It's a Waverly Life (8 page)

I had stayed up late on Christmas Eve watching TV, so I slept in on Christmas morning. Groggy and in need of holiday caffeine, I shuffled into the kitchen in my pajamas to put on a pot of coffee. Fresh mug in hand a few minutes later, I curled up on the couch to admire the pretty lights and decorations on my tree. It wasn’t very big, but it was the perfect shape, and I loved it. Ever since I was a kid, I’d been obsessed with finding a flawlessly shaped Christmas tree, and after years of fruitless searching, I’d finally done it.

By ten thirty I was on the road. Traffic was light, and I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel and sang along to the Christmas carols on my way inland. I couldn’t carry a tune to save my life, so I made a point of not singing under normal circumstances. But when the holidays rolled around, I merrily butchered my way through every catchy tune that came my way.

I pulled up to my dad’s complex shortly after noon. He’d recently moved from a double-wide to a new place, and I was looking forward to seeing it. A one-bedroom apartment in Sacramento might not seem like luxury real estate to most people, but for my dad it was like being upgraded to first class.

I navigated through a maze of identical wood-shingled buildings until I found his unit in the back. I parked and climbed the stairs to the second floor, and just as I knocked I remembered the Santa hats I’d brought in my purse. I pulled one out and quickly put it on before the door opened.

“Well hello there, Santa. Or should I call you Mrs. Claus?” he asked.

“Santa will do just fine. Merry Christmas, Dad. I brought you one, too.” I pulled out the other hat for him. “
You
can be Mrs. Claus.”

“Come on in, come on in.” He put the hat on as I entered, then awkwardly patted my shoulder. That was the extent of our holiday embrace.

I quickly scanned the living room. It was nothing fancy, with plain brown carpet and little in the way of furniture, but it was clean, and, well, not a trailer, so I loved it. In the corner sat a small tree, even smaller than mine, neatly decorated with a single strand of white lights and just a few ornaments.

“I like your tree, Dad.”

He smiled. “It’s not much, but it’s perfect for me. Let me show you around.” I followed him down a narrow hall to peek in at the single sparsely decorated bedroom. On the way back to the living room I poked my head into the small but immaculate bathroom. Then he showed me the tidy little kitchen. It always impressed me how neat my dad was. Most men I knew were slobs. Then I thought about how neat Jake’s house was too—and immediately felt a sting at the thought of him in Florida with his family, all the way across the country.

Through a screen door behind my dad I noticed a tiny deck overlooking a courtyard, which was filled with potted plants and flowers. Given how much he loved all things green, I was surprised he didn’t grow his own Christmas tree.

“Can I get you something to drink? Lunch will be ready in about half an hour.”

I shook my head. “No thanks. Well, actually, some water would be nice. I’m just going to wash my hands.” On the way to the bathroom, I stopped to check out the framed photos in the hall. Most of them were of me as a kid. Me in a ballerina outfit. Me in a soccer uniform. Me in a leotard for gymnastics. Me holding a clarinet. Seems like I’d tried everything at least once, some things only once. I glanced back to my dad’s Spartan living room. As a child it had never occurred to me how hard it must have been for him to fund the activities I’d treated so capriciously.

My eyes moved along the wall, then stopped at a photo of my parents on their wedding day. I’d always loved that photo. It had been ages since I’d seen it, because during the years my dad lived in the double-wide, he hadn’t hung anything on the walls. They were both so happy, smiling widely for the camera. Eager to see what life had in store for them, for his baseball career, for their future.

Not knowing that cancer would soon take it all away.

Then I spotted another picture I hadn’t seen since I was younger. It was of my dad and the rest of the AAA team for the San Jose Giants, smiling broadly at the prospect of the bright future ahead of them. I’d spent hours studying that photo as a little kid, wondering what would become of them all.

I looked back toward the living room again. My dad was sitting quietly in a chair, watching the Lakers game on TV.

Suddenly I wanted to hug him.

But I knew I wouldn’t, because I never did.

“So you’re enjoying the restaurant?”

He nodded. “I really am. Who would have thought? I may apply for an assistant manager position soon.”

“That’s great, Dad, really great.”

We were sitting at his small dining room table, eating roasted turkey and mashed potatoes and watching the basketball game. Both of us still wore our Santa hats.

“Dad?”

He kept his eyes on the TV. “Yeah, baby?”

“Do you know what happened to the guys from your baseball team?”

“The Giants?”

“Yeah, from the picture on the wall. Do you still keep in touch with any of them?”

He shrugged, still looking at the TV. “One of the guys still writes now and then. He was the one who got me into Scrabble, actually.”

