The Other F-Word (7 page)

“You’re pulling my leg, right?”

No, but I’d like to and maybe a few other appendages
. Damn…why did my thoughts run so naughty when he was near?

“It’s no joke. So now you have to see why I can’t date you. I’d be playing the role of Mrs Robinson to your Dustin Hoffman. That’s one cliché I want to avoid.”

He tilted his head, “Who the hell is Mrs Robinson?”

I leaned in closer. “The fact that you don’t get my reference only supports my point.”

The waitress interrupted us, asking for our order. I chose my usual Mediterranean veggie pasta, grateful I didn’t have to study the menu to figure out what I could eat like I did at most restaurants.

“I’ll have the same,” he said. He waited for her to leave before turning back to me. “What is your point?”

“You’re young enough to be my…”
Son?
It was true yet I couldn’t say it. “Younger brother,” I replied instead.

“How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. Twenty-five, maybe?” I would have guessed older because my research revealed he was a self-made man, but his cocky smile, mussed hair and casual clothing made him appear much younger.

“I’m thirty. How old are you?”

Crap…he
was
young enough to be my…younger brother. “You shouldn’t ask a girl her age.”

“I thought you were a woman, or at least that’s what you said the last time we talked. Besides, it’s such a hang up for you, we should get it out of the way.”

My philosophy was that a woman shouldn’t lie about her age or her station in life. After all, if I wasn’t honest about myself, how could I expect others to accept me? “I’m forty-four,” I admitted.

“You must have been young when you had your first.”

“I was.”

“That’s not such a huge gap. In any case, it doesn’t matter to me.”

“It matters to me, Damien, so let’s drop it. Anyway, we need to talk about the party. That’s why we’re here, after all.”

“I’m listening.”

When he’d first talked to me about this I’d been hesitant, but the more I’d worked on it, the more excited I’d become. “What do you think of a theme? Everyone can dress up like their favourite character in a book?”

“I like it.”

“And we can make the invitations look like scrolls and we can have cupcakes with tiny books on them made of sugar.”

“Sure, that all sounds good to me. You can contact Kelly Harris at the Wilston. She’ll take care of the menu. Whatever you want.”

“That’s where my daughter got married. I’m familiar with it. It’s a beautiful hotel.”

“And you caught the bouquet? Or rather, it was thrown in your face.” He seemed to remember every detail. Of course, he’d told me details were his thing.

“Yes, well anyway, back to this,” I said, looking over my notes.

“Why are you a vegan?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Or maybe you’re avoiding the question.”

Our food came then. I dug right in, trying to avoid his penetrating stare. Those eyes were more gold now, like molten pools staring into my soul.

“Are you going to answer?”

“It’s a silly story.”

“Those are my favourite kinds.”

It was difficult not to match his grin, so I stopped trying. “When I was fourteen, my parents were kind of sick of me. They thought sending me away to my aunt and uncle’s rural farm in Nebraska would straighten me out.”

“Why were they sick of you?”

I shrugged. “They were strict parents and I was a rebellious child. A combination as old as time. My father was a Drill Sergeant.”

Damien chuckled, as if I’d told a joke.

“No, he literally was a Drill Sergeant in the Army. The traits that made him successful at work made my home life miserable. They weren’t horrible, and I know they loved me. They just didn’t like me very much. Anyway, the farm was lonely. There were no other kids so I made friends with the farm animals. Wow, this sounds weird—even to me.”

“You’ll get no judgement from me. I was a pretty weird kid myself.”

I smiled, feeling unreasonably comfortable with him. “There was this pig and I called him Piggy.”

“Very creative,” he said dryly.

“In my defence, I was fourteen. There was also a chicken and he followed me around all day. I called him Garfunkel.”

“Wait a minute. So the pig is Piggy but the chicken is Garfunkel?”

“Hey, you said no judgement.”

“E-I-E-I-O. Sorry, go on. Don’t keep me in suspense.” His cell phone went off. Without hesitation, he pushed the ignore button. Such a small gesture and yet so big at the same time.

“And a cow.”

“What was the cow’s name?”

“Sad Cow.”

