The Knock Read online

  I love our origin story. Nobody ever believes I picked up him after a traffic violation. Donovan had said he knew I was special the minute I said I’d wanted to do the right thing. Maybe even loved me.

  My cell phone chirps. Something or someone is always dragging me back from my memories. It’s a good thing, too. If they didn’t I’d probably live there. It’s where I’m happiest. And for that I feel terrible for my children, but it’s true.

  The text is from my boss, Beckham. He’s just checking my progress. The initial artwork for #coolNerd is due Friday. I assure him it will be done. I haven’t even started.

  Chapter 3

  I’ve been listening to #coolNerd’s newest album. I’ve listened at least seven times, and I think I’ve finally hit upon something. The whole thing is about leaving home, finding yourself, or thinking you’ve found yourself but not until you find the person who makes it all make sense. The lyrics are so layered and real. I decide to do more research about Sid Cooper and #coolNerd.

  The front door slams, signaling that the kids are home from school.

  “We’re here!” they yell.

  “K! Did you have a good day?”

  “Yeah.”

  I plug in my earbuds because #coolNerd’s album isn’t released yet, and I’m under strict orders not to share or leak or even mention it. Which is too bad because it’s really good, and I’d love to talk about it with someone.

  As the last song on the album plays out, I look at my watch. Shit! It’s five o’clock! I need to get dinner started. I pull the buds from my ears.

  Knock! Knock!

  Who’s knocking on the front door? I mean we have a doorbell for God’s sake. Knocking is for emergencies only. Something urgent. Something bad. Don’t people know that?

  I pad to the front door, my bare feet smacking against the tiles in the entryway. I swear to God if this is a salesman or a kid selling cookies, I’m gonna freak!

  I open the door about to admonish the said “knocker,” but instead I’m met with a pair of deep green eyes crinkled up by a sheepish grin that spreads into a huge smile.

  “Hi!” The voice attached to the green eyes says through the screen door. “I’m Mitch Morgan.” The green eyes look me up and down, and for some reason it doesn’t bother me. Mitch is carrying a guitar case over one shoulder.

  “Is Mrs. Garrett here?”

  I push the screen door open. “I’m Mrs. Garrett.”

  “No,” he corrects me, disbelief in his voice. His eyes sweep over me again, this time stopping at my feet, then my Led Zeppelin T-shirt and finally my face. “I mean, are you sure? Because you don’t look like a mom… oh, crap… uh… I better shut up!”

  I laugh aloud and ask, “Was that an awkwardly charming left-handed compliment?”

  “If you’re willing to take it that way, then, yes. Yes, it was.”

  “I will.”

  “Good. Like I said, I’m Mitch Morgan. I’m here for Van’s guitar lesson.”

  This guy is my kid’s guitar teacher? Holy smokes, he’s adorable. I mean, objectively, no one can deny how good-looking this guy is. Tall, short brown hair, scruffy beard and a jawline that could cut glass.

  “M-Mitch. Yes. Guitar. Yes. Yes. Come in. Please,” I stutter after I’ve finished ogling him. My stomach flips as I step back to let him into the foyer. I push a lock of hair behind my ear and become very aware that I’m dressed like a complete slob and my hair is in the messiest messy bun known to exist on this planet or any other. I can’t even remember if I put on makeup today.

  “Excuse me.” I hold up a finger and then walk away from the much-too-handsome musician occupying all the space and air and everything else in my foyer. Seriously, I need to take a breath. I knock on Van’s door and immediately open it.

  “Hey, Kiddo. Van. Come out here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Van throws his tablet down and jumps off his bed. “Is it the guitar teacher?”

  “Yep. I forgot he was coming. Come out and meet him.”

  Van joins me in the hall and we walk down the hallway.

  “Mom, I reminded you this morning.”

  “I know. I was focused on work when he knocked on the door.”

  Mr. Green Eyes watches us come down the hall. He shifts the papers from his right hand to under his left arm and reaches out to shake Van’s hand.

  They shake with one of those “cool guy swing-your-arm-out-then- shake-with-your-hands-over-each-other grip” handshakes. The kind that are generally followed by a bro hug, but it’s probably too soon for that.