I raised my eyebrows. “
That’s
how you got into Scrabble?” Minor league baseball hardly seemed like a place to play Scrabble.

“Yep. And we were the only ones with kids back then, so we hung out a lot on the road and looked out for each other, to keep out of trouble, you know?”

I nodded. There was so much about my dad I
didn’t
know.

He shrugged again, still looking at the TV. “Anyhow besides him, it seems like no one really writes letters anymore.”

I smiled at the innocence of his comment. He had a cell phone, but for the most part he ignored modern communication. Our worlds were eternally intertwined, yet they barely intersected.

“I brought you something.” I stood up and reached for my purse on the couch, removing a small box. “Merry Christmas, Dad. I hope you like it.”

He took the box and unwrapped it, then slowly removed the lid. Inside was a Swiss Army knife I’d had engraved with his name on it.
Paul J. Bryson
.

“Baby, I love it.” He turned it over in his hand and ran his fingers over it. “It’s beautiful.”

“Since you can already fix anything and everything, I figured with this in your pocket you could
really
fix anything and everything.” I, on the other hand, could barely pound a nail straight. I pointed at him. “It’s not fair that I managed not to inherit a single one of your MacGyver genes. Not to mention your athletic genes, which apparently went into the hamper and never came out.”

He laughed. “You got your mother’s brains and her looks, now that’s for sure. So don’t you be complaining.” He stepped toward the tree, then leaned down and picked up a small package. “I’ve got something for you too.” He handed it to me.

“Thanks, Dad. I love the wrapping paper.” The thin, flat box was meticulously enveloped in shiny red with a silver ribbon. It reminded me of the Santa hats we were wearing.

I opened the box.

Inside was a thirty-dollar gift certificate to Olive Garden.

He smiled. “Merry Christmas, Waverly.”

I smiled back. “Thanks, Dad.”

I was trying not to laugh, trying not to cry, and feeling horrible for wanting to do both.

“I like it, like it, like it.” Larry Bergman, the red-cheeked features editor at the
Sun
, tapped his chubby fingertips on his desk. “It’s just what we need to bump up readership for your column. The advertisers will love it, which means our publisher will love it too. This is a great way to start off the year.”

“I hope so.” It was the first week of January. Larry had just returned from his vacation, so I’d finally brought up the
Today Show
opportunity.

“The column is doing okay locally.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms to rest across his globular belly. “But we need to attract a readership that goes beyond the Bay Area. And being on national television will certainly help with that.”

“I hope so.” I quickly realized I’d already said that. It was amazing how inarticulate I could be at times, given that I was being paid to use…words.

“Did they give you any details?”

“Not many, but Scott Ryan said it would be a pretty straightforward panel, probably just two or three of us. He thought they’d probably ask me to share an example or two of typical e-mails I get from readers, then offer a piece of advice for Valentine’s Day.”

Larry unwrapped a big piece of green taffy and popped it into his mouth. “I like it. You’ll need to grab people’s attention, make them want to check out the column, give that panel some
oompf
.” He made fists with his chubby little hands, which made him look like a Cabbage Patch Kid. I wanted to hug him.

I stood up. “Will do. I certainly have enough material to consider. I got an e-mail this morning from a woman who was accused of cheating after she didn’t respond to
ten
text messages from a guy she’d been on like three dates with. He’d sent them over the course of two hours on a Saturday afternoon, when her cell phone was turned off because she was at a movie. I swear, Larry, people are
crazy
.”

He shooed me out the door. “I like it. Now go make us proud, Waverly.”

I saluted. “I’m on it.”

On my way out of the building, I ran into Nick in the lobby. He was carrying a brown paper bag from Noah’s Bagels and had on a light blue T-shirt with Cougar Bait emblazoned across the front.

“Walgreens?”

“T.J. Maxx.”

“Nice.”

“You know it.”

“Don’t you ever get in trouble for wearing stuff like that to work?”

“Are you serious? This is a
newspaper
, Waverly.”

“So?”

“
So
, it’s a paper dinosaur in a digital world. In the middle of
Silicon Valley
, of all places. They’ve got much bigger problems to worry about than my choice of office attire.”

“Really? I didn’t realize.”

He laughed. “Don’t you read the papers? Oh, wait, that’s right,
no one does
.”

“Is it that bad?”

He shrugged. “I just know it’s not good. But they need me, because I’m the only one around this place who knows anything about technology.”

I smiled. “So it’s all about Nick?”

He headed for the elevator. “You know it is. And don’t think I don’t have
that
on a tee shirt too.”

As the doors closed behind him, I wondered if he was right. Was the
Sun
doomed? Was my column doomed? I pulled my phone out of my purse. This could be important, and I wanted to talk to someone about it. Someone who cared about me and my future.

