The Someday Jar (7 page)

“I don’t see a single thing wrong with this house. Let’s leave it as it is.” I extend my hand toward Wes. “Thanks for coming, but we won’t be needing your services.”

“Don’t be silly, Lanie.” Evan pats my lower back, then steps away, disappearing into the kitchen.

“Yes, Lanie,” Wes smirks, “don’t be silly.”

Ugh.

We turn the corner into the kitchen and I’m stunned. It’s the largest kitchen I’ve ever seen, larger than my old apartment. My entire apartment. The Wolf refrigerator hides behind two paneled doors, and the stainless-steel stove is some fancy European style with more dials than a cockpit. There’s a built-in espresso maker and two dishwashers, one on either side of the fifteen-foot, yes, fifteen-foot-diameter round granite island.

Wes knocks on a couple of walls. “This is a bearing wall, so it’ll need to stay put.” Pointing at another, he says, “You can rip this one down.”

“Good.” Evan taps on the wall himself. “See, Lanie. It’ll really open the space.”

Nodding, I walk toward a breakfast nook, shaking away negative thoughts and picturing Evan and me on weekend mornings with the
Republic
divided between the two of us. He’ll comment on the Middle East chaos and I’ll mention the week’s stock exchange rally or predictions for the Cardinals’ upcoming game while stirring Bailey’s into our Sunday morning coffee with a shared spoon. Well, Evan will want his own spoon. But still.

The pool with the dark rock, blue water, and green grass surrounding catches my eye. Stepping toward the window, a smile spreads across my lips as I imagine how fun it’ll be to barbecue with friends and family in this backyard, Evan standing by the grill with a spatula in one hand, Rob and Dylan splashing in the pool. Kit and I will sip mango margaritas and munch on chips dipped in her homemade salsa. I’m excited now. This will be a great house. I peek at Evan and smile. Regardless of how we got here, this will be
our
house.

Evan’s preoccupied watching Wes measure a wall, so after a moment I disappear from the kitchen and investigate the rest of the house. I meander through the six guest bedrooms, family room, office, and I forget how many bathrooms, comparing this home to the tiny apartment with the windowless bathroom and narrow kitchen Mom and I shared after Dad left. Orchid Lane reminds me nothing of my childhood and yet, I find myself thinking of Dad.
Again.
Not because he’d marvel at the hand-carved balusters, his-and-hers closets, or the laundry room large enough to park a Chevy truck, but for this long hallway I stand in. I can picture him now, slipping off his shoes and saying with the slightest flick of his chin toward the hallway’s end, “You got what it takes?” Then, with a troublesome
grin across his face, I imagine him sliding in socks along the smooth marble, his laughter echoing off the walls.

Why not?

I’m about to step out of my shoes when a woman’s voice, other than Mom’s, calls from the front door. “Evan? Hello? Anyone here?”

I find an expertly dressed, tall and thin woman standing in the foyer, a clipboard in her hand. “Hi,” I say. “May I help you?”

“Oh, good, you’re here,” she says. “Did you see the stain in the corner of the dining room? I think it’s red wine or something. Make sure you get it out.”

“Excuse me?”

“I didn’t stutter.” She forces a smile and scans me from head to toe.

Even though I copied my outfit from a Pinterest post—dark jeans, white scoop-neck blouse, light blue checked scarf, silver drop earrings—I feel like an unwanted stepchild in hand-me-down clothes compared to her.

“You’re with the cleaning crew, right?” she asks.

Cleaning crew?
“No, I’m Lanie Howard, Evan’s fiancée.”

“Oh goodness, of course. I’m sorry.” She pats my forearm. “It’s just, with the hair, I thought . . .”

My hair?
I reach to touch it but stop and fiddle with my earring. I can’t help but notice
her
shiny blond cropped hair. A style I’ve never had the courage to try. Her eyebrows are angled and plucked, her earrings dangle but don’t sag, and though her eyes are set slightly far apart, her face has an exotic appearance instead of that of a dazed circus animal, like I’d have preferred.

“I’m Paige. Congratulations on catching the big fish.”

“Sorry?”

“Evan. But don’t worry. I’m not here to steal him away. At least not on purpose.” She winks.

Before I punch her in the mouth, Evan and Wes stroll in from the kitchen.

“Paige, I appreciate you coming,” Evan says.

“I’m so glad you called.” She walks all glossy and confident toward him.

“Lanie, Wes, this is Paige. She’s an incredible interior designer and she’s agreed to help us with the house.”