  “Hey, man! Nice to meet you. I’m Mitch.”

  “I’m Van.”

  I interrupt, “Mitch, I’m so glad my boss asked your friend about guitar teachers. I don’t know if I’d have found one with such high recommendations without him.”

  “Yeah, my friend’s a good guy. Don’t see him enough. I’m happy he thought of me for this job.” Mitch’s voice is warm and sincere. His eyes never break from mine when he talks to me.

  I turn to Van. “Why don’t you grab your guitar and go up to the bonus room for your lesson. I set up a corner for you as a rehearsal space. I’ll get dinner started so it’s ready when you’re done.”

  Van nods and signals Mitch to follow him. As they walk away, Mitch asks Van who his favorite artist is and what he likes to play.

  The only part I can make out is the word “#coolNerd”.

  Chapter 4

  Once Van and Mitch’s voices fade, I scurry to my bedroom and straight through to the bathroom. Facing the mirror, I already know what I’ll see before I do. One glance confirms it. Traces of makeup from the day before grace my eyes along with the huge dark circles under them. I look like an exhausted raccoon. My usually sideswept bangs are weirdly parted in the middle and askew from my habit of running my hand through them as I work. My messy bun is a matted disaster cocked somewhere between the ten forty-five and eleven o’clock positions on top of my head. I don’t even bother to look at my T-shirt and cutoffs. I know they’re probably horrifying, but they’re clean. The least I can do is clean up my hair and face. After all, we have company. Very handsome company.

  Part of me is shocked I care at all.

  The other part is pleased that I do.

  I mechanically clean my face, slick on some concealer and mascara and a swipe of lip gloss. That’s better. To put in any more effort would be weird, right? I mean, he’s a guitar teacher, not a date. A date? Why am I even thinking these things?

  I rake the ponytail holder out of my hair, tame my bangs to the side and comb my tangled blond hair. Then I smooth it into a ponytail high on the back of my head. Again, better. Maybe I should change clothes?

  “Mom!” yells Shane from the doorway to my bathroom. “Are we gonna eat soon? I’m getting hungry.” He’s my sweet, brown-eyed ten-year-old, whose smile is a copy of his father’s.

  No time to change clothes. I look in the mirror one more time. What am I even doing? When’s the last time I cared this much about the way I looked? I know. The last time I said goodbye to Donnie.

  “Yeah, baby, I was just combing my hair. It was crazy.” After taking one last stab at controlling my bangs, I turn to him. “Let’s go make dinner and we’ll eat when Van is done with guitar lessons.”

  “Great! I can hear them. I think that guitar teacher is really good. I can hear him playing songs and they sound just like they do on my iPhone.”

  “Really? Let’s go sneak a listen.” Shane and I creep down the hall and listen at the bottom of the stairs to the bonus room.

  Shane’s right. Mitch is good. He’s playing a Jimmy Page riff, I think.

  I whisper to my youngest, “Come on, let’s let them play and go make dinner. It’s Tuesday, so that means it’s…”

  “Tacos!”

  “You got it, buddy.”

  In the kitchen, Shane and I turn the radio on to the local classic-rock station. I have to give Donnie the credit for my kids’ love of real rock music.
They might be the only eighth and fifth graders with the ability to sing Beatles songs by heart.

  I brown the ground beef and add taco seasoning as Shane chops some lettuce and tomatoes, and gets out the shredded cheese, salsa and sour cream. Our little family of three has this down pat. We can put together a meal in no time because we eat the same five meals during the week. So far, nobody has complained. Maybe it’s because they know it’s all I can handle. Funny, I’ve never thought about or questioned it until now. Never even thought to ask the boys if it bothered them. It’s been a strange night. Things that I’ve taken for granted are really coming to light.

  Like my appearance and what I’m doing or not doing for my kids.

  Dinner is set up at the kitchen island. We’d stopped being a “dinner table family” during the times when Donnie was undercover. It didn’t feel right to sit at the dinner table with him not there. Then when he would never be there again, we stopped eating at it altogether. We didn’t have a meeting to discuss not eating at the table. We just fell into sitting in the tall stools facing the kitchen. We have a dinner table—only now it’s usually covered in bills and school papers.

