Sweet as Pie by Alicia Hunter Pace
Chapter Thirteen
Jake paused outside the door of his condo Friday when his phone signaled that he had a message.
His mother. We should be there within an hour. Can’t wait to see you!
He answered with a thumbs-up emoji. She hated that, but it was all he had in him right now. She responded with a frowny face. He didn’t respond at all. She hated that more than the thumbs-up, but she let it go—which was unusual for her.
It was game day eve for the Yellowhammers and he had just had the worst practice, if not in his life, certainly in recent memory. Back when they’d played together, Glaz had always been encouraging when someone had a bad practice. “Suck it up, Sparks,” he would have said. “Bad practice means good game.”
That was not what he’d said today. There had been a lot of yelling and cursing—mostly in Russian, but Jake knew cursing when he heard it, whatever the language. Then, before skating off, he’d said, “Go to your house and think of this!”
Well, he was at his house, but he didn’t know if he was going to have time to think about the Glaz lecture—or much of anything else.
The interior designer—Lucy Kincaid—was supposed to be in there with her crew making magic. After discerning that he had no sense about furniture or any preconceived ideas about how his surroundings should look, Lucy had given him a book, had him point to pictures of rooms he liked, and told him she’d take care of it.
Given his luck lately, Lucy probably hadn’t shown up. All he needed was for his mother to say that she had told him so, that he ought to have let her come to Laurel Springs and square things away while he was in Europe. And maybe he should have. Knowing what he ought to do—and ought not to do—wasn’t always easy.
Evidently, he’d pissed Evie off Wednesday night—and he didn’t know if it was something he’d done or not done. He could never remember her getting mad at him before he moved here. She had certainly never practically banished him from her presence, forcing him to leave her standing on the side of the street with Able Killen—who, by the way, had skated like an Olympic champion today to the point that everyone was banging their sticks on the ice chanting, “Killjoy, Killjoy, Killjoy!” How had he got the word out that he had a new nickname—which, by the way, Jake had meant as an insult—anyway? Probably Twitter. He’d probably announced it there and changed his handle to something like Killjoy23412.
Jake had tried to call Evie yesterday, but she hadn’t picked up or returned his call. That had never happened before.
The whole thing made his head hurt. He needed to get his mind on hockey. Anybody who’d seen practice today could attest to that.
A crash behind the condo door startled him. How long had he been standing there? And a better question: what had Lucy Kincaid broken—if it was, in fact, Lucy who was inside? It could be a burglar in there, but burglars were supposed to steal stuff, not break it. He punched the code into the keypad, swung the door open, and moved through the foyer to the living room.
It was startling to see a house that looked like someone lived there. Lucy looked up from where she was arranging pillows on a leather couch.
“Jake! Hello.” She folded a blanket over the back of a chair and came toward him. “What do you think?”
“Looks good.” There were rugs, lots of big furniture, and lamps. The sound of a vacuum cleaner emitted from another room. He wondered if he owned that vacuum cleaner now. If not, he’d probably have to buy one and hire somebody to run it.
“We’re just finishing up,” Lucy said. “Everything is clean. The beds are made. The dishes are washed and put away.” She gestured to the door that led to the rest of the house and took a half step in that direction. “Are you ready to do a walk-through with me?”
He was not. He wanted to have a beer and decompress—maybe even take a short nap—before Christine blew in with big ideas and lots of opinions. But the nap would have to wait until after he called Blake. He needed to talk to him about the bad practice and maybe about pissing Evie off.
Blake.His stomach went cold and his scalp prickled. He wasn’t going to call Blake, could never call him again. How had he forgotten that, even for a split second? He must be losing his mind. Then a new realization came to him, something he was amazed he hadn’t thought of before. This would be the first hockey game of his life where he wouldn’t at least text with Blake on game day. More than likely, he would have been there.
He felt Lucy’s stare on him and snapped back to the matter at hand. She wanted to do a walk-through.
“Are you all right, Jake?” she asked.
“Fine. I heard a crash. Is everything okay?”
“I knocked over the metal coat rack in the foyer. No harm done.” He hadn’t noticed a coat rack, but he’d take her word for it.
“A coat rack is a good idea. At my place in Nashville, my couch was also the coat rack,” he answered on autopilot.
He hadn’t needed a coat here yet, but he’d damn sure needed one in Vermont. He’d been cold in North Dakota. He’d been cold in Canada. He’d even been cold in the Delta when the weather took a notion to be contrary. But he had never known cold like that Vermont cemetery with the gravestones that were so old they were illegible. Would Blake’s headstone one day be illegible? How long did something like that last? Maybe he’d see a lawyer, make a will that stipulated it be replaced every hundred years or so. Or maybe not. Maybe it was best to let time and weather erase the pain of the past.
Lucy Kincaid was laughing. Apparently he was funny when he was on autopilot. “Which would make sitting tricky. We moved your sofa into the den, along with the television and gaming systems. It’s a nice piece.”
He took a deep breath, then another, and another. It was like he’d been in a different dimension, but was phasing back in. He was here having a conversation with Lucy, who mistakenly thought his surroundings were important.
“Come and let me show you. I think you’ll like the bar and the media storage system.”
This woman was determined to make him look at his new stuff. “I’ll take a look later. I’m sure it’s great.”
She frowned. “You don’t want to make sure everything’s to your liking?”
He gestured to the living room. “Does it all look like that?”
“Not exactly—but I was going for a masculine English country look, and that theme is carried throughout.”
“Thanks. Do you have a bill for me?” He reached for his wallet.
“No. I’ll send it once you decide you’re satisfied.”
“Sounds good.” If his mother had a place to lay her head, he’d be satisfied—which did bring a question to mind. “Which room did you fix up for my parents?” He would have bet dollars to doughnuts that she would try to make him look at it, but it seemed like she’d gotten the message.
“The yellow room down the hall from the master suite. It’s the second largest and has a full bath.”
“Good.”
Lucy looked hesitant. “I hope they’ll be happy with it. I hope you’re happy.”
“What I’ve seen is great.”
She seemed as happy as a decorator who wasn’t getting to do a walk-through with her client could. “Fine. I’ll be going now. Call me if there’s something that you want to change.”
“I will.” He wouldn’t. “Send me that bill.”
After closing the door behind Lucy and her army, Jake went to the kitchen for a beer, but thought better of it. Maybe he would lay off the beer until the preseason games were over. It wasn’t as if what little he was drinking would affect his game, but it was a good exercise in discipline.
All that fancy cookware he and Evie had bought was suspended on racks from the ceiling, and there was other stuff scattered around, including his outstanding new coffee maker. The place looked like someone was going to come in and cook any minute.
He had thought that would be Evie.
Jake was reaching in the refrigerator for a bottle of water when his phone buzzed.
His mother, no doubt. Yep. Maybe they would go to dinner as soon as they got here. He could pick up a frozen chicken pot pie to have before bedtime. He wasn’t superstitious about that but, after practice today, he wasn’t taking any chances.
He opened the text.
We’re downstairs. You didn’t tell us we needed a code to take the elevator. That would have been a more productive text than the thumb.
He laughed a little and sent a thumbs-up, followed by the number sequences for the elevator and the key pad to his door. Minutes later, his parents sailed through the door, his father loaded down with luggage and his mother carrying only her purse and a white bakery box—probably something from Anna-Blair’s shop.
“Well, if it’s not Christine and Marc Champagne, the Ole Miss Homecoming Queen and her escort, 1923.”
His dad laughed and set down the three bags he carried. “I feel that old after that drive.”
Christine closed her eyes and shook her head. She was slicked up and powdered, looking every bit like the credit to Omega Beta Gamma Ole Miss Royalty that she was. “I’ve a mind to turn right around and take myself back to the Delta this instant.” She set her little purse and the box down on a table by the door that he hadn’t noticed before.
“Don’t lie to me, Christine,” Jake said. “Sherman’s army couldn’t blast you out of here. You’re all shined up and ready to meet your public.”
“It’s your public, and don’t call me Christine. Do you want your teammates and coaches to see me looking like I just rolled out of bed?”
“You don’t look like you just rolled out of bed even when you have.”
“Oh, you are sweet.” She beamed at him and they landed in a group hug.
Christine said, “Let’s see where you live.” It looked like he was going to do that walk-through, after all. Lucy Kincaid was one thing, but Christine Champagne was another.
He picked up two of the bags his father had carried in and led them to the living room. Christine gasped. “Jake, this is beautiful.”
“You like it? I’ve been doing a little decorating—picked up a few things at Walmart.”
“Sure you did.” Damn, Christine. You’re on to me.
Walking through his house was like a trip to a foreign land. There was stuff everywhere—benches and tables in the hallway, lamps, globes, clocks, crystal liquor decanters on silver trays. By the time they got to his parents’ room, he was worn out just from looking at it all.
“So tasteful,” his mother said. “Very English country.”
“Yeah.” Jake opened the door to their room. “That’s what I was going for. I looked at some books and said, ‘That’s just my style.’ Masculine English country, you understand. Then I called Walmart and had them round up everything in their masculine English country section. They’ll do that for you at Walmart, if you’re Jake Champagne.”
She ignored him completely. “I don’t know who did this, but it’s wonderful.” She walked around the bedroom, touching things as she went—the bed with the red checked covers and four hundred pillows, chest with a big pitcher and bowl, and rocking chair by the window.
Jake hauled one of the suitcases onto one of the luggage racks, as his father did the same. “I guess we can put the other one on the chest at the end of the bed.” He needed more luggage racks if his mother was going to be visiting regularly. It wasn’t Lucy’s fault that she didn’t know Christine Champagne did not travel light.
“Oh, flowers!” Christine bent to smell the yellow roses on the bedside table. He owed Lucy big for that.
“Uh, yeah. Did you know they have yellow roses right at Walmart—in the feminine English country section.”
Christine laughed. “Do you think I fell off a turnip truck yesterday? You didn’t get these flowers.” She frowned a little. “Evie didn’t get them, did she?”
Had he heard her right? “No, why would you think that?”
“No reason.” She opened her train case, pulled out a brush, and drew it through her perfectly smooth hair.
“The decorator put them there. She brought a crew with her.”
Christine nodded with approval. “Nice job. Are you hungry? I brought you a chicken pot pie.” That was good news. His mother could make a decent chicken pot pie. She retrieved the bakery box from the foyer and headed toward the kitchen. “I assume the kitchen is through here. Do you have the makings for a salad?”
He should have bought some groceries. “If you can make salad from beer, yogurt, popcorn, CLIF Bars, and cheese. I think there’s cheese.”
Christine laughed as she entered the kitchen. “This is gorgeous.” She set the pie on the counter.
“Nice,” Marc said, walking straight to the espresso/coffee maker. “Did this come with the place?”
“No. I bought it so you’d have coffee when you’re here. We can make some, but we’ll have to figure out how to work it.” Except he didn’t have any coffee...unless... Maybe decorating a living space included buying groceries. He opened the pantry. No such luck.
“I have to say your interior designer has exquisite taste.” When Jake looked up, Christine had taken down one of those fancy pots and was inspecting the little acorns on the handle.
“Oh. Evie picked those out—or at least she put me on to them. She said they were too expensive, but I bought them anyway. They look good in here, don’t you think?”
“Did she now?” Christine said. She shifted her eyes toward Marc and set her mouth in a line—not like she was mad, but like she was considering. Finally, she spoke. “Marc, will you go to the supermarket and get some salad makings? And don’t forget the dressing.”
“Sure.” Marc reached into his pocket for his keys.
“No, Dad,” Jake said. “Let me. You just got off the road. I should have bought some groceries anyway.”
“No, Jake,” Christine said. “I want to visit a little with you.” Hellfire and brimstone. He knew what that meant. She was about to lay down the law to him about something. That hadn’t happened in a while. She slid onto one of the stools at the eating counter, met Jake’s eyes, and pointed to the seat next to her. “Get a bottle of pinot grigio, too, Marc.”
“Anything else?” Marc asked.
