James Grippando - A King's ransom

“I want Grandma to get the best care available. And of course we’d like to set something aside for our three children-the two of you and your future little brother or sister,” he added, smiling as he laid his hand on my mother’s belly.

“Sounds good to me,” said Lindsey.

His expression turned more serious. “Beyond that, there are a couple people outside the family I want to take care of. Hector’s widow, for one. She lost a husband and a son in that shoot-out in Cartagena.”

“That’s the right thing to do,” I said.

“And there’s Jenna. She put a lot of time into this for no pay.”

“She definitely came through when no one else would,” I said.

“I thought fifty thousand would be fair.”

I totally agreed with him, but I was slightly uncomfortable with the concept, or at least the timing. “You think it’ll look like I’m trying to buy her back?”

“It might,” said Lindsey. “Especially now.”

“What do you mean?”

She seemed reluctant to speak up, not quite looking me in the eye. “I wasn’t going to say anything on the holiday, but my jogging route took me past Jenna’s place this morning. There’s a ‘Sold’ sign out on the front lawn.”

It hit me hard, though I tried not to show it, hoping to keep our Thanksgiving upbeat. The way I felt about Jenna, however, was no secret in our house.

Lindsey lowered her eyes, as did my mother.

“I’m sorry, Nick,” my father said.

“Me too,” I said as I poked at my cranberry sauce.

I went to see Jenna that night. Sure enough, dangling from the real estate agency’s sign in her front yard was another little sign that said sold.

Jenna had lain low since my father’s return, insisting that it was best for the family to heal on its own for a while. I’d felt as if there were things left unsaid. Seeing the “Sold” sign with my own eyes had only reinforced the feeling. I walked up the old Chicago brick walkway and knocked on the front door. Her car was in the driveway, so I knew she was home.

The door opened, and she smiled faintly. “Hi.”

I suddenly didn’t know what to say. “Wasn’t sure you’d be in town.”

“This year the family was doing Thanksgiving with my brother and his kids in Seattle. I made an excuse. Just didn’t feel like flying across the country.”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

I stepped inside, closed the door behind me, and followed her into the living room. It seemed strange the way our relationship had changed, yet everything in this room had remained exactly the way I remembered it. Even the big cushy reading chair was in the same place, covering that ugly brown paint stain on the old Persian rug we’d purchased at an antique store for next to nothing. The chair was a recliner, but it had been out of commission ever since that night I was studying for the bar exam, when Jenna had climbed in with me, tossed my outlines aside, and nearly set the thing on fire, figuratively speaking.

“Have a seat,” she said.

I started toward the memory chair, then thought better of it and took a seat on the couch.

“Want a soda? Beer?”

“No, thanks. I just wanted to talk.”

She took a seat on the ottoman, on the other side of the cocktail table. “How’s your job hunting coming?”

“I’ve narrowed it down to two medium-sized firms in the Gables. Both good groups of people. And they all seem to have a life outside the law firm. Imagine that, huh?”

“That would be a good move for you.”

I nodded. “I saw the ‘Sold’ sign out front.”

She blinked and said, “Oh, that.”

“Yeah, that.”

“The deal’s not even inked yet, and my agent put that out. She’s fed up with me. Said that if I kill the deal this time, she’s quitting.”

“Kill the deal?”

“This is actually the third full-price offer I’ve received this month. I’ve managed to wiggle out each time.”

“Sounds like you’re not really sure about this move,” I said, hopeful.

She looked away, then back. “I’m all over the map, literally. When I think about the low times, I feel like packing. Then I’ll find something while I’m going through my stuff. A piece of jewelry or one of those mushy cards you used to write me in your own words. I’m totally confused.”

My throat tightened. I had plenty to tell her, but I didn’t want to say the wrong thing. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Is that what you came here to tell me?”

“That, and a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“I–I didn’t prepare a speech. I was kind of hoping you’d get all Jerry Maguire on me and tell me I had you at hello.”

That got a smile, then a little laughter. We’d seen the movie a few years earlier on one of our first dates, and she’d clearly remembered it as well as I had. “Every now and then, you get me right in the funny bone, you know that?”

Her smile faded, and our eyes met. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

“That I always want to make you laugh. That I wish you’d give us a second chance. That if you insist on trying to sell this place, I’m going to put a full-page ad in the paper saying it’s haunted.”

“Funny. That’s exactly what I told the last buyer to get myself out of the deal.”

“What do you say we go out and talk about this over a couple of drinks?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Anything but a Dark ‘n’ Stormy.”

“Mojitos?”

“Now you’re talking.”

She grabbed her sweater, and we started for the door. “I know a new place over on South Beach. Best Mojito you ever had,” she said.

“Really?”

“I guarantee it.”

She locked the front door, and we walked toward my Jeep. “That wouldn’t be a lifetime guarantee, would it?” I asked.

She climbed into her seat, shooting me a playful look. “One step at a time, bozo.”

“Sure,” I said as I turned the ignition. “Sounds good to me. Really good.”