one
Don’t panic, Lanie.
Don’t freak out.
Don’t shove your hand into the paper shredder. It won’t fit.
Sifting through the contracts piled high on my desk—I swear twelve trees are chopped down each time a house is sold—checking the trash can and digging through my purse, I find nothing. Nothing!
How is this possible? I’m twenty-seven years old with dental floss, multivitamins, and spare staples in my desk drawer. I have no past due library books or expired tags on my car. I never litter. Never chew with my mouth open. I lift heavy things with my legs, not back. A responsible adult by any account. Yet, someway, somehow, I’ve carelessly gone and lost the single most important thing I shouldn’t lose. My engagement ring.
“Lanie?” Evan, my fiancé, calls from his office.
Crap.
“Just a minute.” I push my chair aside and search underneath the desk, finding no more than a few paper clips and a fuzz ball. Apparently, the maid has gotten a bit lax with the vacuuming. Oh right, that’s me.
“Where are you?” he calls, sounding closer this time.
Quick to stand, I bonk my shoulder on the desk and hear the silver picture frame of the two of us from last year’s Realtor Awards ceremony fall over.
“Oh, there you are.” Evan strides toward me in his crisp Armani button-down shirt and creased pants, with a smooth gait that only good breeding spawns—his mom’s a tenured English professor at Stanford and his dad’s a venture capitalist. Evan is smiling, the same smile that garnered him a number six spot on last month’s most-attractive-businessmen poll in the Arizona Republic. More than his Ken-doll good looks and crackerjack genes, Evan’s a proven asset in the real estate community. He’s respected and admired.
And he’s mine.
But great. Just great. I’ve gone and lost his token of love.
Obviously, I could ask him to help me search, but what would I say? Hey, funny thing, I’ve misplaced my ring. You know the one—diamond-encrusted platinum band, passed from generation to generation. Wasn’t it your great-grandmother’s?
As a perfectly timed distraction, the office door swings open and in walks my dear old friend, Hollis Murphy.
He’s decked in his usual navy blue, one-piece jumper. The matching belt droops around his waist. He smooths his thin white hair with a finger comb, and his cheeks and nose, laced with a few broken capillaries, flush pink.
My whole world just got brighter.
“Hollis, what a nice surprise.” I slide around the desk and open my arms for a hug.
His skin is cool and clammy, he smells of too much cologne, and staleness heavies his breath, but I don’t care. I love this old man.
We met several years ago, when I crashed my shopping cart into the side of Hollis’s truck. In my defense, People had just released the Sexiest Man Alive issue and a shirtless Ryan Reynolds, along with each one of his gloriously defined abs, was pictured on page thirty-seven. Who wouldn’t be distracted? Besides, it was only a scrape. Okay, dent. But Hollis was forgiving and we’ve been friends ever since.
He grasps my hand and says, “Zookeeper chokes to death eating an animal cracker.”
Nearly every time we talk, Hollis rattles off a peculiar obituary. It’s a sick ritual and I’ll likely rot in hell for making light of someone else’s misfortune. Still, I can’t help but chuckle. “That’s awful.”
“Good one, don’t you think? My Bevy clipped it out.”
“How is Mrs. Murphy?”
“A slice of heaven. Today is our fifty-fourth wedding anniversary.”
“Congratulations!” I say, making a mental note: Send Murphys wine. “Any special plans?”
“She’s making meatballs tonight. My favorite.”
“Sounds perfect. When will you bring Bevy by? In all this time, I still can’t believe we’ve never met. I’d sure love to meet her.”
“She says the same about you, but I swear that woman never has any free time. She’s busier than the tooth fairy at a crackhead’s house.”
Evan approaches, extending his hand. “Mr. Murphy, it’s nice to see you.”
“Likewise.”
“To what do we owe this honor?” Evan asks.
Hollis fishes in his pocket and pulls out a candy cane, his favorite treat that he carries year-round. He offers it to me. “Just came by to give Lanie-Lou something sweet.” He eyes me, waiting for my answer.
