iii: Life is Like a Box of Chocolates. (You never know what you’re going to get.)
If there is some kind of purgatory on Earth, a limbo outside of time, Sophie has found it. Tucked into the small apartment over the Mancuso pool house, she waits. All the paperwork has been submitted- passports, name change- but the government moves at a pace that would make a sloth proud. The days have few distinguishing features. They blur together, inconsequential. It’s already been a month.
“Sophie!” JJ calls from his post by the grill. “You’d better get down here before my wife tries her hand at your pasta dish! That’d be deadly to us all!”
Savannah smacks his arm with a grimace.
“Ow,” JJ complains good-naturedly, smiling as he rubs his arm.
“Coming!” Sophie calls, already descending the stairs with the appropriate ingredients. She grabs Savannah’s hand as she rushes by, pulling her into the kitchen- JJ watching as the women retreat from his line of sight.
“Oh, Sophie, give it up,” Savannah complains as she staggers after her. “I’m a lost cause . . . can’t even boil water.”
“Nope,” Sophie announces, plopping her stash onto the countertop. She’s taken on Savannah’s culinary education as her personal project, much to her husband’s amusement and her own mortification.
“Big pot of water,” Sophie instructs, stooping to pull out the soup pot.
“Big pot of water,” Savannah repeats, filling it at the boiling water faucet over the range.
“Salt the water.”
“Salt the water,” she repeats. “Tell me again why?”
“It lowers the boiling point of the water and adds flavor.”
“Right.”
Step by step, Sophie takes her through the simple recipe to create a white sauce: butter, flour, milk, parmesan cheese and stir like the dickens. They’ve made this recipe numerous times already but Savannah has always professed to be too intimidated to try it alone.
“Perfect,” Sophie announces, when the sauce thickens. Leaning against the counter, she watches her student pour it over wide egg noodles and toss the concoction together. “So when do you plan to tell JJ that you can do this?”
“Never,” she hisses. “God, he’d actually expect me to cook!”
Sophie laughs, following her into the screened porch where the family has set up dinner tonight.
“Mom, you’ve set too many places,” Jeremy notes, looking around the table.
“No I haven’t,” she asserts in her quiet voice. Despite the low volume, there’s no contradicting that tone.
Jeremy watches his mother but she ignores him, walking back into the house. Suddenly his face turns sour. “Oh damn. Jack’s back.”
Savannah takes in a deep breath. “It’ll be okay, Jeremy.”
But Jeremy’s sour expression doesn’t soften. “It’s never okay around Jacks.”
JJ and Savannah exchange a concerned expression, but no one else mentions the matter and Sophie doesn’t ask. She’s only briefly met Jacks, the middle son. JJ, or James Jr, is his father’s duplicate in appearance and ability. Thirty years old, he’s already on his way to becoming a partner in a law firm. Jeremy is the youngest, the surprise. He’s only sixteen.
But Sophie knows nothing of Jacks. No one speaks of him- as if the subject were taboo.
“Hey mom. I’m home,” someone calls, rather flatly, from the foyer.
“Jacks!” Cheryl calls, excited.
Silence. Everyone looks to everyone else. Tension is thick and Sophie wonders if she should just discretely bow out of the dinner.
Then he walks in. Just as before, the clothes are simple and entirely irrelevant. They only showcase the man himself: the white t-shirt straining over his developed chest and thick arms. Raking his long bangs away from his pale eyes, he rubs the back of his neck and cautiously takes in the presence of everyone in the room.
“Well, come on, come on!” Cheryl goads, shooing her overly large son into the kitchen. “Don’t linger in doorways! My goodness, didn’t you mother teach you any manners?”
Jacks looks down at his petite mother without a trace of humor.
No one else dares speak. They only move once Jacks has ambled through the kitchen, his boots loud on the kitchen tiles. With nervous, sideways glances, everyone settles into their places around the dining room table- the usually animated performance stunted. The delicious dinner turns into something more like sand with every line of conversation.
“So, JJ, how are things going?” Cheryl asks politely while passing a dish around the table.
“Fine. Fine. Got a new client . . .”
“It’s always fine with JJ, Mom. You know that,” Jacks bites sharply, ending the conversation.
Silence. It’s awkward and uncomfortable.
“Jeremy, did swim practice go alright?” Cheryl chirps, the cheer beginning to sound strained.
“Yeah.”
Nothing.
“You’re father’s running for Congress, Jacks,” Cheryl offers into the silence.
Jacks’ body hardens. His eyes lift from his plate- stony and unimpressed- to meet his father’s. “Is that so?”
“What about you, Jacks?” James suddenly demands, sounding irritable. “Where have you lit this time? Are you working?”
Jacks shrugs. “I work when I want.” He frowns, taking in his audience. “I’m not coming home, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“No one’s worried about that,” Cheryl reassures, reaching to touch her son.
He pulls his hand away gruffly, hiding it in his lap.
Silence.
Suddenly Jacks stands up, “This was a mistake. I’m sorry to ruin your dinner.” And he turns to leave.
Sophie stares after him, mouth open.
“Yeah, that was our personal tornado in the flesh,” Jeremy grouses. “My brother.”
Sophie presses her lips together and searches for something to say. She has nothing. Keeping her eyes on the ground, she gathers her dishes and avoids everyone’s hurt expressions as she makes her escape; but just on the other side of the double French doors, she runs into Jacks’ stiff body.
“Excuse me,” she mutters as she tries to slide by his broad shoulders. Jiminy Christmas, the man could be made of stone. Tense muscles make for unyielding rock and the rude cretin doesn’t move.
“Yeah, whatever,” he huffs, starting to walk away. He only makes it as far as the doorway.
Glancing behind her, Sophie makes sure that the door is closed, then wandering to the sink she deposits the dishes and issues the challenge. “You know you were being an ass.”
“Don’t get in the middle of this, little girl,” he growls, turning his head a little towards her to throw his voice in her general direction but the woman in his periphery stutters his anger. He pulls his body around to face her more fully. Her hands are perched on shapely hips; her low ponytail tickles the rise of her breast- a full figure that would fill his wide hands. Jumping to inspect her face, he finds chocolate brown eyes that flash with intelligence and cheeks flushed with self-righteous anger- anger at him. As if she had the right. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Like it matters. What are you planning on doing? Disappearing again?”
“Probably.”
“Then it doesn’t matter who I am, does it?”
“No,” he bites but he’s intrigued.
“Exactly. It was . . . interesting . . . to see you again Jacks.”
He’s dismissed and he knows it. There was no better way for this woman to keep his interest.
“Jacks!” His mother gushes with too much enthusiasm, tearing his attention away from the buxom brunette. “You’re still here!”
“Yeah, I’m here,” Jacks notes flatly. “Sorry about dinner.”
But his mother brusquely waves her hands as if it were possible to physically shoo the unpleasant incident out of the room. “We’re heading to Jeremy’s game. Come!”
“Everyone?” Jacks inquires, his eyes sliding away from his mother to follow the sway of his brunette’s retreat.
His mother smiles slyly. “Yes, everyone.”
“Yeah. Sure,” he agrees sardonically. “That’s my thing: high school sports.”
“Football: Jeremy’s on the Varsity team this year. We all go to the games.” Cheryl sinks into the armchair in front of her son. Looking up into her son’s high face, it looks too much like she’s begging. “Come on, Jacks. What’s there to lose?”
Jacks sighs. It’s a sigh of surrender.
“Gone, mom! See you at the field!” Jeremy calls from another room.
“Whoa. Shirt and tie. That’s something,” Jacks notes.
“Coach’s rules,” Jeremy shrugs dismissively from the door. “See ya, mom.”
Jack harrumphs.
“He’s doing better, Jack,” Cheryl promises. Fidgety, she wanders around the room and plumps the pillows. “I know what you did for him.” She stares out the window, uncomfortable. “Was he . . . was he already . . .”
“Not that I found,” Jack grumbles. “And I tore his room up pretty good. Still, those friends of his . . .”
“I know,” Cheryl whispers. “I’m glad it was you. I don’t think he would have ever forgiven your father.”
“He hasn’t forgiven me,” Jacks growls, staring at the door where his little brother disappeared. “Neither has JJ.”
“You didn’t have to leave.”
“Yeah, mom. Yeah, I did.” He laughs, the sound hard and humorless.
“You’re my son, too.”
Jack shifts uncomfortably, his face puckered into a scowl. “Don’t we have a game to go to or something?”
“Run!” Sophie screams, as if her screaming matters. She jumps onto the bleacher seat and jumps with the words. “Run! Run! You got it now! Go, Jeremy!”
Her voice is one of hundreds. The stands are packed with people, everyone scrunched together on the concrete bleachers. On their feet now, they all scream for the quarterback racing towards the goal: Jeremy. He runs, his back straight, his knees lifting high, his free arm pumping hard. No one can touch him.