“Uh, better get some coffee,” Jake said. “And cream and sugar.”
Once Marc was gone, Christine pointed to the bakery box on the counter. “We picked this up when we dropped Anna-Blair and Keith off at Evie’s shop.”
Evie had made him a chicken pot pie. Maybe this meant she wasn’t mad at him, after all. Maybe she was tired and he had misread the whole thing. He pulled the box toward him and opened the lid.
No Santa and his sleigh this time, but what he saw made him laugh. She’d decorated the top with crossed hockey sticks, stars, and the stylized yellowhammer bird that was the team mascot. There were words, too: Go, Sparks, #8!
“This is great!” he said. “I’ll have to thank her.”
“Do that,” Christine said. “She wouldn’t take any money, though I tried to insist on paying her when I ordered it. I’ll pick up a little gift for her.”
Disappointing. Evie hadn’t just made it on her own.
“She went to a lot of trouble to decorate it,” Christine said.
“She does that,” Jake said. “Bees, if there’s honey in it; peaches, if it’s a peach pie; scenes for different seasons. She really is an artist.”
Christine smiled. “Evie looked wonderful, better than I’ve ever seen her. She’s let her hair grow, and her makeup was beautiful.”
“She does look good,” Jake agreed.
Christine put an elbow on the counter and leaned forward. She was going in for the kill. “Jake, you aren’t thinking of getting involved with Evie, are you?”
He hadn’t known what to expect, but not that. “No. Of course, not.” And what if I was? But he wasn’t. “You know how it is with Evie and me. We’re friends. And it’s nice to have someone from home here.”
Christine nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. Because you know that wouldn’t be wise.”
“No.” But why? There are reasons. I just can’t think of them right now.
“First of all, she’s Channing’s cousin.” Right. That was one of the reasons. He didn’t need to worry about remembering the rest of them because his mother was going to name them. “It would be a little strange, don’t you think?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Second, she’s Keith and Anna-Blair’s daughter. They’re our best friends—your godparents.”
Like he didn’t know that. “And their land adjoins ours. In medieval times, you’d have married us off as toddlers.”
He laughed, but Christine did not.
“Don’t even joke about that, son. You think I don’t know how you’ve been acting since Channing. I probably don’t know the extent of it, but I know enough.”
That shouldn’t have surprised him. She read The Face Off Grapevine. At a loss, he shrugged. He certainly wasn’t going to tell her he’d made a bet that he wouldn’t have sex for three months. He would prefer his mother think he had never had sex and never would.
She shook her head. “But I don’t want to talk about that.”
Thank you, Jesus.
“It’s been a hard time for you. At least you didn’t rebound and run off to Vegas. That happens sometimes.”
“You didn’t need to worry about that.”
“Well, I did worry,” Christine said. “So did Marc and your grandmother. Olivia. Addison. We all worried. Blake maybe more than anyone.” She closed her eyes and bowed her head.
Yes, he would have worried about that, like he worried about everything that concerned Jake. Blake liked Evie, always had. Jake covered Christine’s hand with his own. “But it didn’t happen.”
“No. But, when you get tired of running the streets with a different girl every night, you probably will rebound. You will almost certainly get involved with someone who will get you from point A to point C. Jake”—she placed her other hand on top of his—“that can’t be with Evie. You can’t hurt her.”
“How do you know it wouldn’t be Evie who hurts me?”It was a valid question.
“Surely you’re not that dense,” Christine said and let her eyes rest on the chicken pie.
“Well, I never was at the top of my class.”
Christine frowned and looked like she was going to say something else, but Marc came through the door with his arms full of groceries. “I got eggs, bacon, and the stuff for pancakes. I’ll make breakfast in the morning,” he said.
“Good.” Christine popped up from her seat. “I didn’t think of that, but Jake will need breakfast.” She wouldn’t have, given that she took her breakfast in bed—breakfast prepared by someone else. “Jake, do you have a salad bowl?”
“Let me look and see.” If he didn’t, he was sure there was a copper pot that would do. “How do you feel about eating your breakfast off a paella pan?” He was reasonably sure he didn’t have a tray.