  Laughter echoes down the hall. A deep, rich man’s voice and a squeaky preteen’s.

  “Man, you’ve got some chops, Mitch.”

  “Chops? Who told you the word chops? That’s like an old musician’s word.”

  “My dad.”

  My heart lifts and sinks in quick succession. My dad. The words are heaven and hell when said aloud.

  “Your dad’s a smart guy,” Mitch says kindly.

  “Was,” Van informs Mitch matter-of-factly.

  “What?” Shock fills Mitch’s response.

  “Was. He’s dead.”

  “Oh, man. Van, I am so sorry, dude.”

  “It’s OK.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s OK, we have Mom. As long as Mom’s OK, we’re OK.”

  Wow, I didn’t know he felt that way.

  “Then you’re good, because your Mom seems OK,” Mitch says as they both enter the kitchen.

  Our eyes connect. I smile to let him know I heard the compliment.

  “Wow, it smells great in here, Mom.”

  “It sure does,” Mitch agrees, returning my smile.

  “Hey, Mom, can Mitch stay for dinner?”

  I hadn’t thought of that possibility, but I’m not opposed. “Well, uh…”

  “Come on, Mom!” Van implores.

  Shane simultaneously says, “Yeah, we never have company except Grandma and Grandpa.”

  There’s a frantic overlapping of invitation and polite refusal and finally it’s agreed that Mitch will stay for Taco Tuesday.

  “Shane, can you get another plate?” Shane is out of his seat and grabbing all the needed dinnerware before I’ve even finished the question.

  “I hope you don’t mind sitting at the island.”

  Mitch smiles as he slides onto the barstool between Van and Shane. “I just think it’s cool you all still eat together. Really, I don’t think it matters what or where or how you eat together. Just that you do.”

  Van whispers to Shane, “That sounds like Dad.”

  I’m sure he thinks I didn’t hear him, but I did.

  The boys are more animated than I’ve seen them in a long time, or maybe I just haven’t noticed for a long time. Dinner is filled with stories of guitars and songs Mitch likes and tales from school. When we’re all finished, the boys clear the plates. Mitch offers to help with the dishes, but I don’t feel right making him clean up since he only bargained on teaching guitar, not staying for dinner, too.

  “Well, I have to get going, Van, Shane, Mrs. Garrett.” Mitch picks up his guitar case from a nearby chair and slings it over his shoulder.

  “Mitch, please call me Posey.”

  “OK, not gonna argue with that.” Mitch holds both hands up in mock surrender. He lowers his hand, places one on his flat stomach and one behind his back and bows slightly. “Thank you for dinner, Posey.” The move is goofy. And adorable. And makes me smile.

  The boys say their goodbyes and run down the hall to Van’s room. I walk Mitch to the door.

  “You know, Van has great potential. You might want to think about more frequent lessons.”

  “Really?” I stop.

  Mitch turns back to me and laughs, one deep chuckle. “Yes, really. I’m not saying this just to get more work. He seems to have his basics down.”

  “His dad taught him.”

  Mitch clears his throat. “I’m so sorry about your husband. You should know he did a good job teaching Van. Sounds like a good guy.”

  There is a hitch in my voice when I say, “Thank you.” I clear it and ask, “So, could you come twice a week? Like maybe Thursdays, too?”

  “Let me give you a call tomorrow. I think Thursdays could work.” Mitch smiles and the edges of his eyes crinkle up, just the way they did when I answered the door. It looks familiar and I recall Donnie’s crinkled up the same way.

  Mitch extends his hand and I take it. A sparking, charged sensation moves through my palm and straight up my arm and across my breasts. He looks me in the eyes the entire time. I’m engulfed by the greenness of his eyes.

  In a warm tone he says, “Bye, Posey.”

  I don’t know when he let go of my hand, because I’m too concerned with why I’m not breathing and when I will start again. Something about his touch excites and alarms me all at once. So much so that I immediately anticipate the next time we’ll talk.

  Tomorrow! He said he’d call tomorrow.

