Luck, Love & Lemon Pie Page 5

  MJ studied Lisa’s generously cut V-neck sweater and chunky necklace that matched her vibrant personality, but her own black T-shirts and simple blue jeans could never give off that vibe. She circled the inked tree on her wrist, imagining herself as Lisa, charming and welcoming, chatting with a poker table full of strangers. She sighed. She may not be ecstatic with her life right now, but she didn’t see a reason to escape it.

  MJ put the phone on speaker so she could keep folding laundry in the master bedroom—two chores at one time.

  “So, how was the anniversary?” Barbara’s thick Wisconsin accent drew out the vowels in each word, reminding MJ how far north her mom lived.

  “It was fine, Ma.”

  “Fine? No one ever uses ‘fine’ and means it.”

  Leave it to Mom to read into the tiniest of details—and be right. She tossed all her underwear into the top drawer, shoving them down to close it.

  “But we are fine.”

  And they were. MJ couldn’t think of a single person she’d want to trade places with. That must mean things were fine. She just wasn’t sure if she adored her husband the way she used to, but that’s not exactly something to tell your mom while cramming underwear into a drawer.

  “If you’re having trouble, you could see someone, ya know. Talk about it?”

  “Ma, we’re okay.”

  “As long as you’re sure, Margaret June.”

  “Why do you call me that? You know I hate it.”

  “I know it reminds you of Joey.” Barbara’s legendary BS-o-meter worked overtime, which was probably to blame for her solitude, but it was one of MJ’s favorite things about her. “But it reminds me of the best day of my life—the day you were born. So, are you going to ‘unfine’ your ‘fine’ marriage?”

  MJ smacked the phone on her forehead.

  “Chris and I are good. Really.”

  “Okay.” Her vowels stretched to new lengths, conveying her skepticism. “Besides, that’s not why I was calling anyways. I wondered if I could bring a guest to Thanksgiving.”

  MJ halted her sock pairing and sat down on the bed. Her mom had never once brought a friend or date to any family celebration. Ever since Barbara had sold Gone Fishing to some Illinois couple who turned it into a brewpub, her social circle had shrunk considerably.

  “Who did you want to bring, Ma?”

  “Remember Gordon VanderHouse? The orthodontist?”

  “Mike’s dad. Yeah, I remember him.” MJ tilted her head to consider the ramifications of her mom dating her high school prom date’s dad. Was she too grown-up for ew?

  “Well, his wife passed on a few years ago, and we started bumping into each other on the lake. So we started fishing together, make the time more pleasant. He’s nice. He doesn’t talk too much and likes Elvis almost as much as I do.”

  “I thought you hated him.”

  “I never hated him. I didn’t like the way he defended your dad when he showed up at the bar that day. I’ve set him straight. He’s a good man.”

  MJ tried to envision her mom dating. She could only remember the strong, stern woman who could quiet a bar with one glare, or manhandle a drunk biker out the door. It didn’t compute. Mom and Dr. VanderHouse. Her mom and Mike’s dad. She turned the same sock right-side out, then back again four times before she could speak again.

  “Dr. VanderHouse?”

  “Honestly, you should be happy I’ve met someone.”

  “I . . . I am. I’m just caught off guard is all.”

  “Well, can he come?”

  MJ plastered a smile on her face, hoping it would transmit warmth through the phone.

  “Of course.”

  “And, honey, don’t worry about fixing a room for us; we’ll get a hotel room.”

  MJ dropped the sock in her hand.

  After she hung up the phone and stared at it for a while, MJ remembered the one and only time she’d seen her mom and Dr. VanderHouse together. It didn’t go well. Prom night 1984 . . .

  The peach lace had scratched her inner arms each time she dealt a round of poker to the Gents, the satiny fabric under the lace shushing when she moved. She’d spent the afternoon at the local salon getting thirty-eight bobby pins to hold her thick brown hair on top of her head in bouncy curls. Out of consideration for her finery—and at Barbara’s vocal insistence—the men refrained from their usual smoking. MJ glanced at the clock every other minute in anticipation. As if on cue, the door opened and haloed Mike’s golden hair, a stark contrast to his dark clothing. As he came into the bar, the ruffled shirt took shape, framed by a peach tie and cummerbund.

