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The next week I’m busier than ever between sales calls, business lunches, and then the rescheduled dinner on Tuesday with Frank and the Freedom Bike Group.
The dinner at Cutter’s, a seafood restaurant on Seattle’s waterfront, goes better than my wildest dreams. I like the men, all of them, even the guy with the long handlebar mustache who spoke only twice.
I remember what Frank said about this being just a relaxed, get-acquainted dinner, so I go as myself, dressing in wide-legged charcoal black slacks and a white blouse tucked and belted at the waist. I’ve pulled my hair in a loose knot at the back of my head and am wearing hoop earrings and a silver chain with a red polished stone.
I’m relaxed as Frank introduces me to the various partners and executives in the bar. We talk over drinks for an hour before we’re taken to a private dining room for dinner.
Seeing as it’s a bike group, I’m surprised at how many order fish entrées instead of beef. There are more drinks during dinner, but I stop at two, knowing I’ve got to drive, and no one presses any more on me.
Later, Frank walks me out as the valet attendant gets my truck. “What do you think?” he asks me bluntly. “People you can work with?”
“Yes. I like everyone. A lot.”
“They liked you, too.”
“So you haven’t told them about my Harley?”
Frank cocks his head, and his teeth flash despite the beard. “No. I think I’ll wait until you get the job.”
I can see my Ford truck approach. The valet driver is almost to us, and Frank checks out the truck, whistles. “Is that yours?”
“Yeah,” I answer, pride in my voice.
“You’re not like most women, are you?”
I laugh and tip the driver and prepare to climb behind the wheel. “You know what’s funny, Frank? My daughter tells me that all the time.”
“Does it bother you?”
I start the engine. “Only sometimes.”
Eva comes home from school Wednesday afternoon with something entirely new on her mind.
She announces that she’s putting my wedding plans on hold to focus on this year’s school walk-a-thon, which is just days away now, and it’s an idea I want to support, but it still involves my spending lots of money.
“Of course you’ll sponsor me,” she says, her sharpened pencil poised over the yellow pledge form. “Should I put you down for five dollars a lap?”
I’ve just made her a quick cheese quesadilla as a snack before I dash back to the studio to continue working. “How many laps are you planning on walking?”
“Fifty.”
“Fifty?” Like I’m going to cut a check to the school for two hundred and fifty dollars for a walking event when the damn phone-a-thon is less than a month away. And don’t think you can escape the phone calls, either. It’s for our kids. It’s for the future.
Well, the future’s stressing me out.
“Mom, they’re not quarter-mile laps. They’re smaller, around the baseball field.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Then how much? Two fifty a lap?”
“Two dollars and fifty cents?”
“Mom, it’s a fund-raiser.”
“Eva, I already pay the school.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, it’s called taxes.”
She makes a shrrmphing sound, blowing air out between her front teeth. “Everyone does that. You’re supposed to give more.”
“Says who?” She’s been going to way too many school fund-raiser assemblies.
“The school. The PTA. The Bellevue Unified School Foundation.”
She’s got her pencil poised again, hovering over the little pledge box. “So how much, Mom?”
“I don’t know.” I can’t commit just yet, can’t promise anything, not when I’m feeling railroaded into something I don’t want to do and am not entirely sure I can afford. One fund-raiser, yes. Two, maybe. Three, four, five? Come on. I’m a single mom, and I don’t work for Microsoft.
Eva’s reaching for the phone. “Fine. I’ll just call Grandma and Grandpa. And then Aunt Shey and Aunt Tiana. Oh, and Chris and Robert and Allie, too. Are they still here or have they gone already?”
Lucky bastards. They’ve gone. “They’ve headed home.”
“I’ll just call Grandma, then.”
My mom answers the phone at their house, and from what I can hear she’s in a chatty mood today. Mom and Eva discuss the weather and then Eva’s ideas for Halloween costumes and schoolwork, which provides Eva with the opening she needs to bring up the walk-a-thon.
My mom isn’t a hard sell, but then I didn’t expect her to be. When I was in grade school, my mom was president of the PTA.