One step below Sophie, another woman stands utterly still, utterly silent. Reported to be the girlfriend, she presses her hands together, prayer-like and holds her breath as Jeremy runs. She does it every time Jeremy has the ball.
Jacks looks over his shoulder at Sophie and then back to the girlfriend, trying to process their various forms of excitement. He seems baffled by it.
The referee holds up his hands: goal. The crowd cheers madly. The cheerleaders jump and throw their pom-poms. The other players slap hands and helmets but Jeremy just walks back onto the field- calm and cool- and slaps the ball into the referee’s hands like it was all in a day’s work.
“That’s my boy!” James crows.
“Oh James!” Cheryl cries, throwing her arms around her husband’s shoulders. The only reason she can reach is because she’s standing on her seat.
James grins crookedly at Jacks. “So, what do you think?”
“Is it always this crowded?”
James looks around the stadium. “Naw. Last weekend was homecoming. We didn’t even have a place to stand.” He looks sternly at his son. “Your brother’s become the hometown hero.”
“Great,” Jacks mutters blackly. It looks as if the weight on his shoulders has just increased, tenfold.
The whistle blows, signaling the end of the game. Players shake hands. The coaches meet in the middle of the field, following suit. Rachel watches Jeremy’s every move, biting her lip anxiously. She waits until he removes his helmet and looks at her. Not at the group in general but at her, meeting her eyes. He lifts his hand, a subtle wave, then indicates the direction of the locker rooms with a tilt of his head. The movements are small, discrete; but Rachel knows each one without any explanation. She’s never required an explanation.
Sophie watches the young couple with a repressed smile. They’re good together.
“Excuse me, Sophie,” Rachel whispers.
“Will we see you later, Rachel?”
Rachel pushes her dark, thick hair away from her face nervously and shrugs. But then her dark eyes meet Cheryl’s and she smiles. Her cheeks flush prettily. Rushing away from the group, she weaves through the crowd to find Jeremy.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Cheryl muses, watching her retreat.
“Doesn’t say too much, does she?”
Sophie laughs as she jumps off her seat. “As little as possible!”
“Sophie found her,” Cheryl announces.
“Did not,” she immediately rebuffs. “Just saw this coming, that’s all.”
They descend the steps together, pressed close by the mass of people slowly ambling towards their cars. Jacks looks over the woman beside him and tries to squelch the curiosity. He fails. “Spill.”
Lifting her gaze, Sophie catches a glimpse of his steel eyes in the stadium light. It’s uncanny how every man in the family has them: some shade of grey or light blue. But, by far, Jack’s grey eyes are the coldest- like the man’s seen too much.
“When I’d come to pick him up, she’d always be there, watching the practices. She’d watch every move Jeremy made. Every time they’d tackle him, she’d gasp. She wouldn’t breathe again until he stood.” Sophie slips her hands around Jacks’ arm, as if he were escorting her. “But even after I spoke to her, Jeremy wouldn’t do anything more than nod to her. They’re both too quiet.”
Jacks’ eyes flint from the place where her hands have curled around his arm, then back to her flushed face, bemused by the casual affection. “So, what happened?”
“One of the other football players asked her out, right in the middle of a practice. He came on a bit strong. Rachel was really uncomfortable, but the more she squirmed, the closer this guy got. Man has no idea about personal boundaries. He kept trying to lift her chin, to make her look at him. Completely clueless! Couldn’t read body language if she were scrawling the words on a page.”
“Well, the guy got a little angry. I was heading over there, to intervene. The coach was right behind me. Jeremy beat us both. He pulled the brute away from Rachel and told him, in no uncertain terms, that Rachel was not interested. When he turned his back, the guy jumped him. Jeremy handled it pretty well, considering how little we’d covered by then.”
Jacks looks at his father, his eyebrows raised in question.
“Don’t sneak up on her. You’ll regret it,” he grunts.
Shocked, Jacks looks back down at the small, soft woman hanging onto his arm. She’s a kitten. All curves, he has absolutely no doubt that she’s addicted to books and lap tops- probably never even seen the inside of a gym.
Sophie ignores his appraisal. “After that, well, Jeremy seems to prefer to keep her close. And Rachel . . . honestly . . . I think she’s star-struck.”
Cheryl giggles from her place under James’ arm. “They both are. They’re absolutely inseparable these days.” She nods towards the brick high school. “Look.”