  “I suppose we need pictures,” Barbara said from behind the bar. She looked at Mike. “Your dad outside?”

  Mike nodded and MJ hopped off the stool and stumbled, still wobbly in her heels. Mike cupped one elbow and pulled her waist to his, steadying her against him.

  “I’ve got it, but thank you,” she said, unwrapping his arm, nervous from the contact.

  “Outside, you two. Let’s get this over with. I have customers who need drinks.”

  Barbara herded them outside, walking past Dr. VanderHouse with a nod.

  “Hello, Dr. VanderHouse,” MJ said. She liked the tall, slender orthodontist. He had light, thinning hair cut so short that he looked bald from a distance, but it worked on him, and he spoke softly, in a gentle tone.

  “You look lovely, MJ,” he said.

  Barbara snorted and posed them in front of the one flowering tree near the bar, a scraggly thing with a few pink-lavender spring blossoms. Every spring, MJ was amazed it managed to come back to life, but it did, her doubt making the small blushing blooms all the more beautiful. Her mom called it the iron tree—a bit rough around the edges, but indestructible. MJ loved it, had grown up alongside it.

  A rumbling noise, screeching tires, and sliding gravel sent the small group scattering away from the tiny tree, and the massive hood of a rusty tan Oldsmobile appeared where her tree had stood. MJ willed the moment to rewind. Out of the giant car appeared her dad, staggering a few steps after he slammed the car door shut.

  “Good. Didn’t miss you.” He looked back at the flattened tree, then stopped in front of MJ, pressing a malt liquor—scented kiss on her forehead. “Well, I guess I did miss you.” He laughed at his own joke.

  MJ stepped away from the smell and sight of him and looked to her mom for an explanation as to why he was here. The loss of her demolished tree morphed her sadness into disgust and anger. Everyone in their small town knew her dad was a drunk, but she didn’t need it to be paraded in front of Mike before the only dance she’d ever been asked to. Barbara stepped between her and Joey.

  “Get in the bar, MJ.” She turned to Joey, pointing at his car. “And you can leave before you completely ruin the kids’ night. Or any more of my trees.”

  MJ tried to pull Mike into the bar, but he wouldn’t move. He was watching as his dad approached her parents.

  “I was invited,” Joey said, sliding his hands into his leather jacket’s pockets.

  “By who?”

  “Him.” He thrust his arm toward Dr. VanderHouse. Barbara’s head blurred as she whipped around to face him.

  “You did this? Why?”

  “I just mentioned—he’s her father; I assumed he would be here.” Dr. VanderHouse’s voice weakened as he spoke, his final words a mumble. “He has a right.”

  This could go on for a while and she didn’t need to see any more. MJ grabbed Mike’s hand and yanked him toward the parking lot, her heels wobbling on the loose gravel, but she refused to let it slow her down.

  “Bye, Ma,” MJ shouted above their voices. She gave one last look at the fallen iron tree, her heart clenching. She wouldn’t let her dad ruin this night.

  MJ loved the electricity of a crisp fall night at the high school football field, with the marching band playing loud but mediocre versions of Michael Jackson and Katy Perry songs. Harvey and Chris walked in front of Lisa and MJ, Harvey’s bald head towering above
everyone else’s. Rather than making him look old, his lack of hair gave him the air of a retired Hells Angel, complete with trimmed beard and flinty eyes. Built like a Packers lineman, he had broad shoulders and tree trunk—size arms, which explained why their son was a star linebacker on the varsity team. Even without his sheriff’s uniform, Harvey radiated authority and order—at least until he looked at Lisa; then he turned to mush. He was putty in her hands and Lisa returned every bit of his adoration.

  Tommy had run off from the four adults to meet some of his friends as soon as they paid their admission. Cozy in her jeans, black wool sweater, and a quilted black vest, MJ scanned the crowd for signs of Kate. She’d brought an extra sweatshirt in case Kate wasn’t dressed warmly enough, but she didn’t see her daughter. Instead, her eyes caught on a light blonde head on course to intersect their group, and her body tensed as if she’d been poked with a cattle prod. Tammie Shezwyski. Maybe it was because she hadn’t eaten since the morning and was still processing the intel about her mom and Dr. VanderHouse. Maybe menopausal hormones raged through her body, wreaking havoc. Maybe thinking about her dad had actually caused something to snap in her brain. But her mind blanked to everything except for one clear thought: Chris and Tammie must not see each other.

