The 90 Day Rule (3 page)

An imposing building loomed ahead of us. One part of my brain took in the sweeping lines and the sheer immensity of the structure. This was no Rec Hall from my youth.

Slowly the ‘she wants to help’ registered.

“Have you been talking with Tonia?”

Etty plastered her obstinate daughter expression on her face and stated with a certain degree of challenge, “She’s my grandmother. Grams is worried.”

Yeah right.

“She doesn’t like what Dad did to you. She thinks maybe you should consider, um…”

Steely eyed, I glared a warning.

“It’s arbitration. Cheaper than a lawyer and maybe you and Dad can work it out. You know, counseling.” Her voice petered out as I stonewalled any thought of reconciliation.

Etty had the headlines. What she lacked was the backstory, the years of buckling under, losing my identity to a man and his career, where everything and everyone counted for more than
me
.

“She doesn’t want you to get hurt.” That came out small-voiced, lacking conviction, but honor-bound to relay the spirit of the sentiment.

Too late. Damage done. Mission accomplished.

But it wasn’t all about me,
he
was her father. I owed my daughter the courtesy of maintaining some façade of normalcy. The last thing I needed to do was unload dirty little secrets into a young mind. Being bigger than, better than … that was the one thing I’d held onto for twenty odd years.

Circling the building we came to a set of doors leading to the locker rooms. Etty pressed the latch and shoved it open, not bothering to wait for me. I let the door waft shut while I considered my options.

Basically I had none. I wasn’t going to my mother, hat in hand. She thought Robert walked on water. His mother thought he parted it. I was just the silk purse he’d tried valiantly to convert from the sow’s ear of a jock on a basketball scholarship into someone an elected judge could present in the right circles.

My family might not have had money but they had something just as good. They had
standards
. And the minute Robert McMahon walked into my life in my senior year, it was a done deal.

There was no doubt my mother was taking this very personally.

“You coming in or what?”

Oh goodie, now she was snarling.

“Jes.” A warm hand gripped my elbow and guided me inside. “Let me take you on the tour.”

Back ramrod straight, I stalked away from Etty’s disapproval and basked in the kindness of a virtual stranger, my daughter’s lover.

Trainers squeaking on the polished wood floor, I inhaled my past and what might have been my future had I had the strength of will to follow my dreams.

“Whoa.” Coming to a grinding halt I admired the arena, seating more than fifteen thousand. Chazz led me up to the Concourse level to get the bird’s eye view. I was impressed.

My guide kept up a steady stream of chatter, filling me in on details that didn’t register, but I was thankful for the distraction and the warm consideration this young man was showing me.

“You look tired. Do you want to sit for a minute?”

I nodded yes, thankful to take a load off my feet. He settled next to me, his huge body forced at an angle as the aisle way could not accommodate his length of leg. Nor mine for that matter.

I smiled and said, “Tight fit.”

He lowered his head and stared at clasped hands. There were words. He was having difficulty getting them out.

I decided to go first.

“Move back.” That snapped his head up. He gave me a curious look but I didn’t let him interrupt. “Loretta is miserable without you.” No crystal ball needed to understand he felt the same, maybe worse.

“Ma’am … Jes, I get your situation. Right now you are where you need to be. It’ll work out.”

God bless the young, so much optimism, the future colored in shades of hope and promise.

He stuttered a bit, then continued, “If I could say something…”

“Please.”

“Um, Etty told me about your mother-in-law calling. It sounds like she might be sincere. Maybe you could, uh, at least have a word?”

How could I tell him, not a snowball’s chance in hell…

The line held. Scuffed but still visible. Chazz backed off but not away. He was going to make one hell of a doctor.

He changed the subject. “I heard you played.”

“Uh-huh. Point guard, ’88 through ’90.”

“McConnell and Robinson.”

I nodded, remembering. Every time I went on the court with those two it was like basking in sunshine.

“We came in 11
^th
in ’88. Never made it to the Big Dance.” If I ever regretted anything, that was a biggee. I said as much, knowing he’d get it.

“Do you still play?”

I choked on a reply, my hands unconsciously stretching the hem of my golf shirt over hips that filled the narrow seat. I’d been a gym rat early on but time and desperation choked what little enthusiasm I once had. It was easier to cheer in front of the flat screen than to face the invisibility of middle aged women aspiring to reclaim old glories.

He took my silence as a no.

“You should. It would give you something to do…”

Chazz looked away, certain he had insulted me. He hadn’t. And he was right. I was a leech, living with … off my daughter. I needed to make plans other than throwing myself on the mercy of divorce court.

I was married to a trial lawyer who became a judge. I knew the system. It wasn’t kind to women.

Patting the big man’s thigh, I said, “You’re right, Chazz. I need to get out, make some decisions. Get started with my life.”

“What was your major anyway?”

I could see wheels turning.

Smiling, I told him, “Parks and Rec. What I really wanted was a sports management major but it wasn’t offered then.”

Chazz interjected, “Still isn’t.” He stood awkwardly, drawing me up with him. “I’ve got an idea. Come on. I want you to meet somebody.”

Padding after him, I was struck with the ease and grace of his movement. Most really big men moved with a gangly gait, legs, arms, torso all out of kilter. Not Chazz. For all his height, he put me in mind of a dancer, a ballroom dancer with flexible hips and a posture that screamed confidence.

