The Winners Circle Page 17

  Jerry had his feet propped upon a pillow on the coffee table. He was reading The Miracle at Philadelphia. He loved US history, but more importantly, he finally had the head for it again. “Who is it?”

  “She didn’t say. I think she knows you.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “It’s the sound of her voice.”

  Jerry scanned the pudgy shape lurking near the couch. Tom had an animal instinct. He knew when the mailman was going to arrive or the teakettle approached the boiling point. He dove into menial tasks with vigor, appearing happiest while resting in a sunny spot, licking crumbs from the corners of his mouth. Yes, he was more like Cortez than anyone thought.

  The phone passed to Jerry’s hands, and he looked at Tom. “Do you still have your family holed up in that apartment?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I want to speak with you before you leave.”

  “What about?”

  “We’ll talk later.”

  Tom shrugged his round shoulders and retreated into the kitchen. He was no doubt seeking a sleeve of crackers and a hunk of cheese.

  “Congratulations.” Chelsea’s voice struck out over the wire. It seemed to slap Jerry in the face, making him sit up at attention.

  He dropped the book in his lap. He heard himself breathe into the receiver. It sounded like the wind before the rain began.

  “Jerry?” she started again. “Congratulations on winning the lottery.”

  “I’d given up on hearing from you.”

  “Oh that. I’m sorry about that.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He gauged the joy in her voice. She presented a good front but didn’t sound all that happy for him. “It wasn’t as big as our pot.”

  “It’s fourteen million dollars, Jerry. I read about it in Time magazine.”

  “Really?” He didn’t believe her. She must have recognized his winning numbers in the newspaper. They were identical to their winning numbers. He never really considered the odds, but lightning had struck twice. If he ever returned to the Winners Circle, he’d let Arlene try to rationalize those odds.

  “You’ve done it again. You’re so lucky.”

  “Am I?”

  “You’re amazing.”

  “What’s amazing?”

  “You remind me of the first time. You didn’t care about the money then either.”

  “I never did.” He stopped short of explaining. He recalled how arrogant it sounded when rich people renounced their wealth without any intention of losing a penny. In truth, he’d gotten used to having a heap of cash. It made the everyday answers simple. It beat the pants off holding a regular job.

  “You’re not like anyone I know.”

  “No, I’m not.” He thought about that in both good and bad ways. There weren’t any simple emotions regarding Chelsea. He’d gotten used to that. “How are things on your end?”

  “You know.”

  “Is it getting better?” He already knew the answer. Haskell (a.k.a. Melvin) was being indicted for real estate fraud. The Cogdon’s were selling their custom home at the shore. The minutia of their lives played out in the public eye, and everyone was a critic. The newspapers quoted more attorneys and punsters than Jacob Johansen had chickens.

  “It’s getting there. Things are looking up, I think.”

  “Really?”

  “It won’t be easy. I have some decisions to make.”

  He wondered what she meant by that, but he was in an unusual place with her, where he didn’t ask and she didn’t tell. “I wish you the best.”

  “Thank you. I know you mean that.”

  He considered inviting her over but waited for the urge to pass. What would it prove? Too much time separated them. He never thought he’d feel like that. He’d cheated death twice. Neither a rattlesnake bite or a bullet was enough to conquer him, yet learning to unlove Chelsea was a more serious wound. If it didn’t kill him, there’d always be something left to give. “Chelsea, can I ask you something?”

  “What is it?”

  “Do you ever think about before?”

  The receiver went silent for a moment. “Oh Jerry, I don’t know.”

  “I’m not just talking about us. Did things turn out like you dreamed?”

  “Like I dreamed?”

  “What was better—the dreams or now?”

  She paused again, barely able to maintain her facade over the phone line. “Don’t be so serious. Spend your money. You can do a million different things.”

  He nearly dropped another comment about not wanting the cash but let the issue rest at that. He decided to make a joke, still feeling responsible for lifting her spirits. It was something he could do for free. “So I’m nothing but possibilities, eh?”

  She laughed, but he heard a twinge in her voice. It repelled the better part of his humor. He wondered if the conversation hit too close to home, or maybe it was only their connection from miles apart.

  “I’m going to hang up now.” He noticed his feet on the ground. His leg ached, and he felt dizzy, but he was standing for the first time without crutches. He held his stance for what seemed like minutes after he put down the phone.

  “She’s here.” Tom rushed into the living room, looking pasty. He pinched his nose, groping for the tissue box. A panic nosebleed was about to start.

  Jerry closed his book. Rays of yellow sunlight cut through the arching glass windows. It made the room appear as if it were aflame. “Who’s here?”

  “Gina.”

  “Spagnoli?”

  “Yeah.” Tom tilted back his head.

  “Don’t let her in.”

  “Too late.”

  Gina rounded the corner from the foyer. She was dressed in her nurses’ uniform and hugged a large paper bag with one arm. “That’s right. I’m here.”

  Jerry scanned the cute and troublesome woman. Pink barrettes clasped her hair. The soles of her pink sneakers squeaked on the hardwood floor.