Jeremy is leaving the building, carrying the broad shoulder pads in one hand. Rachel waits for him under a tree. They meet somewhere in the middle- Jeremy simply raising his arm to fit Rachel’s tall, statuesque figure next to Jeremy’s taller frame. She fits neatly into the crook of his shoulder. They gaze at the other, with the soft expression of new love, before Jeremy turns them and guides them to the beat up jalopy Sophie and Jeremy have dubbed the Rust Bucket.
“I’ve never known two people to speak less,” Cheryl murmurs. “They simply don’t seem to need it.”
Back in the little apartment over the pool house, Sophie pops popcorn while Jeremy, Rachel, and Jacks lounge in the tiny living room, watching a movie on the old fashioned tube T.V. The movie is already more than half over and refills were necessary. Sophie drenches the snack with butter and salt before plopping it into the middle of the coffee table.
“Sorry, Sophie. I’ve got to get Rachel home,” Jeremy says apologetically, pushing himself up off the floor.
Rachel sighs, disappointed, then takes Jeremy’s hand and lets him haul her up off the floor too. On the couch, Jacks digs into the large bowl of popcorn and slouches a little deeper into the old cushions. His feet hang off the end.
“You’ve got to be exhausted,” Sophie notes, hoping he’ll take the hint.
He shrugs, still watching the television. His eyes slide a little to the door, watching his brother and girlfriend disappear.
“Can I pry?” She asks, sounding bold.
“Only if I can return the favor,” he retorts, not looking away from the television.
“What happened? With Jeremy?”
“Drugs.”
Sophie stares at the door where the boy had just disappeared. It doesn’t seem feasible that the sweet, lanky sixteen year old had ever gotten into trouble. “But you said . . . you said you hadn’t found anything . . .”
“And you were eavesdropping in a conversation that had nothing to do with you,” Jacks bites back. He hangs his head off the back of the couch and stares at the ceiling. “I lied, okay? Mom doesn’t need anything more. Good god, she’s already had extended visits at the maison de fous . . .”
“Maison de fous?” Sophie repeats, confused.
“Mental hospital . . . for depression,” Jacks translates, sounding unhappy about it. “He was only eleven- too damn young to drag into this business- but there it was: a stash under his mattress. Swore it wasn’t his. Said he was keeping it for a friend. I had a friend in the police. We turned in the evidence, booked him, scared him, and his ‘friends’,” Sophie can hear the quotation marks around the word, “Damn, he was mad at me.”
“Well, he’s clean now. Thank God,” she sinks to sit on the floor in front of the couch and stares at the screen. She doesn’t really see the actors.
“Oh, he never touched the shit,” Jacks asserts, sounding certain. “Bad business.”
That stumps Sophie for a moment. Jeremy had drugs, but wasn’t using? Isn’t that odd? And what did he mean by ‘bad business?’ “And you? What happened with you?”
“Don’t go there.”
Sophie turns to look the man over. His shirt discarded, his chest overflows the narrow couch. He needs a good shave, but it doesn’t hide the strong features. He’s rugged. Handsome. And he looks as if he could command the attention of a room, even if he never donned a suit. Some men just don’t belong in suits. Too . . . restrictive.
“Well, you wanted to pry, too. What’s it going to be?”
“So . . . you’re the gold digger,” Jacks doesn’t turn to look at her. His voice carries enough animosity.
“Yep. That’s me. I’m just in it for the money.” The sour note in Sophie’s voice is enough to pierce even Jacks’ hardened attitude. “But you’re missing a few nasties. Why don’t you start at the top with whore and work your way on down. You won’t be the first to say it. Won’t be the last. God knows, no one could actually believe he could care about me.”
She chokes and Jacks sits up, feeling a twinge of guilt.
“What’s worse,” Sophie mutters, swiping the tears away from her cheeks. “They were probably right.”
Escaping the room, Sophie assumes the cretin on her couch can find his own way out. She paces the small bedroom, letting the anger and mortification burn her eyes and wet her cheeks. Bad enough to suffer through the death of her marriage; to suffer through everyone’s judgment is nearly unbearable.
The phone trills from her purse and Sophie has to dig to the bottom before she finds it; but the name it announces breaks the last of Sophie’s composure: Maria. She’s probably calling to inform Sophie whose company Bryce is keeping tonight.