Help?
Why do we need all this help? First an architect and now an interior decorator? We don’t need Paige. I can do it. I’ve got skills. My Yoda and Lady Liberty bobbleheads, lined up along the fireplace mantel, pop into mind. Okay, maybe I don’t.

I slide my arm into Evan’s and comb my fingers through my hair—which I planned on doing anyway—and accidentally-on-purpose catch the sun’s ray hoping to blind Paige with my diamond. Then, with a sugary-sweet tone, because after all, he’s engaged to me and there’s no point in making a big deal out of this, I say, “Sounds great.”

“Shall we start in the kitchen?”

Walking toward us, Mom peeks at her watch. “Gotta run. My adrenal cortex evaluation is in twenty minutes. Remarkable home, Evan.” She nods at Paige and Wes, then pats my cheek. “Remember what I said, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. I’ll call you later, honey.”

We all say good-bye and Mom shuts the door behind her.

Evan pulls away from me and leads Paige toward the
kitchen. “Let’s show Paige what we’re thinking.” Quite honestly, I really don’t mind that she’s here, even if she is extraordinarily beautiful, has an ass rounder than a Victoria’s Secret model, and probably wears sexy underwear, the itchy kind. She’ll simply prove to Wes that Evan only has eyes for me and that we are a great, solid couple.

“Your thoughts?” Evan asks.

Shit.
I wasn’t listening. “I—”

“Well, I agree with . . .” Paige starts.

My stomach wobbles with embarrassment. Evan asked Paige. Not me.

Oh, well, no matter, I convince myself. Of course Evan asks Paige questions. She’s here for her opinion and I’m here because Evan loves me.

After they finish their discussion, we step outside.

Evan says, “We’ll be in touch?”

“Yes, I’ll get back to you with some ideas.”

“Excellent.”

Paige backs out of the drive in her Range Rover SUV with her DECOR8 license plate and speeds off.

Wes dips his head good-bye to me and slides into Evan’s car.

“You like the house?” Evan asks.

“It’s amazing.”

“I thought you would. Listen, Wes and I are stopping for breakfast and then we have an appointment with the planning and zoning department for permits and such. I’d love for you to come, but I’d rather you got started on the Murphys’ evaluation.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I’m counting on you, babe.” He steps toward his Mercedes and says before pulling away, “The house looks beautiful with you in it.”

For a moment I stand there, staring at a stray piece of gravel on the driveway. With a swift kick I sail the rock high and watch it spin and twist in the air, hovering for a fraction of a second against the cloudless sky before it plummets onto my windshield and, with a loud smack, chips the glass.

“Are you Phoenix’s newest broker?” Kit asks, wearing a cleavage-revealing peach sundress that Rob says is his favorite for two very obvious reasons, which jiggle as she chops an onion. She’s making tacos. Rob grills fish outside while Dylan and a friend play hide-and-seek. Evan had a dinner meeting, so after I finished Hollis’s evaluation, I came by myself. Truth be told, I’m thankful for the time alone with Kit.

“Not yet.” I pick at my beer label.

“Evan didn’t offer you a promotion?”

“Nope. I planned to bring it up today, but he was out of the office all day.”

“What was the surprise about?”

“He bought a house.”

“A house?”

“A fancy place on Orchid Lane.”

“Wow. That is a surprise.” She grabs her beer and clinks mine. “Congratulations!”

“Yep.”

She looks at me, unconvinced. “We’re not excited?”

Before I answer, Rob walks inside unwrapping the plastic cover off a new barbecue spatula. He tosses the cellophane in the trash, steps close to Kit, then sips her beer.

“Hey.” She elbows him and halfheartedly protests.

He takes another swig and with the wood end of his spatula pats her right boob.

“Get your own beer.”

Goose bumps trail along her arm as he plants a kiss on her shoulder. “Fish will be ready in ten minutes,” he says, flipping the spatula end over end and heading toward the door.

Kit’s starry gaze follows her husband until he disappears outside.

I slump in my chair and fight for a breath not weighted with envy. Over the years, I’ve spent countless hours with Kit and Rob. We’ve shared Thanksgiving dinners, football Sundays, handfuls of Vegas weekends with each other. I know how they act together. This display is nothing new. But now, all at once, I’m jealous. I’m jealous of the simplicity between them. I’m jealous of their spirit and the sexiness spewing from their pores. I’m jealous of the spark that ignites as their bodies brush one another.

“Yoo-hoo. Are you there?” Kit asks, waving a knife in the air, directing my attention.

“Yeah, sorry.” I straighten in my seat.