“Because every woman deserves a candy cane.”
“That’s right.” He squeezes my arm and says, “Everything good?”
“Everything’s great, thank you.” Except for the fact that I can’t find my ring. I quickly scan the carpet.
“All right,” Hollis says. “I’m off.”
“Good to see you,” Evan says.
“Give Mrs. Murphy my best,” I say, walking Hollis outside.
“I already gave her my best this morning,” he chuckles, and then he drives away.
Evan waits for me beside my desk. He holds out his open palm. “Look what I have.”
Damn. He found it first.
I step toward him, conjuring up a witty explanation like, Silly little bastard, that ring must have legs, but words escape me as I stare into his hand.
He doesn’t hold my ring. He doesn’t hold the symbol of my future. He holds a piece of my past. My Someday Jar.
“My God.” I try to hide the tremor in my fingers as I reach for the glass crock. Nostalgia surges through me like a desert flash flood and all at once I smell my dad’s cologne masking his one-a-day cigarette habit and hear his voice, usually light and high-spirited, pivot adamant and stern when he said a dozen years earlier, “This jar is for your goals and aspirations, Lanie. None too big. None too small.”
“Where did you find this?” My voice is no steadier than my hands.
“In a box at the bottom of my office closet. Found your ASU graduation cap, too. Maybe you can wear that to bed later?” He teases, but he must see the focus in my eyes because he strokes my arm. “What is it?”
I lean against my desk, my body heavy with sentiment. “This is my Someday Jar. A gift from my dad. God, I haven’t seen it in years.” The last time I held this, I wore bubble-gum-flavored lip gloss and braces dotted my teeth. With the jar close to my ear, I give it a little shake and listen to the slips of paper tumble inside.
“What’s in there?”
“Fortunes.”
“Fortunes?”
“Yeah. Every year for my birthday Dad took me to the Golden Lantern, a Chinese restaurant in Mesa.” I half smile, remembering the dome-shaped chandeliers covered with crushed red velvet and dangling tassels decorating the dining room. “They had this wall with dozens of fortunes pinned to it. Dad plucked a handful of slips, flipped them to the blank side, and said, ‘Write your own fortunes, Lanie. Create your own path.’”
I remember scribbling Learn something new on the first slip, thrilled with his nod of acceptance as I tucked the goal into the jar.
Now, as I rub my thumb along the nicks in the glass, a lump forms in my throat. “Dad made me promise that I’d empty the jar. He made me promise I’d claim my own stake in the world, fulfill my desires and dreams. He made me promise I’d do this . . . before I got married.” I’d forgotten that last part until just now.
Evan tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Your dad was never afraid to throw caution to the wind, was he?”
“No, he definitely wasn’t,” I whisper, staring at the jar.
“You okay?”
I shake my head to clear it and force a little laugh. “I’m fine. It’s just an old piece of glass that brings back a lot of memories, I guess.”
Evan pulls me close and holds me for a minute.
Though it serves no purpose but longing and regret, I let my mind wander to my childhood days with Dad. The days where pancakes were dinner, chocolate cake was breakfast, and jokes and laughter filled our bellies in between. I hate to admit it, but I wonder what Dad would think of me now, so different from the carefree teenager he knew. Would he be proud of the woman I’ve become or disappointed by my structured life? Worse yet, indifferent?
Evan steps back and says, “Listen, I don’t mean to rush this moment for you, but I’m in a tight spot and sure could use a favor.”
I blink away tears foolhardily forming in my eyes. “Yes, of course. What is it?”
“Can you pick up Weston Campbell from Sky Harbor Airport, executive terminal? He’s flying in from Los Angeles.”
“A new client?”
“No, a business associate of my parents turned family friend. You’ve never met him?”
“The name doesn’t sound familiar.”
“Well, anyway, he’s going to lend me a hand with an upcoming project.”
