Thursday Afternoon Read online

  We took a load off at the smoothie bar located right in the gym.

  “So what’s new with you?” Jess asked, moving her straw in and out of the hole of the lid of her cup.

  “Not much. Same shit as always.”

  “So how’s the new client?”

  I creased my eyebrows in confusion, wondering exactly which new client she was referring to.

  “The British businessman,” she clarified, seemingly sensing my confusion.

  “Oh, he’s fine,” I replied, wondering how she even knew about him.

  “He was supposed to be one of mine until Margo got a bug up her ass and switched him to you.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Probably because she’s pissed at me because I told her I wanted a bigger cut.”

  I took a sip of my smoothie, fighting off the brain freeze. “Okay, you asked for a raise, she can’t fault you for that.”

  “Yeah well, it’s awful funny how right after that, Mr. British was off my schedule.”

  “Did you ask her why?”

  “She gave me some line about how he preferred blue eyes over brown. Supposedly he had a certain look he was after.”

  Besides our eye color, Jess and I had very similar features. Both of us were around five-seven, both had long blond hair, and we even had the same bra size. My thoughts immediately diverted to his eye color choice. Not that it ever mattered to me before. Lots of clients had preferences, whether it was eye color, hair color, cup size, even butt size. So why was I so intrigued over the fact that Thursday Afternoon was partial to blue eyes? I tried to chase away any thoughts. For all I knew maybe Margo was lying to Jess because she was upset with her—even though that wasn’t Margo’s style. Normally if she was pissed at someone, that person knew it.

  “Doesn’t matter anyway. I’m seriously thinking of branching out on my own,” Jess continued.

  “Jess, really? I understand you’re a little upset with Margo now, but she does a great job keeping everything organized and pre-screening to make sure we’re not getting involved with lunatics.”

  She waved her hand in a dismissing manner. “Please. I’m pretty sure all of my clients would go with me. Which means I get to keep all of the money instead of giving a cut to that shriveled-up old prune.”

  “Just don’t jump the gun.” Before this conversation, I had been planning on telling her about my nun client, figuring I’d give her a good laugh, but I now thought better of it. I didn’t want her to question why Margo thought I’d be best to give Hannah pointers. She was already on the defensive; I didn’t want to add to it. Not to mention she’d probably think I was crazy for helping her out pro bono.

  “I’m not. I’m just looking out for my best interest, and maybe you should too. We don’t need Margo. Margo needs us. She knows that you and I are her best. What do you think of going in as partners?”

  I twisted my straw wrapper until it ripped in half. “I-I couldn’t do that to Margo. She’s always been there for me.”

  “Business is business. Isn’t that always what Margo says?”

  It was easy for Jess to think that way: she didn’t have the history that Margo and I had. Margo knew everything about me. She’d helped me through one of the darkest periods in my life, and I would always feel an allegiance to her for that.

  I looked down at my watch. I had just enough time to stop home and shower before meeting Sister Hannah. “I have to run.” I stood up and pushed in my chair. “Just promise me you won’t make any rash decisions.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Jess?”

  “Okay, okay, I promise.” She didn’t sound too convincing.

  “I’ll talk to you later.” I bent down and pecked her on the cheek before gathering my things and heading out. The stale sweatiness of the gym quickly diminished when I stepped out into the cold winter air. Taking my jacket from my gym bag, I glanced at my phone to find a missed call and voicemail from a number I didn’t recognize. After five unsuccessful attempts to flag down a cab, I finally snagged one. I waited until I was settled in the taxi and had given the driver the address to my apartment before pulling out my phone to listen to the voicemail.

  “Hi, Bree, it’s Hannah. I’m so sorry, but I forgot it was my turn to teach Sunday school this week. I’m never going to be able to make our meeting in time. So I was wondering if you’d like to meet me at the church and we can go to a coffee shop nearby.”

  Meet her at church? Is she crazy? The roof may cave in if I walk in there.

  “If not, I completely understand and I hope we can keep our appointment for next Sunday. But in the off chance you can, here’s the address…”

  I placed my phone back in my bag and threw my head back on the seat, deciding if I really felt like traveling over the bridge to Brooklyn, and to go to a church, of all places. “Fuck it!” I whispered to myself. It wasn’t like I was religious anyway. What was the worst that could happen to me? In fact, maybe it would do me good. Doubtful, but there was always wishful thinking.

  Chapter 6

  I stood in front of St. Joseph’s church, trying to work up the courage to go inside. I knew it was foolish to be nervous about moving forward, but my profession went against everything these people believed in. I was the devil in disguise, walking into their place of worship, and I was afraid that it would be written all over my face.

  “Oh hello, can I help you?” an older nun asked as she exited the church.

  Thank you, Jesus! I said to myself as I mentally made the sign of the cross. “Umm…yes, I’m an old friend of Hann—I mean Sister Hannah,” I fibbed. I was going to hell anyway, so why stop then. “She said she’d be teaching Sunday school, and I could meet her here.”

  She cleared her throat and adjusted her glasses, giving me the once-over before responding. “Oh yes, if you go into the church vestibule you’ll see a door on the right that leads to the church basement. That’s where they hold Sunday school. I believe Sister Hannah’s classroom is the first one on the left.”