I let my mind go off gathering wool, as my grandmother used to say, wondering what it might have been like to have a flexible lover instead of a conservative republican with a rigid mindset and no creativity. Robert had been my first and only. What little I knew, or thought I knew, came from voyeuristic glimpses of ripping bodices and straining members.

God had me in mind when he invented the Kindle. Otherwise I’d have had no way in hell of hiding my yearnings and curiosity from Robert.

On that note, Chazz steered us into a hallway with a row of offices. One door stood open. That was our destination.

“Uh, Coach, you busy?’

I hung back, not sure about this ‘meeting and talking with somebody’ arrangement.

“Hey, Chazz. Come on in. What’s up?”

The deep voice had a bit of a twang, I’d guess Texas. And I’d guess I’d recognize that voice for the rest of my days.

Chazz propelled me into a cluttered office, presenting me with a flourish. “Coach, meet Etty’s mother. Jessamine… Um.”

“Cavanaugh, Jes Cavanaugh.” I leaned forward and extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Coach.”

“Ryan, Ma’am. Jack Ryan.” He stood and we shook hands, him with a quizzical look, me with a hormone rush that I was putting down to a menopausal hot flash.

That was my story and I was sticking with it.

I was also sticking with the firm grip that seemed intent on trapping my hand for the foreseeable future.

Not that I minded.

Chazz was oblivious to the suspension of time and launched into a brief explanation of my bona fides and my current delicate ‘situation’—he used verbal finger quotes and it was all I could do not to stomp on his size fourteens. He spouted terms that made me sound like I was suffering from an unwanted pregnancy, judging from the raised eyebrows and concern—oh God, more concern—on Mr. Nosy’s handsome face.

So much concern he spent the entire time stroking my knuckles with his thumb.

The buzzing in my ear finally resolved into, “Here, sit down.” That was for my benefit and it made letting go of Coach Ryan’s hand a prerequisite to parking my derriere. “So maybe you could tell her about the program while I get the … blah, blah…”

Chazz’s voice receded in the distance leaving me and Mr. Nosy in a face off across a mountain of paperwork and a chasm of insecurity.

Giving him my best ‘you go first’ face, I wriggled on the uncomfortable metal chair. Instinct had me holding onto the cold edges with my fingers in a vice grip. Instead, I did the demure fold of hands on lap, facial masque set and staring with polite interest, and went to a happy place.

My happy place was usually
not here
.

Today the gods of irony turned the tables. Being
here
when
not here
had been my only option for twenty some years? Not exactly priceless.

Coach Ryan had that same quirky grin, a slight uptick to his mouth, as if he were privy to every thought and found it all quite amusing.

Steepling his fingers, he leaned back in the leather chair and said, “So you’re thinking about going back to school.”

That was a surprise. Was I thinking that?

Back to school.

In what?

“We have a very good business program that combines sports management with an MBA type focus.”

I didn’t know that. Was I interested?

Was I?

Coach chattered on about things remedial, looking at transcripts, the usual spiel when candidates for teaching assistantships are interviewed. Mr. Nosy seemed to know a lot about me, my major and minors, GPA, my performance record during the turbulent period when the women’s coach had her time of troubles.

Obviously Chazz had been busy. No, that was wrong. My
daughter
had been busy.

I didn’t know what to think about that.

“I have an appointment in fifteen.”

That rousted me out of my stupor. I stood and thanked him for his time and hastened to the door.

“Ma’am. Jes?”

Rolling my shoulders in an effort to get smaller, less noticeable, I turned and mumbled something incoherent.

“We can talk more about this later. Are you free for dinner on Saturday?”

Free?

Oh, not really. There was underwear to buy at Walmart, vacuuming, irate letters to write to Robert’s League of Divorce Lawyers, scouring the Centre Daily times for a job.

“Yes.”

Blushing, I followed up with a ‘thank you’ and OCD’d on time, meet up and the usual nonsense women of means but no occupation indulge in because we can.

“Good, I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Shyly I said, “I’m at…”

“I know where you live.”

Self-conscious, mostly because I had nothing but the linen skirt to wear and no money with which to buy any clothes, I said, “I, uh, like pizza. And beer.”

“Good, so do I. See you Saturday.”

Chapter Three: Saturday, Day Seven

Etty had programmed the ring tones on the cell. At least I still thought of them in those terms. I wanted
Night on Bald Mountain
but my intrepid daughter selected something raunchy from Beast. She said it was Tonia’s favorite. I didn’t believe that for a minute.

The call yodeled for the requisite three tries but instead of politely switching to voice mail it flip-flopped onto my daughter’s cell. I snorted. Cage the Elephant?

“Mom, can you get that?”

Um, no. If I get that, then I also get the Mother-in-Law-from-Hell.

“Mom.”

On my third sit-up, the choice of heaving my aching body off the floor to answer the phone or risk the ire of my child was a no contest. I ignored it.

Etty spat, “Oh for crying out loud…”

Squinting at my daughter’s bare feet when she rocketed past, I gave a grimace as the elastic band shoved with unrelenting force against a roll of fat. This used to be a lot easier when I was twenty.

Why I thought I could magically shrink to a size ten before my dinner-talk with Coach was something only a middle-aged woman could conjure while in the throes of early menopause.

Etty mumbled into the cell, her back to me as she scoured the fridge for something to eat. Unfortunately I’d been there ahead of her. Not a fact I was especially proud of and the major reason for being prone on the worn carpet, leaving sweat stains.

“Yes, she’s here.”

No, no, no…

“I tried.”