Page 11 of Forbidden Dreams
Me: We need to have a meeting tomorrow morning.
I look over my shoulder at the door, seeing she’s still there with the plate in her hand and her look is one of shock and, trust me, she isn’t the only one.
CHAPTER 8
Harmony
“Do you have all your homework?” I ask Wyatt as he puts on his shoes at the front door, kneeling on one knee as he ties one lace and then switches over to the other foot.
“Yeah.” He gets up when he’s done, slinging his backpack over one shoulder while he grabs his baseball glove and ball. He’s walking out the door, missing his lunch box next to his glove.
“Buddy,” I call him, and he turns back to look at me, “your lunch.”
“Oh.” Smiling, he comes back, grabs the lunch box, and runs out of the house. I follow him, walking down the steps with the glass baking dish in my hand as I make my way over to the car, watching him toss in his bag and then get in. I place the pie on the seat before walking over to the driver’s side and getting in.
I start the car, looking in the rearview mirror. “Buckled?” I ask and he nods, looking out the window. I look both ways before proceeding. My eyes land on the red truck next door, trying not to stare too long. The nerves settle into me now when I think that in a couple of hours, I have to show up at his bar. When I walked out of the house, I had just spent the past ten minutes quietly sobbing in secret in the middle of the bathroom. Defeated by the whole situation, and wondering how much longer I could possibly go on like this.
“Can I play catch when we get home tonight?” he asks as I make my way over to his school. Walking out of the bathroom, after trying to get the redness in my eyes to go down, and seeing him outside talking to Brady was not what I was expecting to see. But he was there in the middle of the weeds, teaching my kid how to catch a fucking ball. Another reason I hate myself is that my son, who deserves it all, got nothing. He got a sorry excuse for a father, and a mother who is trying not to fucking drown in the ocean while rain pours down on her head.
“Yeah,” I confirm, even though I have no idea how the meeting today at ten is going to go. I pull into the parking lot, getting out at the same time as Wyatt. I put my car keys in the back pocket while I hold his hand and walk to the fence. Unlike the first day of school where he stayed with me, this time he runs into the playground area, going to a group of kids who are playing at the side. He joins them without a second thought. I watch by the fence like I do every single morning, listening for the bell before the kids all line up in their respective lines. One good thing that happened is that he made friends right away. It was as if they were always friends, Wyatt takes one more look at me before walking in and holding up his hand at me. I hold up my hand and refrain from blowing him a kiss, because only babies do that.
I wait until the brown door closes after all the kids go in before walking over to my car and getting in. Pulling out with the fifty other cars, I wait my turn before going toward Mr. Mendelson’s house. The beautiful white house with the perfectly manicured lawn and even better backyard. He’s sitting on the porch, rocking in his white rocking chair that he paints every two months, just to keep it clean. Leaning over after unbuckling my seat belt, I grab the warm apple pie. The smile beams on his face when he sees me get out of the car. “There she is.” He gets up out of his rocker to meet me by the stairs. “Was wondering when I was going to see you.”
“I was here two days ago,” I remind him with my own smile on my face before getting on my tippy-toes and kissing his cheek. “I brought you some pie.” I hold up the pie higher. “A thank-you for all those apples you got for me.”
“I’ll take that.” He grabs the pie from me. “And you’ll have a piece with me and a cup of coffee.”
“I have a little time,” I tell him as I walk into the house behind him. The pictures of him and his wife are scattered all over the place; the love for her so evident in all of the house. Things she placed there before she passed away are still in the same spots. The two of them were married over sixty years, and she passed in her sleep right next to him. Something he will never forgive himself for, even though there was nothing he could have done. She wasn’t even sick, which just made it that much worse.
He puts the pie on the counter, reaching over for a coffee cup before pouring me a mugful, handing it to me. “Go take a load off.” He motions with his chin to the table that overlooks the outside. I pull the chair out, sitting down, and looking out into the yard with all of the trees and his massive garden. He places a piece of pie down in front of me and then sits in the chair across from me with his own plate. “So tell me, where are you off to?”
“I have a job interview, I think.” I pick up the coffee and bring it to my lips. “At Thatcher’s,” I say and he looks from his pie to my face. It’s no secret my in-laws hate the Thatchers. I mean, to be honest, there aren’t many people who my in-laws don’t hate. Mr. Mendelson is also one of them, because he rented me one of his properties when I left Winston. They gave him so many fucking problems, in the end I just left. He was pissed I would do that, but I knew he didn’t need the headache. He’s been like a father to me and I refused to put him in that position. He was also the only one who knew that I secretly baked for the bakery. He would have to know since he was the one who supplied me with all the fruit.
“Do you think that is wise?” he asks me, taking a bite of his pie, and I fill him in with regard to Winston and his late-night visits. “I’m glad someone is finally getting in his face about it,” he says, leaning back in the chair, his salt-and-pepper hair pushed back. “I wish—” I put my hand on his.
“You did more for me than anyone,” I say softly. “Now, wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck.” He smirks. “You’ll dazzle them.” I get up and kiss his cheek. “You call me when you walk out of there.”
“You know it,” I confirm to him as I walk out of the house and get into my car. I arrive at the bar at ten to ten and wonder if I should sit in the car for a couple of minutes or head in. “Better to be early than late,” I tell myself as I get out of my car and head over to the bar door, pulling it open and stepping in.
I look around the half-dark room, the lights are not even on and wonder if maybe I didn’t hear him correctly. Maybe it was my ears playing jokes on me. But I’m pretty sure he said be here at ten. My palms start to get sweaty as I take a step in and see the door from the back swing open as he walks through to the front. “Right on time,” he observes gruffly, and I have to keep moving my feet forward, or I think my knees are going to buckle under me.
“I’m ten minutes early,” I almost whisper as I walk toward him and see he’s wearing a pair of well-worn jeans with a white T-shirt that looks like it’s painted on him. You can see his broad chest in it as it’s tucked in the front, but looks like it wasn’t on purpose. The big belt buckle shows and the even bigger bulge underneath it. My eyes fly back up, thinking I would die if he caught me staring at the bulge in his pants. “Hi,” I greet when I’m close enough, trying to get my nerves under wraps. Reminding myself this could all be for nothing, but I secretly think this might just be the first step at something going my way.
“Hi,” he says, pointing over to the stool and waiting for me to sit down before walking behind the bar and facing me. I guess this is where I’m going to do my job interview.
“How much do you know about waitressing?” he asks me and I think about lying, but about five minutes after I start, he’s going to know I have never done it.
“I served my husband dinner for ten years,” I joke with him but see his jaw tighten, “but besides that, nothing.”
He looks down at his boots, probably contemplating even asking me to come to this fucking interview. “But I’m a quick learner,” I try to salvage the interview. “I can learn quick, and if I’m that bad at it, you don’t even have to fire me, I’ll quit.”
“We can start tonight,” he says and I secretly groan inside, “if it works out.” His voice trails off. “We can talk about you working five nights a week.”
I try not to fall off the stool. “You get Sunday and Monday nights off.” Shit-shit-shit, fuck-fuck-fuck, is all I can chant. “Is that going to be a problem?” he asks, taking in my face—I’m sure—when it has sunk in that I potentially have a job, but also potentially am going to have to quit on my very first night.
“Nope, should be good,” I tell him, knowing that once again I’m going to have to call up Mr. Mendelson and ask him for another favor. “What time should I start tonight?” I ask, my heart speeding up and going a million miles a minute.