Spicing Up Trouble: a romantic comedy (39 page)

"What was it last month? Blenders?"

"Smoothie makers," Mattie corrected. "My apartment is starting to look like an appliance store. And I hate carrying these things home on the train."

"Donate them," Dianne laughed. "Or, better yet, sell them on eBay."

And just like that, she turned and left, reminding Mattie of the Cheshire Cat in
Alice in Wonderland
.

*   *   *

Arriving at her train stop that evening, Mattie hoisted the slow cooker box into her arms and apologized to everyone she bumped into on her way down the steps that deposited her at the corner of Fullerton and Sheffield.

Her cheeks burned in the cool fall air that carried with it the tantalizing aroma of basil-laced tomato sauce, covered with imported mozzarella on a crispy bed of butter and cornmeal crust.

Her inner food slut moaned, "Melvin's."

Ducking into the purveyor of the best deep-dish pizza in the city, she set the box on the counter with a huff.

A perky blonde greeted her with a sugary smack of enthusiasm, "Hey Mattie. What can I get you today?"

"Hi Trish. The usual. Only this time, make it a large and could you ask one of the guys to bring it by?" Patting the box, she stated the obvious. "I've got my hands full tonight."

Handing over her credit card, she added, "And throw in a pint of gelato too, please."

Holding the card in midair, Trish asked. "Chocolate or pistachio?"

Mattie gave her a knowing look.

"What was I thinking?" Trish laughed. "Chocolate, it is."

She handed back the credit card and sent Mattie on her way with the promise of a dinner she shouldn't eat to an apartment she couldn't afford, and carrying a slow cooker she didn't want, all the while thinking of a marriage that could have been.

*   *   *

Nick DeRosa planted his feet on the edge of the red spray-painted line that served as the first mile marker at the Illinois High School Association's boys' cross-country state meet. Peering down the trail that wound through Peoria's Detwieler Park, he checked the stopwatch cupped in the palm of his hand. The bright green numbers flashed "4:20."

"Where are they?" he whispered.

Standing within earshot, a trim man, fiftyish with a casual, but well-appointed air about him edged closer and replied, "Must be the mud, Coach."

Nick glanced at his unofficial assistant Lester Crenshaw, publisher of the Griffin Media Group's
Chicago Gazette
. Like Nick, he was a former all-American runner, but Lester was also the proud father of the team's number seven man.

Before he could respond, Nick felt the ground begin to rumble as two hundred high school boys charged toward them.

Backing away, he handed his stopwatch to Lester, pulled a pen out from behind his ear, lifted his clipboard from under his arm, and shouted, "Give me the times."

Lester didn't miss a beat.

"5:05, 5:15, 5:26, 5:45, 5:48, 6:10, 6:40."

When the last Knollwood Knight flew past them, the two men started marching across a manicured field toward the second mile marker. The sky had cleared after the early morning shower but neither took notice of the brilliant fall colors surrounding them.

"Think we'll place?" Lester ventured as he hurried after Nick whose strides were nearly double in length to his own.

Nick stopped and turned to face him. "Like I tell my guys, it's not about winning. It's about doing their best. If they place, they place. If they don't, they don't."

He watched Lester's eyes rove from his worn shoes to his frayed cap, noting the disappointment he had in his "hometown hero" almost as clearly as if Lester had spoken it out loud. "You know, Coach, some parents seem to think you're too soft on the guys. I think they miss Burt's ironfisted approach."

"Is that right? I'd like to see them survive the workouts I put these guys through."

He left Lester in his wake as he continued his stomp across the field, trying to shake off the ghost of his former coach, even if he did give him a job when no one else would.

By the time he reached the two-mile marker, Nick had calmed down enough to realize that Lester was right. Their coaching methods were not the same. Where Burt Stoltz, an iconic figure in the field of high school boys' cross-country, had focused on punishing workouts to build up his runners' physical strength, Nick believed the greater reward came from building up their emotional strength.

Catching up to Nick well before the hoards of other parents, coaches, and well-wishers, Lester checked the time on the stopwatch against the numbers flashing on the big digital timer on the opposite side of the trail.