  “Great. Thanks.” I moved forward, feeling a little better knowing I didn’t have to go past the entryway of the church, and I was going down—which was the appropriate direction, given the circumstances.

  My nasal passages flooded with the familiar scent of incense when I walked inside. I inhaled deeply, remembering that eight-year-old girl who was dragged to nine o’clock mass every Sunday morning with her grandmother. Even though I hated it back then, I would have given anything to have just one of those Sunday mornings back, to be with my grandmother once again. She was the only mother figure I had growing up, and the reason I had become such a successful dancer. She’d take me to all of my dance classes and would wake up at the crack of dawn to drive me miles away to my competitions. She was the only reason I didn’t want to leave home to pursue my dream, but she was the one who had pushed me the hardest to go. I knew I couldn’t let her down, so I did. Her dream was to see me perform in my first big show. She was beaming when she was able to make that a reality, traveling across the country to cheer me on, never letting on to me that she was sick. She lost her battle to cancer two weeks later, and I was blindsided with grief. Once she passed away, the glue that held my family together dried up. He was now the only thing left that tied me to that town, and the only reason I’d ever want to go back. I would tear up whenever I thought of him, and the guilt I still harbored because of it. Five long years, and I still couldn’t utter his name. Not even in my thoughts.

  Taking a deep breath, I pulled it together and headed down the stairs, returning the smiles of a few parents who had their kids in tow as I passed them in the stairwell. It was funny how I suddenly felt reinvented just by being in the confines of the church walls. These people had no idea who I was or what I did. For all they knew I was just your average church-going mom who stayed home all day and baked cookies while her kids were at school. It was actually fun to imagine myself as someone I knew I’d never be—although
maybe a small part of me wished I could be that person. I reached the bottom of the steps and chased that ridiculous thought from my head, focusing my attention to the first door on the left. I peeked in to find the chaos inside Hannah’s classroom as the parents gathered their children’s belongings, some making a mad rush for the door and others standing around gossiping.

  “Bree.” Hannah smiled, seeming surprised to see me. “I’m so sorry for inconveniencing you this way.”

  “No problem, it’s nice to see how the other half lives,” I joked, but I was fairly certain it went right over her head.

  “It looks like all of the parents are here.” She looked around the room, focusing on the little blond boy still sitting at his desk. “Oh, except for Jack.”

  “Sister Hannah,” one of the parents called.

  “Excuse me just one second, Bree,” Hannah said as she scurried off.

  All of the kids seemed to range from two to five years old, and all were little germ magnets with runny noses and hacking coughs, whining at their parents for one thing or another. The maternal moment I had just a few moments earlier was gone. I was as out of place with these kids as Hannah was writing a sex scene. My eyes honed in on the little boy who Hannah had referred to as Jack as he sat quietly at his desk, drawing. He wasn’t like the rest of these kids. He didn’t have snot dripping down his face, he wasn’t breeding germs with an obnoxious mucus-filled cough, and he certainly wasn’t a whiny little brat like the others. This little boy seemed like the perfect little gentleman. If I had to guess, I would have said he was four or five, with sandy blond wavy hair, chubby cheeks, and the most adorable wire-rimmed glasses. Normally I steered clear of kids, but there was something about that little boy that made me just want to hug him. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. If I ever had a child, I would want him to be just like Jack.

  What the hell am I thinking? Either I’m borderline kidnapper or just plain old out of my mind.

  I walked around the classroom looking at the drawings on the bulletin board while Hannah helped to usher her students and their parents out of the classroom.

  “Jack, sweetie, get your coat on. Daddy is on his way and is going to bring you home. I have to go to Aunt Kayla’s baby shower.”

  I immediately turned around to see the lucky mother who got to claim that sweet little boy as her child. As expected, she was pretty and very well put together. And for one insane moment, I was actually jealous of her. I watched as she zipped up his coat and pulled his hat down over his head until just the lenses on his glasses were showing. He stood silently as she fumbled through the papers on his desk. I took a deep breath, giving Jack one last look before focusing my attention back to the bulletin board—quickly distracted once again when I heard the woman shout, “There’s Daddy!”

  Unable to control myself, I twisted back around to see just how perfect Jack’s daddy was—holding in my gasp when my eyes simultaneously locked with Thursday Afternoon’s. A tight knot formed deep within the pit of my stomach, and I wasn’t sure which of us was more surprised by the encounter. I looked away, turning back around and wishing the floor would open and suck me in. Sometimes my clients chose to share their marriage problems, and as I listened I would always envision some faceless woman as their spouse. So to come face to face with not only a client’s wife but their child was all too real. What was so wrong in their marriage that he needed my services? She was young, pretty, seemed sweet enough, and they had a young child together. For the first time ever I was feeling a little guilty over the effects that my profession had on this family. He was someone’s husband. Someone’s father. He wasn’t just the business deal that I always viewed my clients as.

  “See you later, Jack,” I heard Hannah shout.

  I waited a few minutes to make sure it was safe to show my face once again, finding an almost empty classroom when I did. I managed to pull it together by the time the last child exited.

  “Sorry about that. