The Running Series Complete Collection: 3-Book Set plus Bonus Novella (127 page)

“Excuse me?” Evan barks back.

“I said,
I’m in
. If you can stand being in the same room with me, then I think we can work together.” 

Shea takes a sip of her Cosmo and turns to Derek.  “You’ve been awfully quiet all this time, Slick.  What do you think?”

“I think I’ve got my hands full,” Derek tells her with a goofy grin on his face.

“Damned right you do.” 

“Okay, then.  If everyone’s done ripping each other apart, I could use some help clearing the table and serving dinner.”  Both Shea and Evan motion to get up and help. 

“No!” I demand.  “You two stay here and talk.  Derek?  Do you mind?”

“Um, sure, boss.  Whatever you say.”  Derek grabs Shea’s bowl and I grab Evan’s.  Derek rinses them in the sink, passes them to me, and I place them strategically in the dishwasher.

“So, Derek, how’s it going with you two?” I ask.

“Great.  She’s smart, funny, and we have a shitload of fun when we’re together.  I have to tell you, I haven’t felt this way in a long time,” he admits.  “She’s got the perfect job for me.  She can schedule her appointments around my schedule and we get to spend lots of time together.  She doesn’t care that I’m a lowly bartender.  It’s a nice change.”

That last comment makes me think about Reese.  I think she gave him a rather hard time about finding a real job and a serious career.  Derek is doing what he loves, and that should mean more than anything.  The right girl would know that.  Maybe Reese wasn’t that girl after all.

Derek and I prepare the plates and take them to the table, only to find Shea and Evan in a heated discussion about football of all things.

“The 49ers have outstanding depth on both offense and defense,” Shea argues.  “They’ve got a string of performance players that goes way beyond their starters.  Teams like the Sentinels are relying too heavily on their rookies.”

“True, and don’t worry, I didn’t take the crack about rookies personally.  But you have to admit, the 49ers’ coaching staff is stubborn.  They draw up a plan and stick to it, no matter what.  You’ll never see the players huddling on the sidelines, chatting or trying to make course corrections.  When things don’t work out as planned, they fail to make the necessary adjustments.  That’s where a young team like the Sentinels can crack their defense and punch a hole through their offense.”  Evan shoves a forkful of chicken in his mouth, but I doubt he even knows what he’s eating.

“Let’s talk special teams,” Shea suggests.  “The Niners’ kicker hit a record-setting sixty-four-yard goal in week four.  If San Francisco's offense fails to advance the football, Lee can still be counted on to put the Niners in a favorable situation when the defense takes the field.”

“I’m counting on San Francisco relying on their passing game and failing to gain yards.  They’re putting too much faith in Kaepernick’s arm.  He’s got strength and he’s got depth, but he lacks accuracy.  His completion percentage during the regular season was 58.4, fourth worst in the league.  He throws like a rocket, but he doesn’t throw with finesse.”

I look at Derek, who’s watching the give-and-take discussion like he’s at a tennis match.  His eyes shine with pride as he watches his new girlfriend go toe-to-toe debating football stats with one of the league’s brightest stars.

Curiosity gets the better of me.  “Shea, I have to ask – how do you know so much about football and the 49ers?”

“I grew up in San Francisco.  I’ve been a Niners fan my whole life.  My father wanted sons, but all he got was Laci and me, so he’d drag the both of us to games since we were old enough to walk.  My father got transferred to the East Coast when I was a freshman in high school.  He got Giants season tickets just so we could see the 49ers play when they’re in town.”

Evan looks directly at Derek and warns him in all seriousness, “Derek, listen.  You can bring anyone you want with you to this week’s game.  You’re my guest for the day.  But I refuse to have anyone wearing 49ers gear in my suite.  If your girlfriend wants to wear that shit, you two will be sitting in the stadium.  Got it?”

“Don’t worry, Mac.  I won’t let that happen,” Derek promises.

“Hey, did you guys say something about Colin Kaepernick?” I ask.

“We did.  He’s the quarterback for San Francisco,” Shea explains.

“Isn’t he the one who’s on Emmy’s ‘Freebie List’?”

“Yeah, so?” Evan seems confused by my line of questioning.

“Well, I was just thinking that maybe you could invite him up to the suite after the game and introduce them.  It could be a surprise.  Wouldn’t that be awesome?” I suggest.

“Oh my God.  Evan, could you do that?  Really?  Get Kaep up to the suite?  I’d give anything to meet him in person.”  Shea is practically bouncing in her chair.

Derek even jumps in with his best excited girl impersonation, “Ooh, please?  Pretty please, Evan?  He’s so dreamy!  Or steamy.  Or is it creamy?  I forget.”

“I can try, but only on one condition,” Evan tells Shea.

“Name it,” she answers.

“You have to wear a Sentinels jersey to the game.  Wait, no.  Not just any Sentinels jersey –
my
Sentinels jersey.  I’ll have someone from the front office send you one.  That’s my condition!”  Evan tosses down his fork, clearly proud of his plan.

Shea sits back in her chair and contemplates his offer.  “You, sir, have a deal.”  They even shake hands on it.

We finish our meal and the dynamics of our little gathering have changed dramatically.  The pendulum has swung in the opposite direction and it’s clear that Shea and Evan are going to get along just fine.

The three of them clean up from dinner as I put the finishing touches on dessert.  I’m making a playful twist on Bananas Foster.  I made a version of this once for Derek, and I hope he remembers. 

I stand at the stove, heating up the Foster sauce.  While it simmers, I melt some white chocolate in a double boiler.  Just as they finish cleaning, I begin to plate the warm brioche pudding, topping it with my classic Foster sauce, sliced bananas, and a drizzle of white chocolate on the plate.  I add a dollop of homemade caramel ice cream and garnish it with a rock sugar waffle for just that little bit of crunch.

“Oh man, Jette, this is so good,” Derek compliments me.  “Remember that time you made me Bananas Foster for a pancake breakfast?  I thought that was good, but this –”  He stops talking and shoves a giant forkful in his mouth.

Shea and Evan both stop dead in their tracks.  “She made breakfast for you?” Shea asks incredulously.

“Yeah, when exactly did that happen?” Evan questions.

“The night I found out you lied to me, remember?  I had way too much to drink and I drunk-dialed you or something like that.  I crashed on Derek’s couch that night.” 

“Oh, yeah.  What was the name of that guy Emmy was dating at the time?”  Evan turns to Derek. “Your roommate.  Gary?  Glenn?  Gordon?”

“Grant.  His name was Grant.  He was a really cool guy.  I still haven’t cleaned out his room, though.  He got a job offer and flew out to Chicago the next day.  He left all kinds of shit behind that I still need to go through.”

“How long ago did he move out?” Shea asks.

“I dunno.  April, I think?” he guesses.

“Derek, that was, like, eight months ago.  I’m coming over tomorrow and we’re cleaning out that room,” she tells him.  “God only knows what’s in there.”

“We could stay at my place tonight, and then we can get an early start,” he teases.

“Is it so bad that we need an early start?” 

“It’s pretty bad.  We should stop somewhere on the way home and pick up some trash bags.  And rubber gloves.  Just in case.”

After dessert, we clean up and gather in the living room.  Derek and Evan put on the Knicks game while Shea and I talk weddings.  She shows me countless pictures of her weddings and I share my clippings.  One thing becomes glaringly obvious – we are not even close to being in the same league.  My snapshots are mundane and pedestrian at best.  I had no idea how much opulence and grandeur was possible. 

Shea doesn’t know our history and she knows very little about me personally, so most of our time together is spent filling in those gaps.

“Okay, Juliette, I’m going to show you pictures of ten weddings.  I want you to take them and place them in order from your most favorite to least favorite.”  She hands me ten postcard-size photographs that range from rustic chic to elegant crystal.

Once I’ve placed them in order, she collects the cards in reverse order, leaving the top four.  “Now tell me what you like about each of these.”