Turning to Nick he said, "I hope you know I don't share in their opinion. I'll never be able to thank you enough for all that you've done for Bobby. For us."

Nick frowned at him. "What are ya talkin' about? Bobby's a great kid."

Lester slapped him on the back. "Yes, but you are an amazing coach. You are. I don't care what anybody else thinks. When his mother and I divorced, that was really hard on him. Just a couple of months ago, he was frail, bullied, and starting to self-destruct. But look at him now. He's a varsity cross-country runner. Never thought I'd see the day. They ought to call you 'The Transformer.'"

Nick shook his head and thought about Bobby. He first met the boy when he caught him trying to swipe a stack of hall passes from the teachers' lounge. There was something about his manner that reminded Nick of his own twin brother. Like Bobby, Eddie didn't feel that the rules applied to him, so he broke them. Often. And, like Eddie, who bought his popularity by selling exam answer sheets that he had stolen after hacking into the school district's database, Bobby thought the only way he could get people to like him was by selling them a hall pass.

Like so many high school underdogs, all they needed was the right combination of discipline and positive feedback. So, instead of regretting for the thousandth time that he didn't do more to get Eddie to join the cross-country team with him their freshman year in high school, Nick gave Bobby an ultimatumjoin the team or face disciplinary action. Thankfully, Bobby chose the former.

Lester's voice sliced through the brisk autumn air like half-inch spikes through a hard-packed dirt course. "You have a tremendous gift for bringing out the very best in people, you know that?"

"Yeah, well tell that to the school board for me, will ya?"

Leaning closer, Lester asked, "Why? What happened?"

Nick lowered his voice. "If we don't finish in the top three today, they're gonna pull my contract."

Lester winced and drew a deep breath. He was well aware of the hard road Nick had to travel to get where he was. "How can they expect that after just one season?"

"Well, they hired me when no one else would, didn't they? But I know a lot of board members aren't willing to leave the past in the past."

Patting him on the shoulder, Lester did his best to sound encouraging. "Ah, screw them. Hell, you're the Comeback Kid, remember?"

Taking in a deep sigh, Nick said, "Not yet, I'm not."

Lester chuckled. "Are you kidding? Look at what you've been through. Your own twin steals your identify, you're accused of a crime you didn't commit, you lose everything, you exonerate yourself, and you manage to convince your old high school coach to let you take over when he announces his retirement. You've been to hell and back, kid."

Nick looked down at his mud-covered shoes and thought of his tiny Bucktown apartment and the fact that he still had to borrow his mother's old Buick sedan whenever he had to drive anywhere.

"No. I'm not back yet. I'm not even at the door."

Remembering the days when, as team captain, he led the same team to first place three years in a row, he mumbled, "I just need one good win."

Staring toward the spot in the woods out of which the runners would soon burst, he stood tall among the crowd of spectators surrounding him. A curious mix, to be sure. For each skinny teenage runner with a number pinned to his chest, there appeared to be at least two middle-aged adults who evidently hadn't broken a good sweat on a regular basis, on purpose for quite some time.

He heard Lester chuckle beside him. "Man, oh man. If you could do for some of these folks what you've done for the guys on the team—and charge them for the privilege—you'd have enough cash to wipe out the national debt. Why, I bet-"

"No offense, but I've had my fill of adults bent on making stupid decisions."

The image of a particular auburn-haired woman with a fierce left hook emerged from a remote corner in his mind.

Before Lester could reply, Nick announced, "Here they come."

After recording the boys' splits, they made their way to the finish line. There, amid all of the screaming bystanders, Lester yelled, "Care to make a wager?"

Nick's eyes widened. "You know that's against the rules."

Lester laughed. "No, not on the meet. On you."

Narrowing his eyes, Nick replied, "I'm listening."

Looking as if he was about to sell black market plutonium to a third world arms dealer, Lester checked to make sure no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. When he was satisfied, he motioned for Nick to lean down, and spoke into his ear. "You take an unfit adult, of my choosing, and train them to run in the Chicago Marathon next October. If they finish, I'll cut you a check that will be more than enough to get you back on your feet again.