Eva looks smugly at me as she asks my mom, “So will you want to make a flat donation, Grandma? Or would you like to pledge a certain amount for each lap?”
Eva suddenly gasps, her voice strangled. “A nickel a lap, Grandma? A nickel isn’t very much, Grandma. A nickel’s . . . well, like a penny.”
I’m not entirely sure what my mom says, but Eva’s now backpedaling as fast as she can.
“Not a penny, Grandma. No. You’re right, Grandma, a nickel is better than a penny.”
So my mom hasn’t completely lost her mind. She knows how to deal with a money-grubber.
Eva meanwhile turns to me. “Mom, will you please talk to her?”
“It’s your walk-a-thon.”
“It’s your mom.”
Touché. I take the phone. “Mom. Hi. It’s Marta, and it’s great that you’re helping Eva. Thank you so much.”
“I’m glad, dear,” she says. “I always used to help you, but you didn’t do walk-a-thons, though. You used to do swim-a-thons, for your swim team. Remember?”
“I do. That’s why I knew you’d want to sponsor Eva. And if you pledged fifty cents a lap, or a quarter a lap, you’d really help her.”
“A quarter? That’s a lot of money.”
“It sounds like it, Mom, but if Eva walks twenty laps, that’s only five dollars.”
“That’s not too much. All right, then, I’ll pledge a quarter, but tell her not to walk too many because I don’t want to spend too much money. Oh, I have to go now. My favorite show is on. Good-bye.” Before I can say anything, my mom has hung up.
Eva’s standing at the counter, watching me. “Mom, is she crazy?”
I think about my mom, who she was and the horrible disease taking her away from us, and sigh heavily. “Just a little bit.”
The much anticipated walk-a-thon arrives just days later, on the third Friday of September.
Eva has hit up my friends Shey and Tiana just as she promised, as well as cornering each of my office staff. Robert and Allie are always great about sponsoring her or donating to the latest school fund-raiser, but Chris hates these things.
As the walk-a-thon is held after school, I wait in the crush of moms as Eva registers and picks up her official lap card. It’s a beautiful day, not too warm and not too cold, and the blue sky overhead is a perfect foil for massive maple trees surrounding the school track. The leaves are just starting to turn red, and the nearby poplars are tur
ning yellow.
Tucking my fingers into my jeans pockets, I listen to Dr. Fielding announce that the walk-a-thon will kick off in five minutes.
Eva has her white walk-a-thon T-shirt pulled over her tank T-shirt and shorts, and her long dark ponytail hangs to the middle of her back. Like the other kids, she wears a lap card around her neck. Apparently, every fifth or tenth lap the kids earn a reward called a “yum,” which allows them to get something tasty from the snack stand.
The noise grows louder as kids crowd the start point, a mass of eager bodies in T-shirts, shorts, and jeans. Suddenly the music blares and the kids are off, bursting into a mad run that will soon slow to a more sedate walk as they continue to go round and round and round.
It’s hard to keep an eye on Eva with the hundred kids all racing the track in matching white T-shirts. It’s while I’m searching the crowd for Eva that I see him. Luke.
Luke’s here today, and he’s always taller than everybody, and he stands in such a way that his shoulders aren’t just broad, they look as if he’s got football gear on.
He’s noticed me, too, and he smiles faintly, the same half smile from Back-to-School Night, when everything seemed so hot and electric.
I feel hot and electric again, and it was one thing in my twenties to feel wildly passionate about someone, but I hadn’t expected this in my mid-thirties, much less after having a child.
Jamming my hands into my jeans jacket pockets, I try to ignore that adrenaline rush I get every time I see him.
Why does he do this to me?
Why do I do this to myself?
I gave up on love and romance a decade ago, and it’s not on my task list of things to do. I have important things on my task list. Things like career and kids and accomplishing my goals.
Suddenly it’s bedlam as the children swarm the moms, each one panting and holding up his or her lap card to be marked.
As the kids take off again, I find myself glancing once more in Luke’s direction, and he’s looking straight at me. He stares long and hard, as if I intrigue him or amuse him somehow.