“How will I spot him? I have no idea what he looks like.” For some reason, the name Weston Campbell evokes an image of a wirehaired and well-fed Irish farmer stabbing bales of hay with whiskey breath spewing from his toothless grin. I should work on being less judgmental, but honestly, where’s the fun in that?
“No problem recognizing him.” Evan aims his phone’s camera in my direction. “Smile.”
“Wait.” I set the jar on my desk and comb through my shoulder-length brown hair, fluffing the bangs that hover over my Irish green eyes, thankful I wore my favorite sleeveless dress cinched above the waist with a ridiculously cute Michael Kors belt. “Okay, go.”
He snaps a photo of me.
Dang. I think my eyes were closed.
“This is Lanie Howard.” He punches at the keys. “There, I forwarded your picture to him. All you have to do is stand outside the security gates and he’ll find you. The executive terminal isn’t very big.” Evan slides into his jacket and steps toward the leather-framed mirror hanging on the wall to study his reflection. He swivels his head side to side and checks for any budding “parasites,” as he called the two gray hairs discovered earlier this year on his thirtieth birthday. “I’d go myself, but Weston changed his flight and I’ve got that 1031 Exchange lecture tonight.”
“What time is Weston arriving?”
“Six.” Evan spins around and catches me peeking at the clock. “I know, the Cardinals game. Maybe you’ll miss the first half, but you’ll be home in time to catch the rest. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.” He winks. “You’ll take care of Weston for me?”
Waiting in a stuffy airport is the last thing I feel like doing, especially if it means missing a Monday Night Football game. But Evan’s in a pinch and business outweighs pleasure, so I hide my discontent with a smile and reply, “Sure.”
“Great. Weston’s staying at the Biltmore. Just drop him there.” Evan slips his hands around my waist and pulls me toward him again, my Someday Jar wedged between us. His lips brush my neck and he whispers, “I’m such a lucky man.”
After his quick kiss, I watch his Mercedes drive away, then slump into my chair. With the tip of my forefinger, I trace the jar, top to bottom, following a crack. “Promise me you’ll explore life,” Dad had said with narrowed eyes and hands clasped around mine. “Promise me you’ll color outside the lines.”
Now, here I am, a grown woman, many years later, wondering if I should twist off the cork. Reach beyond my comfort zone and tackle my ambitions, challenge myself like I vowed. Should I color outside the lines?
My inbox chimes with an e-mail, jarring my thoughts to the present. Glancing toward the computer and spotting the lotion bottle, I’m reminded why I took my ring off—for age-defying, triple-moisture smooth hands—and see the jewel behind the knocked-over frame.
Thank God. With relief, I slip the ring on my finger and decide that my future is what deserves my attention, not the painful reminder of days behind. I tap the jar’s brittle cork and drop the keepsake into my purse. Those days are gone.
An hour later, I lock the office and head toward my car, juggling an armful of files and a ringing cell phone.
“Hey,” says Kit, my best friend of countless years. She’s chewing on something, odds are a papaya granola bar as she lives off those things, admitting they taste like cardboard, but loves the fact that they can double as a kickstand for her son’s bike, should the need arise. “Want to catch the game and share a plate of greasy potato skins?”
“God, I’d love to, but I’m on my way to pick up a colleague of Evan’s, then hurrying home to catch what I can of the second half with a mound of paperwork piled on my lap. Dammit,” I say as much to myself as her, “I need to swing by Nordstrom’s. Evan’s out of shaving cream.”
The judgment in her silence is deafening.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m just wondering what happened to my nutty BFF who used to hustle pool tables and dance on the bar after a couple drinks. Has she been eaten alive by the responsibility monster?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She chews another bite, then says with confidence, “The Vine, Labor Day weekend, senior year. You danced on the bar in that denim miniskirt. The bartender’s arm was sticky from your sloshing lemon-drop martini. He was pissed.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Next time we’ll grab drinks.”
Kit sighs. “Okay. Just promise me that cheeky girl I’ve known since grade school is still in there.”
“She’s there.” Somewhere. “I’ve been busy.” For three years. “Did I tell you? We have nineteen listings in escrow right now. Evan Carter Realty is poised to rank number two in residential sales this quarter, in all of Phoenix. Evan’s worked really hard.”
“You’ve worked really hard. Come out and play sometime.”
“I will.”
“Swear?”
“Swear.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”
“Sounds good. And Kit, for the record, it wasn’t the Vine. It was Club 99. I rocked the hell out of that miniskirt.”
Interstate 10 is the direct route to Phoenix Sky Harbor, but since traffic is light and I’ve a few extra minutes, I find myself steering through the side streets of downtown. I turn onto Washington Avenue and pull up curbside at the almost completed City Core construction site. Chain link surrounds the seven-acre urban complex, which combines condos and commercial space built within two sharply angled towers. I don’t know much about the project, other than I’m impressed by the architect’s vision, for he or she must’ve known that at this time of early evening, the towers’ glass captures the sun setting over Camelback Mountain and reflects on the city, dual sixty-story murals of the desert’s incredible landscape.
I step from my car and wrap my arms around myself, grabbing hold of the fence, uncertain if I’m chilled from the hint of fall in the breeze or the memories from where I stand. The City Core is very different from the building that once stood here, the one my dad worked in when I was a kid. The one with the corner deli where he let me order my own coffee. Side by side, we spent mornings sorting through photographs of him rafting, hang gliding, rappelling, choosing the best shots for his next freelance magazine article.
“Are these dreams from your Someday Jar?” I’d ask, holding a glossy photograph of some snow-covered mountain range, praying I didn’t sound too eager. Too much like a child.
“Nah, I don’t need a jar.” Dad nudged my elbow with his own. “You’re my greatest adventure.”
My heart flickered. Actually tickled inside my chest when Dad said those words. You’re my greatest adventure. I’d never felt more loved. Or more protected. The most important person in his world.
He moved out six weeks later.
I release my grasp on the fence as if it’s buzzing me with voltage and chastise myself for letting a silly childhood token rattle my thoughts. Honestly, what has gotten into me?
As I drive toward the airport, my engagement ring catches the sun’s light and I think about my life. In three months I’ll be married to a beautiful man full of integrity and principle. A man who is kind to my mom, finishes my crossword puzzle, and still half stands when I join him for dinner or return from the restroom. Thanks to this man, I have a solid job with clients I adore. A stable future.
I nudge the jar deeper into the depths of my purse. I’d be a fool to uncork the pain and splintered promises of my past. Yes, my dad is the first man I ever loved. But he’s also the first man who broke my heart.
two
FLIGHT #819—LAS to PHX
DELAYED
Delayed? Until when? The game started ten minutes ago. Another set of stacked monitors stands fifty feet away. Unfortunately, the same word flashes on the screen. DELAYED.
I reach for my cell phone and call Evan.
No answer.
When his voice mail cues, I say, “It’s me. Weston’s plane is delayed. Guess I’ll wait. Just thought I’d let you know. Bye.”
Beside the security gates, I claim an available seat in a row fixed against the wall. Next to me, a snoring older woman’s People slips from her relaxed fingers. I lean over her, angling my neck like an ostrich, toward the cheers and claps from the sports bar down and across the hall. Every square inch of the wall space is plastered with neon beer signs and TV screens. The game is tuned in on like one, two . . . three screens.
“Go! Move your million-dollar legs.” Some fan in the bar shouts.
“Cut right. Cut right,” yells another fan.
Sounds like a good game.
I glance at the Jetway. No plane.
Okay . . . just a couple plays.
I spring from my seat and hurry toward the bar like a toddler running toward her mommy. “Excuse me.” I weave through the crowd formed at the entrance, stopping beside a man whose suitcase blocks the narrow walkway between tables. He’s fixated on the screen.
A super-fast Cardinals running back plows through the Giants defense for thirteen solid yards before getting tackled.
“First down,” the man cheers.
We high-five like old friends.
There’s one open seat at the bar. I step over the suitcase and wiggle myself comfy on a bar stool.
“What can I get you?” The bartender slides a napkin in front of me.
“Oh, nothing, thanks. I just want to catch the game for a minute.”
“Gotta order something then.” He points at a sign behind him. PURCHASE REQUIRED FOR BAR SEATING.
I scan the room; everyone has a drink. Those who don’t jam the bar’s entrance squinting through the glass walls like middle schoolers trying to see what the cool kids are doing.
“Well?” he asks again.
At that moment, the air conditioner kicks on and a cool breeze blows in my face. I once read that the recycled air in airports can be incredibly drying. Since I’m a firm believer in hydration, and really, I have no other choice if I want to watch the game, I say, “Lemon-drop martini, please.”
Kit would be proud.
Truth is, it’s been ages since I’ve done anything mindless and rash like Kit mentioned. Not that I want to relive my college days or dance on a bar again, but a little fun now and then wouldn’t hurt. Maybe spend a date night with Evan over a game of pool, a pitcher of Blue Moon, and saucy hot wings, teasing while I sink the eight ball into the corner pocket for a winning shot?
The bartender places the pale yellow drink in front of me. I nibble sugar off the rim and swallow a healthy sip of the bittersweet cocktail. God, I’ve missed you.
I lift my drink in appreciation.
The bartender nods as he wipes a wineglass.
Yes, of course, drinking a martini isn’t exactly what I should be doing. I should wait by the gate and review the real estate market’s daily hot sheet or calculate the company’s third-quarter tax payment. But, c’mon . . . the game’s on. Kit’s right. When is the last time I’ve relaxed? Besides, it’s only one drink. And I won’t miss Weston’s flight because hanging on the wall at the bar’s far end are blue-screened monitors. I can make out the word delayed.
Love that word.
I’m such an idiot. How long have I been rambling? “I didn’t mean to go on and on like that.” My words snag on my tongue and sound a bit slurred, even to myself. “I wish you would’ve stopped me.”
“I tried,” says the man seated on the bar stool beside me.
“Oh, you did? Sorry.” I hiccup, then quickly cover my mouth. Never again should I drink multiple lemon-drop martinis on an empty stomach in an airport bar. Number one, they are a total rip-off at eighteen dollars apiece. Number two, I wind up blabbing like a lunatic. And number three . . . whatever. I sip.
“No problem.” He swallows a swig of beer.
He’s not gorgeous. No chiseled model-type face and flawless micro-dermabrasion skin like Evan. There’s a crescent scar above this man’s lip and the hint of evening stubble pokes along his chinny-chin-chin. Even so, there’s a rugged attractiveness to him with his dark eyes and hair. He’s like a headstrong, one-screw-up-away-from-being-fired kind of cop I’d see in movies.
The crowd roars. I glance at the screen and catch the play in action. The Cardinals are deep within their own territory, but I watch with delight as the quarterback lobs a long spiral down field. It’s a little high, but #11, Larry Fitzgerald—the best wide receiver ever—skyrockets like eighty feet in the air and catches the pass, one-handed. “Go. Go. Go.”
The announcer calls, “Fitz’s at the thirty, the twenty, the ten, touchdown. Wow, folks, what a miraculous catch. The Fitz does it again. He goes all the way for the score.”
Okay, so maybe my enthusiasm for the game gets carried away at times. Blame it on my football fever, blame it on the martinis, blame it on the wind for all I care, but I can’t stop myself. I jump up and down, high-five the bartender, fist-pump a busboy, and hug every cheering stranger within a fifteen-foot radius. Everyone except the man I’ve been talking with.
With a smile as wide as the flat screens on the wall, I plop into my seat, keeping an eye on the game. Fitzgerald runs the football over to the referee. “Did you see that?” I tug on the man’s sleeve. “See what he did?”
“The touchdown? Yeah, I—”
“No, not that.” I wave my hand. “Fitzgerald handed the ball to the referee. He always does. After every play. Instead of chucking it on the ground, forcing the ref to chase after it like other players do, Fitz gives it to him. Every time. I hate arrogant football players, don’t you?” I don’t give the man a chance to answer. “Did you know Fitzgerald used to be a ball boy for the Minnesota Vikings? He’s really nice.”
“You know him?”
“Well, no . . .” My voice trails off.
“Football fan?”
“Little bit.” I sip my martini, then shake my head. “That’s a lie. I’m a huge fan. Borderline obsessive.”
“I can see that.”
I giggle and focus on the curled lemon rind at the bottom of my glass.
The man points at my business card peeking from my purse pocket and reads, “Evan Carter Realty. You work there?”
“Yes.” I sit taller and smooth my dress, which has risen to my thighs. I meet his eyes and offer a professional smile. Perhaps he’s in the market. There’s a cozy two-bedroom loft-style in Gilbert that’d be perfect for him.
“Real estate agent?” he asks.
“Broker, technically.”
“So why isn’t your name on the card, too?”
I open my mouth to reply, then close it again. That’s a damn good question. I reach for a napkin.
My phone, lying on the bar, chimes with a message, likely from Evan. The screen shines on my face as I check the text. It’s not Evan. It’s Stacee, our wedding planner. Evan wants to meet Tuesday, late afternoon. Please confirm.
Setting the phone down a little harder than I intended, I say, “Did I mention we’re engaged? See. Getting married in three months.” I wiggle my three-carat, square-cut diamond solitaire ring in the man’s face. Except I lean too far and the stool wobbles underneath me, throwing me off balance. I wind up scraping his nose with the edge of my diamond before I catch myself. “Oops. Sorry.”
“It’s all right.” He wrinkles his nose, which now has a tiny, red scratch.
“Evan’s so excited about the wedding.” I tear off a long strip of the napkin and curl it around my finger. “He talks with our wedding planner more than I do. They’ve made everything so easy for me, selecting the date, the venue, the food.” I tear off another corner of my napkin. “Everything is meticulously arranged. All I have to do is pick out a dress.”
“It’s dead.”
“What’s dead?”
“The napkin.” He eyes the shredded mound beneath my hands. “It’s officially deceased.”
I push the pile away and fold my hands in my lap. Why haven’t I been named broker?
“Well, I’m sure the wedding will be flawless.”
“Yes, it will. Thank you.” Glancing at the arrivals monitor, I still read: delayed.
We sit in silence for a few moments, watching an ad for Kay Jewelers. After the closing jingle, Every kiss begins with Kay, I say, “You know, I disagree with that.”
“Yeah?” He pushes the peanut bowl between us.
“Yeah. I bet more kisses begin with an empty bottle of cheap Zinfandel.”
He laughs, nearly choking on his beer. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he says, “Tell me more.”
The alcohol relaxes me, so I don’t hesitate. “Well, I detest poor grammar. Irregardless is not a word. I’d rather be stabbed in the neck than watch a movie with zombies, clowns, or Cameron Diaz. Or eat anything with mustard. I had my tonsils removed when I was eight. Broke my tailbone when I was ten because apparently jumping off the top of the slide into the pool isn’t the best idea. I’ve never solved a Rubik’s cube. And you”—I point at the man—“are looking at Roosevelt High School’s senior prom queen.”
He eyes me quizzically, like I asked his tampon preference.
I stare back.
What did he say his name was? Okay, so yes, maybe he’s good-looking. Early thirties, I guess. Though his sideburns are a few days away from needing a trim, his slightly disheveled hair and five-o’clock shadow are mildly appealing. Some women might even quiver when his lips curve into a half smile.
I mean, I’m not dead. I can find other men attractive. It’s not against the law or anything. If I weren’t in love with Evan, I might even notice that under this man’s charcoal-colored shirt, his abs look harder than this steel bar stool I’m sitting on, which, by the way, has completely numbed my ass.
“No shit?” He flicks a peanut shell off the bar and signals the bartender for another beer.
“No shit, what?”
“Prom queen?”
“Is that so
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