  Her heart pounded as she grabbed Chris’s arms and turned him toward her abruptly, disrupting the flow of traffic behind them.

  “Can you run out to the car and get the blanket, please?” The words tumbled out in a near shout.

  “Why didn’t you grab it when we were there three minutes ago?” Chris continued walking to the stands. Why did he have to be so difficult? She gripped his arm tighter. Tammie was closing the gap and she needed to get Chris away.

  “Please, Chris?” She never begged. She picked up her foot to show him her heeled boots. “These are tricky on the gravel, and it’ll take me twice as long as you.” Then she actually fluttered her eyelashes at him. The tiny remaining rational part of her brain threw up its hands in disgust at her.

  Chris’s shoulders slumped in an annoyed sigh; MJ noticed Lisa raising an eyebrow.

  “Fine, okay; I’ll find you in the stands.” He backtracked through the crowd behind them as Harvey resumed their progress toward the bleachers. MJ saw Tammie looking through the crowd, and their eyes met, so MJ turned away as if she needed to say something to Lisa. When she glanced back a moment later, Tammie was gone and the absurdity of her own behavior over the last minute smacked MJ in the face like a wooden paddle.

  “You want to explain what that was all about?” Lisa asked.

  “I’d rather not,” MJ said, her face flushing with embarrassment.

  “When you were in labor with Kate for twenty-five hours and you wanted some ice chips, you tried to get them yourself. Now you’re blaming your shoes for not wanting to go back a hundred feet?”

  “I would have succeeded if I’d been able to feel my legs. Damn epidural.” MJ tried to smile to lighten the mood, but wiping away her ridiculous panic wasn’t working. She hadn’t felt out of control like that since college. Lisa still waited for an explanation, but it would take just one word: “Tammie.”

  Lisa nodded, as MJ knew she would, and patted her arm.

  She hated herself for feeling insecure, for not feeling in control of her life. All it seemed to take was Tammie and her too-tight jeans to remind her of everything she was not. She told herself she’d feel more in control after tomorrow’s date night at the casino, when she and Chris were in a stronger place. She couldn’t let Tammie make her crazy. She needed to fix her marriage and fast. The stakes had been raised.

  Cheerleaders led the crowd in chants of “Go, Hawks, go,” while a beach ball bounced around the bleachers. The air swam with possibilities. Players hoped to score the winning touchdown, students hoped for a first kiss in the dark behind the stands, and parents hoped their kids would stay out of trouble for one more night. As for MJ, all her hopes hinged on Chris.

  Chapter Five

  The clang and din of the casino flashed around MJ and Chris as they wound their way through the slot-machine maze to the escalators. The dinging and flashing of machines amped up her excitement so that she almost bounced along as she followed Chris to the escalator. She tried to look everywhere at once, as lights flashed and people cheered. It seemed like everyone in the Milwaukee area had decided to come to the casino on this Saturday night, or maybe it was like this all the time.

  In the center of the floor stood the blackjack, Pai Gow, roulette, and craps tables. Dealers dealt cards and swept away chips with a practiced ease, as if they did it as often as breathing. People lined up to take their turn with Lady Luck, and smoke wafted in wavy columns, combining in a hazy cloud above the cacophonous room.

  Relieved to emerge from the maze, MJ and Chris rose up the escalators to the second floor, which housed restaurants, the bingo hall, and their destination: the poker room. Once in the large, rectangular room filled with twenty tables, most of which were full at this time on a Saturday night, she and Chris registered at the check-in counter. When a seat opened up—Chris explained—they would head to their table. They stood side by side, and Chris leaned close to talk to her. Warm fuzzies skittered across her skin. Success.

  He wore comfortable jeans and an untucked, striped button-down shirt—typical weekend attire, but it looked better on him than normal. When he moved his arms, the sleeves pulled across his shoulders and biceps, a reminder that he did still work out. As he studied the screens, he ran his hands through his hair, leaving it to defy gravity. She stepped closer to him as he started to explain how a poker room worked, savoring his presence in a way she normally didn’t.