“Why sad?”

“I thought it was because she couldn’t give milk anymore, but I think it had more to do with the way my uncle treated her. He was very cruel to Sad Cow.”

“I think I know where this is going.”

“Yeah, it’s not exactly a suspenseful story. I told these three farm animals all my hopes, dreams and fears. I talked to them for hours and I know it sounds ridiculous, but I believe they actually listened. Then one by one my friends started disappearing. Garfunkel was first and I was so stupid I ate the southern fried chicken not even realising I was eating my friend. Piggy was made into bacon the next week. Sad Cow was indeed the saddest. She was my last meal there. I couldn’t hold the food down anymore.”

“What did you do?”

I stared at him, wondering how crazy he thought I was right about now. “I went on a hunger strike.”

He smirked. “Looks like you did have some things to protest after all.”

“I guess so.”

“How did that go over with the Drill Sergeant daddy?”

“Not well. He thought I’d turned anorexic and hospitalized me.”

He paused, fork in mid-air. “How much weight did you lose?”

I swallowed. “I’m really stubborn sometimes. Too much for my own good. I weighed eighty pounds by the time I was done.”

His eyes widened and the smile slid off his face. “Shit.”

“Yes, well anyway, it didn’t change anything in the ways of the world, but ever since then I’ve either been a vegetarian or a vegan, depending on how much I miss cheese at the time.”

“You’re an interesting woman, Jessie.”

I liked him calling me Jessie. It felt special that he had a nickname for me.

“Eh, I was just a girl with convictions and a rebellious streak.”

“Were your parents supportive about your choice?”

“No, I had to move around the meat on my plate or hide it in my napkin. I started protesting silently, which is ironic, since it’s a contradiction in terms.”

“I knew you were passive aggressive.”

Did he realise that when I was around him, I became completely passive, possessed by him, yet desired to be actively aggressive?

“I suppose in that instance I was. I made sure to eat plenty of side dishes so I wouldn’t lose weight like that again.”

“That was smart.”

“Okay, that’s way too much information about me. Tell me some truth, Damien. Why do you like Rodriguez so much?”

“My family’s originally from Detroit…Warren, actually. We moved here when I was fifteen because the auto supply factory that employed my dad shut down and he couldn’t get work.”

“Do you miss it?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been back since then. I still have family there. I love Chicago and it’s my home now, but there’s something special about the place you grew up that can never be replaced. Know what I mean?”

“Yes, it’s always a part of you.”

“Right, anyway, my father saw Rodriguez in concert when he was a kid, at some dive bar in the city. He described that moment as being in the presence of greatness. I didn’t so much become a fan as I was born to it. Did your parents like him?”

“No, they actually didn’t care for music like I did. Your father sounds interesting.”

“He was. He died a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. My family misses him a great deal. I’m happy he got to see me become successful.”

“I read up on you.” I realised how that sounded, so I straightened up real quick. “For party planning purposes. Your success is inspiring, coming from such humble roots. I know you’re a self-made man.”

“I’m far from self-made.”

“What does that mean?”

“My father was my first investor. He supported me no matter how crazy the idea.” Damien chuckled, shaking his head. “I dropped out of Northwestern after one semester to buy this dilapidated colonial on Diversity. No bank worth their salt would loan me a nickel, so my father gave me the money. He was a blue-collar factory worker, Jessie. It was his retirement. He never told me that, but I knew just the same.”

“He must have had a great deal of faith in you.”

“He did, and looking back, I wonder what I ever did to deserve that. I prayed every day I’d sell that damn house and pay him back. I lived in that piece of shit with its leaky pipes and broken furnace, working eighteen-hour days, doing all the repairs and upgrades myself. At the end of six months, it was a palace and I doubled the initial outlay. I paid my father back with interest. I used my share to buy the next house and the next, and so on.”

“You must have sold a lot of houses to make enough profits to venture into ‘mogul’ territory.”

“Are you familiar with the Devon District?”

“Sure, that’s where all the new office buildings and shopping plazas are going up. They’re calling it Chicago Number Two, I believe.”