  “Don’t get up on my account. I know what you’ve been through.” She shuffled to the couch and fluffed a pillow behind Jerry’s back.

  “Gina?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “What’s it look like? Fluffing.”

  “Why?”

  “I owe you.”

  He clutched her hand in his big palm. “Gina.”

  She gazed down at him with big doe eyes. “Yes, baby.”

  “You don’t owe me anything, alright?”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll make tea.” She shuffled into the kitchen.

  Jerry spotted Tom in the corner. “Did you forget to tell me something?”

  Tom shrunk into an armchair like a tossed sack of sand. “No, I swear.”

  “Did she call ahead?”

  “I didn’t get a phone call.”

  “Why’s she here?”

  “I’m waiting for you to tell me.”

  “Can you ask her to leave?”

  Tom shoved a wad of tissue up his nose. “Me?”

  A pot crashed to the floor in the next room. The men listened to the stainless steel lid wobble on the tiles.

  “Terrific. I’ll do it myself.” Jerry grabbed a crutch and hobbled into the kitchen.

  Gina set the pot on the stove. Groceries from the bag were scattered on the countertop. “Where’s your beater?”

  “My what?”

  She twirled a finger in the air. “The spinning thing.”

  “What do you want with that?”

  “I use it to mash potatoes, unless you have a better way.”

  “You’re mashing potatoes?”

  “Would you prefer baked?”

  “Why are we discussing potatoes?”

  “You need to keep up your strength.” She lifted a packaged hunk of beef from the counter. “Red meat to restore your blood.”

  “I had a transfusion in the hospital.”

  “Green beans for folic acid.”

  “I take vitamins.”
>
  “You’re funny, Jerry.”

  She moved about his refurbished kitchen, a wooden spatula in her fist. She tossed the potatoes in the sink and rinsed the beans.

  He watched her for a while, wondering when to introduce the idea of her departure, but he felt tired and achy. He didn’t want to pop another painkiller. He hated those pills.

  Jerry limped back to the couch and sat down.

  Tom hadn’t budged. A box of tissues bridged his lap. “Well …”

  “She’s cooking.”

  “No kidding?”

  “She’s making dinner. Steak, I think.”

  “Primo.” Tom sat up and rubbed his belly. “I was getting hungry.”

  Gina prepared a comfort food buffet: steak, ham, fried chicken, mashed potatoes and biscuits, red beets, and three kinds of beans. They sat at the dining room table with the good china and crystal. Jerry hadn’t observed holidays in the last year, and he sat at the head of the table, mesmerized by the steaming spread and flickering candlelight. It looked like Christmas in May.

  Tom dove into the biscuits and gravy, working the fork like a diesel shovel. Brown gravy smudged his chin. He was the big kid Jerry never had. “This is great.”

  “Thank you, Thomas.” Gina hovered over Jerry, spooning food onto his plate. An insurmountable pile of grub assembled before him.

  Jerry caught a whiff of Gina’s rosy perfume. It mixed with the delectable scents. This could be his everyday life, he thought—if he didn’t change the locks and hire a bodyguard.

  “Where’d you learn to cook like this?” Tom asked.

  “I have many hidden talents.” She winked at Jerry. “Jerry knows a few of them.”

  Jerry agreed. Unfortunately, lying was one of her hidden talents. He’d never believe her sincerity, only her intentions. For Jerry, Gina’s intentions would always pave another road to hell.

  “You need a vacation.” Gina sat down and spread a napkin across her lap. “How about somewhere warm?”

  “I suppose you have a place in mind.”

  “One of the Islands. The Cayman Islands are nice.”

  Tom swallowed a bite of ham. “That sounds good.”

  “I can be your nursemaid on the trip.”

  Jerry picked up his fork and glanced the length of the table. This is what rich men do. They collect people. Soon he’d have a butler and a driver too. It was fate. He’d been spitting into the wind for too long. “Pass the gravy, please.”

  Gina popped out of her seat. “I’ll get it.” She hustled over with the ladle and smothered his potatoes with speckled brown sauce.

  “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.” She waited for Jerry to sample and approve, before sitting down.

  “Gina?”

  “Yes, baby?” She smiled, broad and toothy, like the woman who plucked the ping-pong balls from the lottery machine. She looked happy on the outside but maybe thinking about being somewhere else. What did it matter? She had a job to do, and she was going after it with gusto.

  “I appreciate this dinner.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I know you want to help.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “And if I asked you to leave, you’d probably ignore me.”

  “Oh baby, you don’t want me to leave.”

  “Actually, I do.”

  The threesome grew quiet. The grandfather clock ticked in the living room. A woodpecker tapped the old oak tree. It was an uncomfortable moment that Jerry created. He used to avoid the mere suggestion of a painful pause, but now he commanded them.

  Tom put down his fork and released a nervous laugh, and then Gina followed.

  Jerry laughed last. He knew the joke was on him, but he could afford the bill this time.

