I had a lot of sex, like Vicky had inserted, but the women always came to me. Kissing Emma, first on the cheek in her apartment and then later outside the restaurant, were the first two instances of me making the first move. While I couldn’t say exactly what it was, I knew that there was something different about Emma. Something special that, through some sort of dark magic or natural mojo, brought out the best in me — or at least the better. I was no longer completely convinced that I still had a best. There came a point when you had to take stock of things and lower your expectations accordingly. Realistic expectations being a sign of maturity. Or so I had always heard.
The only people I knew who I would consider mature adults were Ann and Jim Howell. Then again, I didn’t know many people, so it was a pretty limited sample base.
“Hey,” Jim said to Ann, his sister, as he sat down beside her at the head of the conference table. They did have their names on the building, after all.
“Hey,” Ann said distractedly, as she was looking through a stack of papers.
“How’s the family?” Jim asked.
“You would know that as well as I would,” Ann snapped, without missing a beat or looking up from her papers.
“No, I mean your other family.”
“Other family? You mean the survivors of my army unit?”
“No.”
“The biker gang I joined briefly after returning from deployment?”
“You didn’t -” Her brother sat back, shocked.
She gave him a grin. “Just making sure you’re paying attention.”
“You’re the one doing paperwork,” Jim pointed out.
“Touché.”
“Watch your language,” Jim admonished.
“It was French,” Ann said.
“Exactly,” Jim said, “and I meant your baby boy.”
“Oh, right him!” Ann said, as though she had just been reminded.
“Slip your mind?” Jim joked.
“No, of course not! I just wasn’t thinking in that exact way when you asked. Very much business right now if you know what I mean.”
“Sadly, yes, there were times in law school when you forgot my name.”
“Poppycock!”
“I still have Christmas cards made out to Jake.”
Ann rolled her green eyes, which were an exact match to her brother’s. “It was a slip of the pen. In any case, Drew is good. He is about to turn three, which is really exciting.”
“Yeah, it looks like the name you chose is going to take,” her brother joked.
“Hey?”
“You waited until he was one before naming him, right?” Jim asked.
“What are you — oh, very funny!” Ann snapped.
“Thank you,” Jim said, giving a cordial bow.
“Anything special planned?” I asked, distracting Ann’s attention from her brother before she could commit fratricide with her pen.
“I was planning on having a big family dinner.”
“That’s a nice idea, I didn’t know you could cook.”
“Oh, no, I can’t,” Ann said.
“Legend has it she once burned water,” Jim added and she threw her pen at him, which he ducked easily.
“I’m trained, you know,” Ann said, glaring at him.
“In cooking?” Jim asked.
“Deadly force,” I pointed out, making Ann smile.
“Oh right,” Jim said casually. His sister stuck her tongue out at him.
“I actually want to hire a caterer to do everything to the proper scale and quality.”
“Good call,” I agreed.
“If only it were so simple,” Ann said, with genuine ennui.
“Oh my, is that frustration I hear?” I asked.
“Not yet, though I am a bit annoyed that every caterer in town seems to be busy with other events.”
“Every caterer?” I asked, this seeming like a bit of an exaggeration.
“All the ones that she is willing to use anyway,” Jim chimed in, not heeding the previous warning.
“Hands, Are. Deadly. Weapons,” Ann said, putting her head dramatically in her hands.
“It makes sense she would want it to be good,” I pointed out, trying to keep Ann’s ire off of me.
“There’s a difference between good and perfect,” Jim pointed out.
“As the philosophers would agree,” I said.
“You wouldn’t have any ideas, would you?” Ann asked, turning her attention to me.
It was then that I remembered Emma and her Holy Crap Crapes. They really did live up to their name, and it really didn’t take her very long to make them. Such was the depth of her experience and deftness in the kitchen. Her cookies were really good and fast, too, proving that she was as good with an oven as a stove. If she had any blender skills, which she well might, she would be rightly considered a triple-threat, a good smoothie often being underestimated.
“What about Emma?” I suggested.
“From the cafe?” Jim asked.
“She works at the cafe but is also a really good cook and baker. She tried to teach me some of what she knows.”
“How good?” Ann asked.
“One of her signature dishes is called Holy Crap crapes.”
“Okay,” Ann said, thoroughly impressed.
“I’ll talk to her,” I said.
I was nervous about seeing Emma again. It wasn’t cool what I did, and I knew it, origami note notwithstanding.