“That’s right. I own that land. It was expensive, but I recognised its value—it was just a matter of time before someone wanted to build on it. I bought it up one plot at a time. All my profits were tied in it. People told me it was a fool’s purchase because the market was tanking. I just had this feeling about it. It was rich and ripe and ready to explode.”

I took a sip of my water, trying to concentrate on what he was saying and not reading too much into each word. “What happened?”

“It paid off. When the investors approached me to sell, I negotiated a buy-in instead. I guess that was my first windfall. They didn’t want to deal with a twenty-something college drop-out, but they really had no choice, since I held all the cards. That’s my first rule of business…own your hand. Don’t let someone else play your cards for you.”

“So you gambled on the land.”

“I don’t think of it as a gamble. It was more like intuition. Sometimes, you just have an instinct about something. It feels right and you have to see it through, no matter what obstacles you face. Do you understand, Jessie?”

Was he referring to us? It sounded like it, but maybe I was searching for hidden meaning where it didn’t exist. I was acting like a silly, over-analytical girl with a crush.

“I understand. You’re lucky it paid off for you.”

“I’ve never backed away from a challenge. I have a feeling you don’t either.”

I would have taken another sip, but my water was all gone. “I’m not a risk-taker like you.”

“Maybe you are and you don’t know it.”

“I know myself.”

“Have you ever been challenged? I mean really had to make a choice that might conflict with the person you think you are? The one you think you’re supposed to be?”

“I’m happy with who I am.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Finish your story. It sounds to me like your risks paid off and you are, in fact, self-made.”

He shrugged. “There’s not much more to tell. When my profits reached a certain level, I started buying into hotels and other ventures. They call me a real estate mogul—I think that’s hilarious. I’m just a guy who got lucky and caught a few breaks. I’m definitely not self-made. I don’t think anyone is. My parents made me the man I am.”

I hadn’t expected this depth of honesty from him. It didn’t sound arrogant. In fact, it was humble. “Your father must have been so proud of you.”

“He was.” His cell phone went off again.

I looked down at my empty bowl and the bill that sat on the table. How long had it been there? Where had the time gone?

“I have to go, Jessie. I have a meeting.”

“We didn’t finish talking about the party.”

He smiled, his hazel eyes casting a mischievous glint that was only rivalled by his smile. “I guess we’ll need to meet again. How about in three days—same time and place?”

Before I could respond, he was out of his seat, throwing down more than enough to cover the tab and a generous tip before leaving.

“I look forward to it,” he said.

I watched him walk out, wondering how he left me speechless.

Chapter Six

I tried to put it out of my mind, but I kept replaying the conversation with Damien Wolfe, wondering if he was trying to challenge me. Was he playing a game with me? Trying to see how long it was until I succumbed to his will?

The family came over on Saturday, temporarily releasing me from the spell Damien Wolfe had cast. I spent most of the day with Bobby. Playing peek-a-boo with a baby is a cleansing experience for the soul. Stevie and Adam cracked me up—they were like helicopter parents, constantly fretting if the boy even coughed. They’d learn. Resilience was inherent in children.

We all sat around my dining table with the sounds of Neil Diamond singing
Forever in Blue Jeans
. It was the perfect soundtrack for an easy listening brunch with the family. Marley and Rick were back from their honeymoon. We’d talked about the wedding and their trip to Jamaica. Their happiness was tangible, and it was infectious, making us all giddy.

Except, Marley did seem a little jittery. In fact, everyone at the table was displaying their nervous habits. Adam and Stevie looked tired as new parents usually did, but why did they keep turning to each other with pleading looks like they held onto a troublesome secret? Was Dillon building an extra tall skyscraper today? Rick rubbed the back of his neck. My best friend and Adam’s mother, Kate, ran her finger down the crack on the dining table repeatedly. Something was going on that I wasn’t privy to.

“We should dish now,” I suggested.

Dishing while having dessert was our family tradition. I’d started it because my girls never told me what they’d done in school, so I’d threatened to withhold dessert until they shared their day. After a while, it seemed like they weren’t able to spill information without something sweet to entice them. It had become our version of show and tell.