Nick stood up straight and frowned. "I don't follow."

Lester smiled, spread his hands out before him like a game show host and announced, "Nick DeRosa, personal running coach."

Nick narrowed his eyes and asked, "What's the catch?"

"No catch. Just lots of free publicity." Under his breath, Lester murmured, "And a boost in revenue for the paper."

As the boys started appearing over the last rise before the final approach, Nick, still not entirely convinced, mulled the proposal. He himself had run a number of marathons, but training someone to do it? It was all he could do to get high school boys to train for three-mile races.

The crowd's excitement grew in intensity as the boys began to appear in the distance. The slow rise of the last stretch was always the most demanding. If one teammate ran out of steam now, the whole team would suffer. When Nick was in their spiked and muddied shoes, this was his favorite part of the race. Adrenaline would start pulsing through his veins, and he'd surge through the crowd of weary runners, crossing the finish line on a hidden reserve of power known as "the kick."

It was hard to teach this concept to other runners. Either you had it or you didn't. Some races you had it, others you didn't. But, no matter how far back Nick had gotten during the course of the race, he always managed to come back from behind and carry his team to victory.

The Gazette was the first to dub him the "Comeback Kid" when he carried his team to the State finals for the first of three consecutive championships. It was the best time of his life. Nick knew the Gazette followed his every move. His mother had collected scrapbooks full of clippings to prove it. But the last time he made the papers, the Gazette used his unofficial title to magnify his disgrace: "Comeback Kid Jailed."

God, I hate reporters.

After the team roared across the finish line with times good enough to garner fifth place, Lester pressed a business card into Nick's hand and said, "Think it over then come see me.

*   *   *

Where's Claudia?

Mattie expected her sensible, happily wedded sister to stop by any minute. Ten years older with an "I told you so" always at the ready, Claudia was the last person she wanted to see on her day off. Still, Mattie knew she was her only trusted source for all things married and maternal. Besides, her column on gift ideas for kids' athletic coaches was not going to write itself.

While she waited, she read the label of a rather large chocolate bar from Benziger's, a local chocolate maker. A glowing endorsement from Mattie in column on holiday gift ideas had saved the struggling company from bankruptcy. To show their appreciation, they enrolled her in their bar-of-the-month club.

This is so much better than a slow cooker.

"Deliciously smooth chocolate flavor that melts into the crunch of sweet caramel highlighted by bursts of savory sea salt."

She picked it up and inhaled. A small groan escaped her lips. Then, in a practiced move, she flipped it over and read the calorie count. Four hundred and twelve.

Hello, dinner.

She closed her eyes and held the bar to her forehead, but the tick of the clock invaded her senses. The plain round wall-mounted fixture was identical to the one in the bridal room at St. Matthias. Both clocks moved unnervingly slow and emitted an annoying tick-tock.

Mattie sat frozen in her chair, defenseless, as the Technicolor images came flashing back. The beautiful blue sky, the deep green leaves on the mature trees in front of the church unfurled in the afternoon sun. Claudia, in a periwinkle taffeta tea-length dress, was followed by Mattie's nephew, itching to get out of his size six-X black ring bearer's tuxedo. Her own gown making her feel like a movie star.

She had eaten nothing but radishes and hummus for weeks, but it was so worth it. For the first time in her life, she felt beautiful. It was unfortunate that her satisfaction was so short-lived.

Putting the chocolate bar down with a resolute slam, she pressed her fingers to her temples and gritted her teeth, but the memories kept coming.

"Such an idiot," she whispered, feeling the same panic and self-loathing that set in as the big hand on the clock kept ticking off the minutes despite the groom's absence. With each tick that tocked by, she felt the same nagging doubt that used to wash over her whenever Eddie cancelled a date at the last minute or forgot to make a promised phone call.

A loud buzz brought her back to the present.

Mattie sprang up, pushed the button on her intercom, and, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, sang out, "Who is it?"