She thanks the salesclerk and ends the call. She orders a coffee and stares out at the rain, thinking how drastically her life has changed in three short days.
9
Everett
Everett arrives at work early on Sunday morning. While he takes an inventory of his liquor supply, he keeps one eye on the doorway, hoping Presley will stop by. He missed her when she dropped off his raincoat yesterday afternoon, and he’s curious what she thinks of the apartment. When lunchtime rolls around with no sign of her, Everett assumes she’s already checked out and headed back to Nashville. Their kiss remains at the forefront of his mind. He can taste Presley’s sweet lips and feel her slim hips beneath his hands. While he wants more from her, friendship will have to be enough for now.
A few guests linger after checkout time, brunching in Jameson’s and then stopping in afterward for one last Bloody Mary or mimosa before heading home. Two local men spend the afternoon drinking craft draft beer and watching the Redskins lose to the Eagles.
Everett drags his heavy body from one task to the next. He hasn’t felt this down since he quit drinking years ago. Do his Sunday blues have anything to do with Presley? Or is it because he’s currently holding himself hostage while he figures a way out of the mess he’s made of his life?
By six o’clock, the football fans have gone home, the Redskins game is over, and the Giants are now playing the Cowboys. Everett is reconciling his register in preparation of closing early when Jazz comes flying around the corner into the bar. He holds open his arms, and she leaps into them, burying her face in his chest.
“What’s wrong, Jazzy?”
Raising a tiny arm, she points a finger at Naomi and Stella, who are standing just outside the bar in the lounge. He can’t make out what they’re saying, but their voices are raised and their expressions pinched.
“Would a Dizzy Fizzy Ballerina make you feel better?”
She nods into his chest. He deposits her onto a stool and goes behind the bar. When he changes the TV channel to Nickelodeon, Jazz’s face lights up at the sight of SpongeBob.
“How was your weekend?” he asks, and she answers, “Fine.”
He mixes Blood Orange SanPellegrino with papaya nectar and a splash of cranberry—Jazz’s very own signature mocktail he designed especially for her. He adds a sprig of rosemary and slides the glass across the bar to her. He leaves Jazz and goes out to the lounge, standing awkwardly nearby while Naomi and Stella continue to argue.
Naomi’s nostrils flare as she glares at Stella. “If you’re accusing me of something, come right out and say it.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Naomi. I’m asking why you haven’t reached out to organizers of past conferences when you promised me weeks ago you’d make it a priority.”
Naomi’s posture is stiff, her shoulders squared. “I never promised you anything. I said I’d get to it when I had a chance. And I’ve been busy.”
“Busy doing what? There are no guests in the house tonight. Not a single room is booked.” Stella sweeps an arm at the empty lounge. “Every week is like this, Sundays through Wednesdays, sometimes even Thursdays. We can’t survive if we don’t start hosting conferences.”
The hatred in Naomi’s brown eyes makes Everett’s flesh crawl. “If it’s so important, do it yourself.”
Stella’s body tenses. When she balls her fists at her sides, Everett worries she might hit Naomi. “I will. Send me the list of contacts.”
“It’ll take me some time to pull the information together. God, I hate working for you.”
When Naomi storms into the bar, Stella mumbles to her retreating back, “Then why don’t you quit?”
Alone in the lounge, Stella looks over at Everett. “Sorry you had to witness that.”
“It’s none of my business, but why do you put up with her behavior?”
Stella shakes her head. “I ask myself that question nearly every single day.”
From where they stand, they watch Naomi snatch the drink out of her daughter’s hands and slam it down on the bar. “Come on. Time to go.” She lifts Jazz off the barstool into her arms.
Jazz squirms. “Stop, Mommy! I want to finish my Dizzy Fizzy Ballerina.”
Naomi tightens her grip. “It’s time to go, Jasmine.”
“Put me down. I want Stella.” Jazz kicks and claws her way out of Naomi’s arms. She runs out of the bar to Stella, hugging her waist. “I want to spend the night with you, Stella.”
Stella smooths the child’s unruly hair. “It’s fine with me.”
“Well, it’s not fine with me,” Naomi snaps.
“Naomi,” Stella says in a warning tone.
Shooting Stella a death glare, Naomi bends over, with hands on knees, to speak to her child. “I was going to take you to Lucky’s for dinner.”
“I thought you said we couldn’t go to Lucky’s,” Jazz says, her face planted in Stella’s abdomen.
“Well, I changed my mind.” Naomi tugs on Jazz’s shirtsleeve. “If we go now, we might beat the dinner crowd.”
Jazz tilts her head back and looks up at Stella. “Do I have to?”
Stella pries Jazz’s arms free from her waist. “Of course, you do, sweetheart. You always have to listen to what your mommy says. Besides, Lucky’s is your favorite. Will you eat some french fries for me?”
“No! Get your own french fries.” Jazz stomps off with Naomi on her heels.
Stella’s shoulders cave as she exhales a breath of air. “I need a drink after that.”
“Me too,” Everett says. “And I don’t even drink.”
Stella manages a weak smile. “I’m sorry you got caught in the middle of that.”
Everett shrugs as if to say no big deal. “I have an open