  Chapter 5

  I’ve been so distracted in my morning meetings at Two-Shot today. I had to ask people to repeat themselves no less than four times. My mind keeps replaying my time with Mitch—frame by frame, like a movie—while I wait for his phone call.

  Absentmindedly, I run my fingers through my hair, only to get them stuck in the dried-out split ends. That’s it! I’m taking an extra-long lunch. I need a haircut. I look at my unpainted nails and ragged cuticles. I need a manicure, too. Maybe an entire makeover. It’s been ages since I’ve given a thought about my appearance or spent a dime on anything just for me, but for some reason I do now. I feel a little silly that the tiny morsel of attention some handsome young guy gave me has me feeling so self-conscious, but when I looked in the mirror last night, I barely recognized the frumpy woman staring back. I gaze down at my hands. Donnie always liked when I had my nails done. I guess with him not around, it didn’t seem important anymore. It is important! I like having nice nails and hair, too. Extra-long lunch it is!

  After grabbing my bag and laptop, I dash across the room to a glassed-in office space and tap on the glass. Beckham looks up. I slide open the door a few inches and poke my head in. “Boss, I’m going out for lunch.”

  “Uh, OK.” Beckham appears to be off-balance.

  Is this so unusual for me? I make a snap decision.

  “Aaaand after lunch, I’m going home. I have a great idea for the #coolNerd graphics.” I really don’t, but Beckham won’t see any of it until I’m ready to show him, so it’s fine.

  “Great!” Beckham gives me a thumbs-up. I guess sliding the part in about working made the whole “not coming back to the office” thing OK. I’ve never really done anything like this before. Generally, it would fall into the category of “wrong” for me. Not precisely the rules. But really it isn’t. I’m salaried. As long as I get my work done, it doesn’t matter where or when I do it. And how many times have I pulled an all-nighter to get artwork ready for a pitch or presentation? Good Lord, I need to stop arguing and rationalizing with myself so much.

  Once I get in my car, I text Valley, my neighbor. One of the only neighbors I have a phone number for.

  ME: Hey, Do you know where I can get a haircut and color last minute? I know I’m asking for a miracle.

  A text comes back immediately.

  VALLEY: Really???? I’ve been dying for you to get your hair done!

 
She has?

  ME: You have? Why didn’t you say something?

  VALLEY: Hair is very personal. And it hasn’t seemed like the right time to bring it up. Yet. Did something happen to make you want a makeover?

  ME: Nothing specific.

  Liar.

  ME: Just time for an update. We’ll talk about it tonight when I pick up Shane.

  VALLEY: OK, give me a few minutes to see what I can do. Anytime this afternoon OK?

  ME: Yes

  I stop texting, place my phone on the console between the seats and pull away from the Two-Shot parking lot. I might as well grab something at Panini, the sandwich shop around the corner.

  What I’m doing this afternoon? Waiting for phone calls. From Valley about a hair appointment. From Mitch about adding lessons for Van on Thursday. I check my phone to make sure my ringer is on. I wouldn’t want to miss either one. I don’t know which one I’m more anxious to receive. Who am I kidding? The one from Mitch.

  I make my way into Panini and order a chicken Cobb salad with green goddess dressing. It’s not very crowded since the lunch rush is over. My name is called before I finish filling my plastic cup with iced coffee. I pick up my meal from the counter, find a seat and pull my phone out and place it on the table. Why won’t this thing ring?

  I make it three quarters of the way through my meal when my phone whistles that a text message has arrived.

  VALLEY: Girl, I used my magical powers and got you into Francisco Marco Salon at 1:45. You have 15 minutes to get your ass there!

  Jesus, Francisco Marco! That place is exclusive. And expensive.

  After sending her my thanks and a promise of many, many drinks, I toss the remainder of my salad in the trash can. On the way to my car, I take a few sips of coffee while simultaneously figuring out the navigation to Francisco Marco on my phone.

  Arriving at Francisco’s bang at exactly 1:44, I’m greeted at the door to the salon by none other than Francisco himself. He’s about fifty-five years old, completely bald but with a fabulously groomed hipster beard. He also has beautiful blue eyes fringed with eyelashes that would make Bambi jealous.