. Phineas Finn, Kat’s father, was not a fan of frivolity.

A dentist, he seemed the type of guy who loved the music he played in his office‌—‌tunes that would make a coma patient hurtle out of bed and run screaming rather than listen to another Michael Bolton, Kenny G, or Celine Dion song. In fact, the only thing cool about Phineas Finn was his name. When I first heard the name, I loved it. I was a Trollope fan, so I asked if he were named after Trollope’s famous character. Dr. Finn stared at me as if I had lobsters hanging from my eyelids.

The name had been in the family for five generations, he told me. He was Phineas Finn the Fifth. I’m not making that up.

Furthermore, he had never heard of Trollope, and the fact that I compared him to a literary figure was a downright insult to their family, which was, according to Kat’s father, directly responsible for why Boston was such a thriving city today. Without the Finns, Boston would still be a backwoods town in the middle of a swamp.

According to Phineas, his family was the only one of any importance in Beantown. Forget the Adams‌—‌even if two men from that family became presidents of the United States. And don’t even mention John Hancock‌—‌he was of no importance. That massive John Hancock building on Clarendon Street? Didn’t mean a thing. Paul Revere was a “reckless man.”

The list goes on.

One of my first dinners with Kat’s parents was especially illuminating. After that night, Kat was terrified I would never want to see her again. For three hours, she squirmed in her seat while Phineas bad-mouthed all of the great names associated with the American Revolution and the founding of our nation.

All from a dentist! From the little research I’ve done on the Finns, no one in the family was a statesman of any type. They got their money from shipping, and, truth be known, piracy. The Finns of yesteryear were brave men who ran through blockades during the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812 and made a killing because their competitors couldn’t get a ship out. If they saw a ship in distress, they would kindly relieve them of their burden. Most of Kat’s ancestors would no doubt laugh in Phineas’s face now‌—‌a dentist exclaiming how great their family was. They were merciless thieves and rogues. Yes, they were successful, but they certainly weren’t honorable. And from the diaries I’ve read, they were damn proud about their lack of honor. There was no money in that.

It wasn’t until the fifth Finn was born that this “legacy” surfaced. Phineas had spent all his life being full of himself, and his attitude had isolated him, his wife, and his daughter. During her childhood, Kat was kept hidden away, attending private schools and living at home under lock and key after school hours. Luckily for Kat, she was an avid reader. I sometimes think she would have gone mad if she hadn’t been a reader.

The Finns owned a TV, but only watched the news and shows on PBS. They never went on family vacations unless they involved Cape Cod. They didn’t even go on picnics. Not once. I took Kat on a picnic after I found that out; she’d never been so excited. She acted like a child going to Disney World for the first time.