I barely got in when I heard, “Nice ride.”
I looked to my left to see a man in track pants and a loose fitting tank top that had openings that hung low down his sides almost to his waist, this exposing the muscled ridges of his ribs. He was staring out the window toward my car.
I had a black Mercedes SLK 350. A beautiful car. A car I loved. A car that was ridiculous for a mother of two and in a few months might be ridiculous for a winter in Maine.
“Thank you,” I replied.
“Need help?”
This came from another direction and I turned my head again to see a man approaching me.
He was tall, taller than Conrad, taller than Mickey (who was also taller than Conrad). He was built. He was rough.
And he was gorgeous.
Men from Maine.
Who knew?
“Hello,” I replied as he kept coming my way. “I’m looking for someone who knows something about the boxing league.”
“Which one?” he asked.
In this sleepy town, there was more than one?
“The junior one,” I answered.
He stopped several feet in front of me and crossed his arms on his chest. “That’d be me.”
“Oh, excellent,” I mumbled, staring at him, thinking he was almost as handsome as Mickey (but not quite), which was a feat.
“You got a kid you wanna enroll?” he queried.
“No, my son wrestles,” I told him, straightening my shoulders proudly. A mom’s reflex action, the kind any mom should have (in my opinion), even if she wasn’t all that thrilled with his chosen endeavor.
He grinned. It, as well, was almost as devastating as Mickey’s. But not quite.
“Wrestling works,” he muttered.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Anyway, I was just wondering if the junior boxing league takes donations?”
“If you mean money, then fuck yeah,” he said, surprisingly coarsely. “If you mean equipment, and it’s new, then another yeah. But if you mean equipment that’s used, I’d have to take a look. Kids need good shit. Don’t like them sparrin’ in somethin’ that’s supposed to protect ’em but could end up hurtin’ ’em.”
I thought this was a good policy, but he obviously already knew that so I didn’t share my thoughts.
I said, “I mean money. In a way. Or not in a way, as it would definitely be money. What I mean is…in the future. You see, I just moved to Magdalene and I’m having a house sale. I thought, perhaps, the league could use the proceeds.”
At that, he smiled, which was also attractive, and he did this as he uncrossed his arms from his wide chest, planted his hands on his hips and decreed, “Great idea.” He then turned, started walking away from me and kept talking, “Come to the office. I’ll get you Josie’s number. Bet most the moms have shit they’d sell off. You get with Josie, you can make it a thing.”
“Josie?” I asked, deciding it best to follow him, something I did, the heels of the flats I wore that I was pretty sure my mother also had (in every color) making muted sounds against the wood floors.
“My wife,” he said, turning his head to look over his shoulder at me. “She’s taken charge of fundraising.”
Taken charge?
That gave the impression she didn’t get involved before, and I thought that was strange.
I thought this because no matter what Conrad was involved in, what he needed, I did it. For instance, me to give a fabulous dinner party, or show at a business dinner in an appropriate dress and be charming, or become involved on the board of a charitable organization.
I didn’t just do it. I gave it my everything.
“Oh, right,” I said to the man’s back.
We entered a tidy office and I did it surprised boxers could be tidy. Then I forced myself to stop being surprised because I didn’t know any boxers and that was judgmental, a reaction my parents would have. And I forced myself to stop thinking about it at all when I halted as he continued walking to the desk.
He bent at the waist (a trim waist, I could see that through his well-fitting t-shirt), scribbled on a piece of paper, turned and came to me.
He held out the paper. “Josie’s number,” he declared. “I’ll give her the heads up you’re callin’. You wanna leave yours, I’ll give her your number too.” He grinned again and said, “And by the way, I’m Jake Spear. Owner of Truck’s Gym and the man behind Magdalene’s junior boxing league.”
I took the paper, shoved it into my purse with my phone and held out my hand, “Nice to meet you, Jake. I’m Amelia Hathaway.”
He took my hand, and much like when Mickey did it (with obvious differences, seeing as he wasn’t quite as attractive, not to mention the significant fact he was married), the strength and warmth of his fingers around mine communicated something I liked.
Deeply.
“Good to meet you, Amelia,” he replied, squeezing my fingers lightly and briefly before letting me go. “Real good to meet you, you raise some cake for my kids.”
I had a feeling, considering my plan, how much stuff I was selling and how nice it was, I’d definitely raise some cake for his kids.
I smiled at him then looked to his desk before moving my gaze back to him. “Shall I write down my number for your wife so we can introduce ourselves and make plans?”
“Absolutely,” he said while walking back to the desk.
I followed and did what he did, bending and writing my name and number on a sheet of paper.
I straightened and looked up to him. “I’ll give her a call today or tomorrow, if that’s okay.”
“You don’t, she’ll call you,” he told me. “A lot of the equipment is shot and enrollment is up. We need cash to cover the expansion. The last gig she did she wasn’t pleased with the results. Put her all into it and we made dick. She’s a dog with a bone now. So you might get a call before you even have time to drive home.”
I wouldn’t mind that. I hadn’t been there a week but I needed to settle in. Get the lay of the land. Sort out my home. Win back my family.
But I also needed to start a life.
That was what I’d failed to do when Conrad left. My life had been him. I should have licked my wounds, found a way to let them heal and moved on.
I didn’t do that.
Now, I had to do that. My thought: a healthy mom means a healthy home, which ends in a healthy relationship with my children.
My goal. What I was living for.
And although this Jake Spear didn’t hesitate to curse in front of a stranger who was also a female (my mother and father would lose their minds at that, genteelly, of course), he ran a junior boxing league. At least that said good things about him and a good man (sometimes) meant a good woman as his wife.
I needed to know good people.
And I needed friends.
This Josie might not be one but at least she was someone calling me that was not thousands of miles away and better, not my mother.
“Babe.”