“So tell me why we aren’t excited about the house.” She dumps the onions into a rust-colored bowl and starts on a tomato.

Not wanting to rehash my poor-me speech, I wave my hand and say, “No, I like it. I mean, it’s a beautiful place, huge with many bedrooms. The pool has a rock mountain–type thing
with a hidden Jacuzzi. Evan and I just need to work out a few legalities.”

“I can’t wait to see it. Are you moving in right away?”

“Not right away. Evan wants to remodel a few things.” Wes’s face pops into my head. “Remember the guy I told you about from the bar?”

“Hmm . . . let me think”—rapping her fingernails on the counter—“was he the guy you got drunk with and choked in front of and then repaid the favor of saving your life by slobbering on his pants?”

“You’re cute. Do you know that? Anyway, he came to dinner. He’s Wes, not Weston, the guy I was supposed to pick up at the airport.”

“Swear?”

“Swear.”

“No way.”

“I know. He played me all along. Wes knew who I was and didn’t say one tiny word about it. Can you believe it?”

“Crafty. I like him.”

“That makes one of us.”

Kit pops a tomato chunk into her mouth. “Why was he at dinner?”

“He’s an architect. The lead on the City Core project.”

“Some architect. That place is sharp.”

“Well, anyway, he’s drawing the plans for the house remodel and, get this, he’s staying in our guest room for a couple weeks. The rat now sleeps under the same roof as me.”

Kit snorts, holding back a laugh.

“Kit!”

“C’mon. You have to admit, it’s pretty damn funny.”

“Whatever.”

“Oh, c’mon. Stop sneering at me and cut the rat some slack. He did save your life. Is he cute?”

“What? How should I know?” I wipe a chip crumb off my thigh. “I mean . . . I don’t know . . . I suppose he’s not ugly or anything.”

“Oh, really?”

“Give me a break. He doesn’t hold a candle to Evan.”

Kit finishes the tomato and heads toward the sink.

“Oh, and I met Paige.”

“We don’t like Paige either?”

“Sure, if we like flawless ivory skin and an ass that G-strings were made for.”

“We hate her.” Kit rinses the knife, then her hands. “Invite her over. We’ll pick on her until she develops an eating disorder.”

I laugh and nearly spit out my beer.

“Who is she?”

“Our interior designer and she’s hot for Evan.”

“Slow down,” Kit yells at the boys, who chase one another through the living room. Once they’re gone she slides onto the bar stool beside me. “Okay, so how long are we going to dance around the issue?”

“What?”

“When are you going to tell me what’s really wrong?”

“That obvious?”

“My blind grandfather could see the worry in your eyes. What is it?”

I peel away the label in one square piece, grateful Kit’s in my life. She’s one of those people I can truly confide in. Ever since fourth grade, when one of the popular girls called me a whore for wearing a skirt on the swing set—
how was I to know the
boys were peeking?
—and Kit pulled me aside, telling me to wear shorts underneath, I have trusted her. When we talk, it’s genuine. Whatever I say goes nowhere, stays in her vault.

So, I’m not surprised to hear myself reveal feelings that I’ve pretended for the past couple of days didn’t exist. “Do you ever worry that life is passing you by while day in and day out you’re focused on what you’re supposed to be doing, rather than what you want to be doing? Then, before you know it, you’re old and curled up on your deathbed, weigh ninety pounds, nothing but elbows and knees, consumed with remorseful thoughts that obligations and function controlled your life while you sat idly by and watched it happen. Feeble and unable to eat anything but chicken broth or ice chips, you think,
Golden years my ass, I’ll never get the chance to shout my name from the rooftop and why didn’t I take advantage of my youth?
”

“Holy shit, Lanie.”

“I know, I know.” I shrug. “Ever since I choked last night, my mind keeps bouncing in a million directions. I keep thinking about my life. I keep thinking about Dad.”

“Oh, sweetie. I know you miss him.”

I lick my lips while nodding. “I think I know a way to settle my nerves.”

“Really, how?”

“Well, it might sound ridiculous, childish actually, but do you remember my Someday Jar?”

“Of course.” She grabs two more beers from the fridge.

“What if I uncork it? What if I uphold the promise to my dad and tackle my goals?”

Kit raises the beers in the air. “Yes, absolutely.”

I smile at her enthusiasm. “Okay, but here’s the thing, Evan
won’t be too keen on the idea. We have a big listing on the bubble, the biggest of our careers. He’ll prefer I focus on the wedding and work, not make waves.”

“Give him a blow job. He’ll forget all about it.”

“Kit!”