  “So this is how it works. That’s a list of games currently running.” Chris pointed to a screen on the wall. “The games are broken into categories—limit and no-limit, and the amount of the blinds.”

  “What do the different dollar amounts mean?” MJ asked, pointing to the “$1/$2” next to one of the listed games.

  “Those refer to the big and small blinds for that game. Since this is your first time here, you should play a limit game. In limit, those numbers also indicate the starting bets. Players can’t go all in, so it makes it more difficult to bluff. It will give you a chance to feel more comfortable sitting at a table without getting bullied around like you would at a no-limit table. Make sense?”

  MJ nodded.

  Chris led her to the cages, where they each purchased a rack of chips—she, a hundred dollars’ worth, and he, four hundred. MJ winced as she looked at their chips.

  “Do you really need so much?” MJ asked. They could feed Tommy for almost two weeks with five hundred dollars. She knew it was her idea, but was this excessive?

  Chris bumped her arm. “It’s entertainment money. We don’t take expensive trips, have over-the-top cars, or wear designer clothes. Hell, a nice dinner, a couple of drinks, and a movie can be almost two hundred dollars. Here we have a few hours of fun and could win some money back. You even get all the free coffee and soda you can consume.”

  “That sounds like a whole lot of excuses.”

  “That’s why I don’t do it every day.” Chris kissed her nose, but it seemed like the way he would pet the dog, habit with no heart.

  At least he had a point about the money. As she clutched the heavy tray, MJ’s stomach twisted with anticipation. She and Chris were finally spending time together. This is what they were missing, quality time and a shared interest, shaking up their habits. She envisioned nights playing together, raking in the chips, inventing some new poker words.

  “Chris B., table ten,” said a voice from the speakers. Chris started toward his table, MJ on his heels. He turned and put his hand up firmly, like he was telling Daisy to stay. “You need to wait until you get your table assignment. I’m sure it’ll be soon.”

  MJ stopped. Disappointment flooded her mouth and pursed her lips. “We aren’t playing together? But I thought—”

  Chris put his hand on her arm. “I play n
o-limit, and you aren’t ready for that. You need to get used to playing the game first.”

  “But can’t you play limit with me tonight so we can sit at the same table?”

  “Oh, I thought . . . Limit is boring to me. I can’t sit there for a whole evening—I’ll be bored out of my mind. You’ll do great; you always do when you have your mind set on something. See you after.” With that, he turned and walked to his table, leaving MJ hugging her chips for comfort. She looked around and saw a roomful of strangers, every single one of whom knew more about poker than she did. Her breath became shallow as her hands lost all warmth. Tears welled along her carefully applied eyeliner, about to be obliterated just like her carefully made plans. It wasn’t too late. She could turn her chips in and go sit at a slot machine.

  “MJ B., table nineteen.”

  She swallowed, her throat dry. Why had she decided to do this? She didn’t want to be here with a table of people she’d never met. She wanted to sit by her husband. This was how the magic died, good intentions ending in disappointment—like their anniversary lunch. Why waste time being upset? Get it together, MJ. On autopilot, she wound her way through the tables to number nineteen, where an empty seat waited for her. She craned her neck, hoping to at least be able to see her husband from her chair, but she couldn’t even find him. So much for date night.

  She sat down and set her chips on the table, then looked around at her tablemates—all men. A mix of young and old, but no one as welcoming as the Gents. The young men slouched in their chairs, wearing faded hoodies and sunglasses on the backs of their heads. The older men seemed to know one another; a few nibbled nachos and sipped the free drinks brought around by the waitresses. The dealer was a man in his forties with pasty skin and long, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. He turned to MJ and said, loudly, “You need to take them out of the rack.”

  “Huh?”

  “You need to take your chips out of the rack, ma’am.” He swept his hand to the rest of the players, all with neat little stacks in front of them. Her face exploded with heat. She’d been ma’amed by this middle-aged hippie. And why hadn’t Chris told her about taking the chips out of the rack? That seemed like a good tip. Jerk. She carefully stacked them according to color as the cool chips slipped from her fingers, not wanting to stay in neat piles. Each clank drew attention to the fact that she hadn’t known to unpack them right away.