I stared at the phone in my hand.

I’m calling Jake.

I squeezed the phone.

I’m totally calling him. I’m not calling McKenna or Andie this time.

I took a deep breath and dialed his number, then exhaled and smiled.

I did it!

I’m moving this relationship forward. I’m opening the kimono.

It went straight to voicemail, no ring.

Ugh
,
his phone is turned off.

I thought about leaving a message, but I couldn’t think of something witty to say, and I wanted to be witty. I wanted to be charming. I wanted to be something completely different than what I was feeling at the moment.

Before his voicemail got to the beep, I hung up and called McKenna instead.

I’ll call him tomorrow,
I thought.

I stood there for a few moments, then slowly turned toward the bus stop. On the way I passed my favorite homeless person in San Francisco, the guy who carries a sign that says “I bet you can’t hit me with a quarter.” I smiled at him, then hurled a quarter in his direction. In a city where on any given day you are one hundred times more likely to be asked for spare change than for your phone number, you’ve got to reward anyone with the ingenuity to stand out like that.

I mean it. I’ll really call Jake tomorrow,
I thought again.

When I got back to my apartment, I picked up the phone to call Scotty.

“Okay, it’s official. I’m in. They said yes.”

“That’s great news, sweetheart.” Scotty was the only man I knew who could call me pet names without sounding patronizing or lecherous. I could practically feel his pretty green eyes sparkling through the phone.

“My editor really liked the idea.” I leaned back in my chair, which creaked a bit. I made a mental note to put some WD-40 on it. Then I chuckled silently because I knew I never would.

“Of course he did. Everyone loves
The Today Show.
”

“I just hope I don’t blurt out something ridiculous. I have a tendency to do that when I get nervous.”

“Oh pumpkin, please, you’ll do great.”

“Fingers crossed. I’ve been reading through my
favorites
e-mail folder this afternoon, you know, to prepare something good, something really entertaining.”

“Perfect, that’s what you need to do.”

“But I’ve got to tell you, Scotty, this is harder than I thought it would be.”

“Harder? Why?”

“Because I have so much material here that I’m finding it hard to choose what to go with.”

He laughed. “That good? Or should I say, that bad?”

“
So
bad. Wanna hear some?”

“Oh yes. Lay it on me.”

“Okay.” I sat up straight and put my hand over the mouse. “I’ll read you a few short ones. You ready?”

“Ready.”

“Okay, here goes: ‘
Dear Waverly, what the hell is wrong with men? My boyfriend of three years just broke up with me over e-mail. E-MAIL. After THREE YEARS. He hopes we can be friends. I hope he contracts E-coli
.’”

“Oh my,” Scotty said.

“Oh yes. Here’s another one: ‘
Dear Waverly, I just found out the guy I’ve been dating seriously for five months has an estranged wife (AKA HE IS MARRIED). He told me this while we were on vacation together in Hawaii. He also slipped in that he has two kids. Then he proposed. I proposed that he get his lying ass on a plane back to Oakland.
’”

“Ouch.”

“Yep. And check this one out: ‘
Dear Waverly, I just got a text message from my BOSS that said, “Thanks for the awesome dream last night.” Btw, my boss is male and has a wife, and my name is Brian. WTF??
’”

“Good lord.”

“You said it.”

“You think the last guy is referring to a senator, a congressman, or an evangelical TV pastor?”

I laughed. “That’s not bad. I should have used it in my reply.”

“You weren’t kidding about the abundance of material.”

“That, my friend, is the horror of being a single person in the San Francisco Bay Area.”

“Not that you would know.”

I sat up in my chair. “Hey now, I’m single.”

“Sweetheart, you are
so
not single.”

“Yes, I am.”

He laughed. “No, you aren’t.”

“Yes, I am. We haven’t had
the talk
, Scotty. So nothing is official. Jake is not my boyfriend. We’re not exclusive. We don’t even live in the same city.”

He sighed. “Gorgeous, I’m not talking about labels or geography, I’m talking about your heart. Don’t try to tell me it isn’t one hundred percent taken.”

I opened my mouth to tell him he was wrong, but then I realized something.

He was right.

It was nearly four o’clock the next morning when I woke up and realized something else.

I sat up in bed, half asleep, but aware that something was wrong.

Oh no
.

I got out of bed and groggily stumbled into my office, moving aside my notebook, calculator, and phone to look for my calendar. I was the one of the last people alive to use a paper planner, but I loved writing things down with an actual pen. It kept me organized and on top of things.

Until then, apparently.

I flipped the pages back to November, then started counting forward from the last date I’d circled in red. My fingers tapped along the days, then stopped.

I bit my lip.

I’m late.