“Don’t be such a prude. How do you think I got that Pottery Barn armoire?”

“I knew you didn’t snag it at a garage sale.”

She shrugs and sets the bottles on the counter. Returning to her stool, she swivels toward me so our knees touch. “Listen, all jokes aside, I love my husband, and waking up to him and Dylan every day is honest to God my greatest joy on earth.”

“You’re an amazing mom.”

“Thing is, I jumped into marriage and a family. Now I don’t regret it, but there is a part of me that wishes I’d taken a little time to explore life first. Found out who
I
am, you know? This is your chance, Lanie. Grab it. Do something for yourself.”

“My goals aren’t all that ambitious.”

“Who cares?”

“What if I screw up?”

“Then we’ll get drunk and laugh about it.”

Breaking a chip into pieces, I think about her words. I have wanted to fill the jar and accomplish my goals. I have wanted to broaden my boundaries, explore new challenges, and push myself toward adventure like Dad wanted me to do. But to this day, I haven’t. I haven’t done anything. Afraid to fail, I’ve made a decade of excuses and kept the jar corked, putting off my
someday
, and been disappointed with myself for doing so.

My insecurity isn’t the only reason I’ve kept the keepsake at bay. Twelve years ago Dad left. Walked out. Erased me from
his life. Since then, the jar has been a painful reminder of my past. I’ve kept it tucked away, out of sight, out of mind, safeguarding my heart.

What does that say about me? That I’m a quitter? That I can’t handle adversity in life? That I cast aside my ambitions just because Dad found something greater? Bullshit. Don’t I matter? Don’t I deserve my
someday
?

And what about Evan? How can I move forward with him and uphold a promise to my future when I haven’t upheld a promise from my past? Maybe it’s crazy but tackling this jar, without Dad’s presence, is therapeutic, solidifying my independence. Solidifying that I’ve grown strong and healed. That I
can
color outside the lines.

Kit squeezes my knee. “Tackle those ambitions, honey. Close that chapter in your life; then you can start the next one.”

“The jar is with me now.”

Her eyes widen.

“As a kid, I only filled out a couple slips. Dad left and . . . well, I figured anything more was pointless.”

“Fill the rest out. Right here. Right now.”

“Swear?”

“Swear.”

I pull out the jar and set it on the counter between us.

Kit claps. “This is so exciting.”

My heartbeat pounds as I twist off the cork and dump the folded slips into my hand. The papers spot my palm like a flock of small white birds. I catch a glimpse of sweet-and-sour sauce on one paper’s edge and the youthful nature of my handwriting:
Learn something new.

None too big. None too small. Create your own adventures.
My dad’s words swirl through my mind.

Kit retrieves a pencil and shoves it into my hand. “Do it.”

I unfold a fortune, flip it to the blank side, and write.
Broker.
I drop the goal into the jar.

“Absolutely. What else?”

I don’t read the manufactured fortunes; I’m focused on shaping my own. My ambitions come to mind with ease. “Break a record.”

“You can cram a thousand hot dogs in your mouth,” Kit teases. “Or build the world’s largest igloo out of sugar cubes.”

I tap the pencil on my chin.

“Bungee jumping.” Kit squeals.

“Make your own list,” I joke. “I will scuba dive.”

“Close enough.” She adds the slip to the jar. “Okay, more.”

“Touch an official Cardinals game ball,” I jot. “Silly, huh?”

“None of these are silly.” She grabs and reads my next slip. “Make a sacrifice. My, my, Lanie. How very profound of you.”

“Yes, well, I’m a beautiful spirit.”

Kit chokes on her beer.

I slug her.

“What else?”

“Volunteer.”

“For what?”

“As a Big Sister or something.”

“Excellent idea.” She folds the slip and hands me another.

“This is so much fun. Why haven’t I done this years ago?”

“See? One more.”

I say as I write, “Laugh until tears run down my face.”

“Good one.”

She reads silently, the other slip I wrote as a kid. A soft, wholehearted smile spreads across her face. She waves the slip in the air. “This one is my favorite.”

I reach for it, but she quickly drops it into the jar.

“I want to read it.”

“Not now. You’ll know when the time is right.” She folds the remaining slips and before adding them to the jar, she slides me the
Learn something new
goal.

“Start with this one.”

“Wait. How many are there total?”

“Nine.”

“There are only three months until the wedding.”

“You better get crackin’, then.” She seals the cork tight and shakes the jar before handing it to me. “Okay, they’re all mixed up. The rest is up to you. Promise you’ll do this, Lanie.”

“I promise. I will empty my Someday Jar.”