  A late frost warning swept over Pleasant Valley, and a chill filled the air. The house was silent with Gina gone for the evening. The trees rustled outside, and the grandfather clock marked the seconds. The only problem Jerry saw on the horizon was Gina’s inevitable return. He might offer her a job but needed to stamp out the romance. He had a belly full of women that he didn’t trust.

  When the clock struck eleven, Tom started a small fire and poured clear booze into shot glasses. The men huddled in the big armchairs by the fire glow, sipping their drinks. It burned Jerry’s throat. The scent of anise touched his nose.

  “Ahhh.” Tom’s belt was undone, as well as his top trouser button. He balanced on the edge of his chair like Humpty Dumpty. It didn’t appear that he was leaving any time soon.

  “What is this stuff?”

  “Ouzo.”

  “Never had it before.”

  “Be careful. I was in Greece right after I won the lottery. I got naked and ran around town. A bad scene.”

  “What did your wife do?”

  “She slammed a shoe over my head in the morning.”

  “That’s it?”

  “‘Never again,’ she said.”

  “Sounds like a good woman.”

  “Yeah. She and the kids stuck with me.”

  “That reminds me. We need to talk.”

  “What about?” Tom poured more ouzo into his shot glass. He turned the bottle toward Jerry but noticed the full glass.

  “I want you on fulltime.”

  “I’ve got my hands loaded with the bakery.”

  “You don’t have a bakery.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Jerry selected his words carefully. He didn’t want Tom going away hurt. “Has the financing come through?”

  Tom didn’t answer. He drained his glass.

  “So you honestly want to start getting up early again?” Jerry asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Is it so bad doing odd jobs for me?”

  “It’s better than working with Dick. He’s always bossing me around.”

  “That’s just his way.”

  “He’s a control freak.”

  “I know.”

  “But I don’t think I can stand the commute to your place every day.”

  “Listen. I’m thinking about restoring the carriage house.”

  “That thing? It’s a wreck.”

  “Take a good look at it. It’s big enough for a four bedroom house.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “You have to imagine it restored.”

  “There you go again. You like fixing things up, don’t you.”

  “I guess I do.”

  “Are you saying I can live here?”

  “If you want. You’d have to help me maintain the grounds and whatever.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “What can’t you believe?”

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” Tom shook his head. “Are you sure about this?”

  “It’s been on my mind for a while. We’ve been through a lot together.”

  Tom snorted.

  “And that wife of yours,” Jerry said, “she’s been through more. Take it from me. Concentrate on keeping her happy.”

  “You know, she loves it up here.”

  “Then it’s settled. Bring the whole family.”

  They stared into the huge stone fireplace. A log split and popped, and a spit of spark and ash bounced off the screen.

  Jerry sipped the ouzo, deciding he really didn’t like it. He thought about his phone conversation with Chelsea. He’d said the things that he should have mentioned before their separation. It hardly changed the world, only that he’d finally done it. He promised not to beat himself up too badly for his late timing. “A good woman’s hard to find.”

  “That Gina’s not a bad gal.”

  “Who?”

  “Gina Spagnoli.”

  “Her again. She’s determined to win the lottery.”

  “She’s not that bad?”

  “You have a short memory, Tom. That’s why I like you.”

  “In my neighborhood, a good cook is worth her weight in gold, and she’s not unpleasant on the eyes eith
er.”

  “That’s not what I’m looking for.”

  “What more do you want?”

  “I’ve been asked that question before.”

  “What’s the answer?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You should know by now.”

  “I should.” He put the glass to his lips but got a nose full of anise and alcohol. He rested the drink on the coffee table.

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want. It’s not my business.”

  Jerry stared into the flames. He knew what he wanted. It took getting shot to find out. Bleeding in the back of Dick’s car, he’d stood outside himself, saw himself like he really was. He’d wasted his life caring for other people. He’d been a crutch for his father, watching dad drown his grief for mom in cheap scotch and beer. After that, he’d dedicated his time to Chelsea’s comfort, easing her fears and obsessions, but going solo taught him something that he’d never expected. He was strong enough to carry two people at once but lacked the drive to carry on alone.

  “I guess I was looking for myself,” he said.

  “Oh boy.” Tom looked away. “That’s a lot harder. Good luck with that.”

  “I’m doing okay.”

  “What about Gina then?”

  “What about her?”

  “I can say one thing about her.”

  Jerry knew what Tom was thinking and didn’t much want to hear it. It was sad but true.

  “Don’t get rid of Gina so fast.” Tom drained another glass. “What else you got going?”

  CHAPTER 19

  Jerry’s Restoration

  The summer heat draped the valley, like a hot wet towel that people couldn’t lift from their faces. Jerry began refurbishing the carriage house at the front of his property, this time without the camera crews and over-priced carpenters. The dilapidated structure needed to be torn down, but a Hopewell preservation society claimed the building was historic, and a militant attorney representing the NAACP asserted it was an abolitionist safe house. A court summons arrived from the county sheriff, and construction halted.

  Jerry researched their claims and uncovered colonial documents. He hired an architecture firm in Philadelphia with experience in colonial restorations. He limped into a packed house at a Hopewell town meeting. The hostile audience mumbled, as he set up his presentation.