It’s too much. On her hands and knees- still sniffing and swiping at her tears- Sophie digs into the back corner of the small closet until she unearths a five-and-dime store duffle bag. Tossed onto her bed, it gaps open like an animal waiting to be fed. Sophie obliges: tossing in the taboo bikini, the more modest one piece, the cover-up, a mish-mash of shorts and tank tops. Mashing a button on her phone as she digs through her dresser, she perches the device on her ear.
“Hey Jen. You know how you said I could use the beach house?” She listens to her high school friend prattle about the last weekend’s exploits, still wiping unwanted moisture from her face. “Yeah, well, uhm, I kinda need a change of scenery.” Sophie closes her eyes as if the action could erase her pain, Bryce’s betrayals, and Jacks’ accusations from her mind. “Right,” she agrees, turning for warmer clothes. “No, right. I understand. Cooler this weekend. Got it. Hey, maybe I’ll have the beach to myself. I can hope.”
Her favorite yoga pants and a fleecy hoodie sail through the air and land in the duffle bag. Two points, Sophie silently crows, making herself smile through the sniffles. “No, Jen. I’m leaving now. It’s only about five hours. I’ll see the sun rise on the water.” Yanking the obstinate zipper across the overstuffed bag, Sophie nods to her conversation partner as if she could see her. “No. I know. I’ll be careful. Right. Alright. See ya, girl. Bye.”
Jacks is still there. His chest still seems too broad for the narrow, worn couch. His legs still dangle off the end. She hates that he looks so comfortable. She hates his intrusions and assumptions. He’s a calloused, unrepentant jerk. And he’s too gangly, she adds for good measure.
Looking up at her, his pale eyes expose his confusion. “You going somewhere?”
“Take the apartment for the weekend,” Sophie offers, walking by him. “Eat whatever you want. Just be gone when I get back.”
Jacks watches her all the way to the door then stares as if she’d reappear. She doesn’t. Even after she’s tossed her bag into the trunk and thought of no less than a half-dozen things she’d forgotten to pack, she refuses to re-enter that apartment. Plopping into the low driver’s seat, she starts the old rust bucket and heads for the water.
Idiot, Jacks berates himself. His head lolls off the end of the couch, watching the apartment door. Even upside down, it won’t open again. That luscious bundle of curves that he’d chased all night, even going as far as to follow her company into this apartment, uninvited, has escaped and it’s his fault.
Rocking himself to sit upright on the couch, Jacks curls over his hands and scowls at the floor. He curses the ghosts that follow him; that sabotage his pursuits. Not that chasing his uncle’s trophy wife is a particularly wise course of action, but he has to concede that the man has taste. Leave the emaciated spinners for the rest of them. Sophie would fill his hands. He can almost feel the soft give of her flesh; the heat of her well rounded hips nestled over his lap.
Groaning, Jacks has to stop the play-by-play in his head. She’s lost to him now. All because he had to go and open his cursed mouth. Ambling to the refrigerator, Jacks searches for something that’ll take the edge off his humiliation. A beer would be good but the pretty thing only keeps a box of wine. He laughs at the sight. It fits her: a common box wine. With a flip of his fingers, he shuts the refrigerator door and leaves his parents’ estate to go find a decent beer.
“Are you off, son?” James asks as Jacks strolls by the side of the house, just as if it were normal to be watering the garden in the dark hours before midnight.
“Yep.” He doesn’t slow.
“I wouldn’t mess with that one. She’s out of your league,” his father reports, watching the water disappear into the black soil.
Anger burns through Jacks’ mind, heating the back of his cold, grey eyes. “And who’s to say who’s in my league? Maybe she’s out of my league! Another gold digger? Yeah. That’s what I need.”
James lifts a can to his mouth and takes a long gulp, avoiding his son’s eyes. “Got a pre-nup. She gets nothing. Still think she’s digging for gold?”
“Pre-nup? In his favor?” Jacks asks, feeling stumped.
“She was ‘in love.’ Guess that precludes common sense,” his father offers drolly. “Bryce took everything, even what was legally in her name. We managed to free up her bank account but haven’t gotten much farther than that. He’s trying to blacklist her. None of her previous employers will even give her a recommendation.”
“Why?” Jacks asks. The anger turned away, his voice is soft with new respect and curiosity.
“The family.”
The hair on the back of Jacks' neck rises. "What did she do?"
"She's an accountant. Caught a money laundering scheme," James informs him in a flat voice. "I'm just saying that maybe you shouldn't get too attached, Jacks."
Jacks can only stare at his father.
"We're out of our league," he adds, staring into the mud he's making in his midnight garden.