Page 42 of In a Pickle
Returning to the table, James reluctantly took the open seat next to Mary Grace.
“Hi,” she said quietly. “How have you been?”
Liana is on the way, he told himself. He just had to make it through twenty minutes of this until Liana came to his rescue.
“I’ve been very well, Mary Grace. How have you been?”
She smiled sadly. “I don’t think I’ve heard you call me by my full name in about a decade.”
“Yeah, well. A lot has changed.”
“I’m sorry, James,” she said.
“You have nothing to be sorry for. It was for the best.” He meant it.
James was eager to end this conversation with Mary Grace, which he knew their parents were listening to while pretending to be engrossed in their menus. “Mr. McMahon,” said James, hoping to steer the conversation toward a safer topic. “I heardthe area around the new soccer stadium is developing nicely. How’s that going?” Developing the neighborhood around the planned new Inter Miami soccer stadium was a longtime pet project for Mary Grace’s dad, who was, like Peter Alonso, a property developer.
Mr. McMahon looked pleased that James had asked. “It’s coming along, James. Thanks for asking. We got a big win from the city council last week, which allowed us to build six inches closer to the sidewalk than we’d previously been permitted to do.” Mr. McMahon droned on, and James pretended to be paying attention, nodding along and inserting, “Ah!” and “Is that right?” at the appropriate moments. Internally, he was counting down the seconds until he could leave this dinner.
“... and the mayor will be there for the ribbon-cutting in June,” Mr. McMahon continued. “The condos are selling like hotcakes, James. You won’t believe it. I promise, you will have no problem selling every unit in the whole building before we even open our doors.”
That caught James’ attention. Surely Mr. McMahon was using the word “you” generically? “I’m sorry. You said Iwon’t have a problem selling… what condos are we talking about?”
“The building just down the street from here. The one that Don has been building for years,” James’ dad said in a reprimanding tone. “The Arbor at The Grove? Surely you’ve been listening.”
“That’s right,” said Mr. McMahon. “The Arbor. 48 luxury units. Well, 46 for sale, since I’ve already reserved two of the 10th-floor units for my daughters.” Mr. McMahon winked at Mary Grace, who beamed. “Like I said, son, I expect you to have no trouble with the sales for the 40 remaining units that haven’tsold yet. You should be able to get a nice commission check within a few months.”
James had a sinking feeling in his gut. “You saidIwill be the one selling these units?”
Mr. McMahon glanced at James’ dad, confused.
“Don’t worry, Don,” Peter rushed to reassure. “I haven’t gone through all of the details with James just yet. I wanted you to be the one to present the plan to him, since you’ll be his new boss.”
“Ah, yes,” said Don, clearly pleased, as a horrifying realization dawned on James. “Of course, Peter. Now, James, I know there’s the small matter of getting your real estate license before you can officially start selling. I understand from your father that you’ve already studied for the real estate sales exam quite a bit, so it’ll be no trouble.”
James’ anger grew. Yes, James had indeed studied for a real estate license at his parents’ encouragement while he was in the hospital a couple of years ago, recovering from his shoulder surgery. He’d been disconsolate about the end of his tennis career, and his parents had convinced him that a real estate sales license would be valuable, especially if he wanted to work for his dad’s company in the future. James had agreed, he suspected, while still under the influence of morphine. While he’d prepared for the license exam, he’d never actually taken it, unsure if he wanted to commit to what he surmised was a lifetime sentence working for his father.
James had recently considered taking the exam but wasn’t ready to commit yet. He wasn’t necessarily opposed to working in real estate, but like hell would he ever work for Mary Grace’s father, or, he realized now, for his own.
“Mr. McMahon, that’s a generous offer. Truly, I’m so grateful. Unfortunately, I will have to decline.”
Mr. McMahon looked ready to speak, but Mary Grace patted her father’s arm. “Allow me, Dad. James, I’m sorry that we broke up. And I’m sorry for the months before that, for distancing myself from you. It’s just that, you were a bit lost, and obviously being a pickleballer, or whatever it’s called, wasn’t exactly what you or I had in mind for your career.”
“You mean, you left me when you realized that being with a pickleball player wouldn’t get you on any private jets? That it wouldn’t get you invited to party with Brock Templeton anymore?”
“James!” gasped his mom, reddening.
“I still party with Brock Templeton, you’ll be pleased to know. No thanks to you,” Mary Grace barrelled on, undeterred by James’ outburst. “But, back to the point. This is good news, babe. My dad is offering you a job. A good job. An amazing job! I know it wasn’t what we dreamed of when you played Wimbledon, but this will be a great career. A lucrative one. One that will let us still live the life we wanted. You should be falling to your knees thanking me and my family. And I’m about to start at Barker Wealth Management once I finish my MBA. We’ll be the power couple again.”
“Correction. We’ll be nothing, seeing as we’re no longer a couple. Don’t call me babe.”
“I told you,” she pleaded. “I made a mistake. Please don’t throw away all of our years together. You and I are meant to be. You know that.”
“Ha!” James barked a laugh. “That’s fucking rich, Mary Grace. I should have known something like this was coming.”
“Language,” cautioned James’ mom, her lips pursed.
James turned on her. “I’m twenty-six years old, Mom. I’m an adult, and I’ll speak however the hell I want to other adults. Speaking of which, who goes behind their adult son’s back to arrange an ambush? Who blindsides their son with a job he doesn’t want, with hisex-girlfriend whom he clearly has no interest in speaking to? Seriously, is this a fucking soap opera or something?”