“The thing that drew me to the top four pictures was the flowers.  They were everywhere.  Some even had bouquets hanging from trees, and flower-covered arches.  Flowers have such a special meaning for us.”

“I notice three of these are indoor weddings and one is outdoors.  Why is that?”  Shea points to the tropical wedding photograph taken on a beach.

I explain to her about our fateful meeting here on the beach and how much we love and adore our beach house.  She takes copious notes throughout our talk.

She puts the cards away and takes back out my bottom four cards.  “Now tell me why you eliminated these,” she says.

“This one you have labeled ‘Old Hollywood’ is too art deco,” I explain.  “I’m not a fan of rich colors and geometric shapes.”

I point to the image of gold and ivory tapestries with ceiling murals.  “This,” I tell her, “reminds me of Liberace’s bedroom.  Yuck.”

There’s another one labeled “Bling” that I eliminate because of the soft pastels and overly stylized accessories.  Pearls, baubles, and tea lights don’t interest me.

“And as beautiful as this one is, I can’t get married in a winery.  Marcus and Camilla had their reception in early September in the middle of grape vines and wine barrels.  I don’t want anyone comparing the two.”

“I understand.  This is a great start.  Give me a day or two to come up with some ideas.”

We make plans for her to come back to Rush on Friday night.  I give her a list of all the places I’ve been, with notes explaining the problem at each location.  She tells me she can get a better idea about my tastes by looking over my choices. 

“Hey, if you two are done, how about grabbing us a couple of beers?” Derek bellows.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Evan clarifies.

J
eremiah has some great ideas about tweaking my Bananas Foster dessert for our next menu change.  He wants to add walnut ice cream and replace my bread pudding with a crêpe.  I’m not convinced, so he’s whipping up a plate for my inspection.

“Hey, Jette, could I talk to you?”  I look up to find Derek standing in the doorway, holding a large envelope. “Privately?” 

I’m surprised to see him so early – his shift doesn’t start for another hour.

I excuse myself from the kitchen and take Derek back into my small office.  He shuts the door and sits on my tiny couch.  “Shea found this yesterday,” he tells me.  “It was in a stack of mail I never saw.  Grant must have taken the mail in his room and left it there.”  Derek hands me a manila envelope addressed to him, with the return address of a Princeton investment firm.

“I don’t understand,” I tell him.

“Open it up.  Read it.”

There’s a letter inside.  It’s an annual dividend statement.  I don’t understand much of what it says, but it’s addressed to Derek and it lists his deceased parents as the shareholders.  From what I can gather, his parents had begun purchasing stock in 1984.

“Let me get this straight. Your parents started buying stock in 1984, right?”

He leans his elbows on his knees and looks up at me.  “Yup. That’s the year they were married.”

“Did they buy a lot?” I ask.

He holds his hand out flat and tilts it from side to side.  “Yes and no.  They bought ten shares a month for most of their marriage.  That’s where all their savings went.  That was why when they died, we had a shitload of bills to pay and no money to pay them with.”

“Are ten shares expensive?”

“Not really.  The cost of the stocks they bought ranged from $25 to $50.  I figure it cost them on average about $400 a month.  By today’s standards, that’s a car payment.”

I hand him back his documents.  “That’s great, Derek.  So what are you going to do with all that stock?”

“That’s why I want to talk to you.  Do you think Evan could hook me up with a good attorney?”  He gets up and starts pacing around the room.

“I’m sure he could.  Are you going to transfer the stocks to your name, or cash them in or something?” 

“I don’t know what to do.  Evan is the only person I know who handles this kind of money.  He has people he trusts to advise him.  I need to talk to someone like that.”  He sits back down, bending himself in half, practically putting his head between his knees.

“Derek, I don’t understand.  It’s just a few shares of stock.  Why are you so freaked out?”

He stands up, walks directly toward me, and puts the letter back on the desk in front of me.  “Read it.  All the way.  To the end.”

“It says here that the stock is traded on NASDAQ under the symbol AAPL and the type is listed as common.  There’s a DRP listed as 585.54.  I don’t really know what any of that means.”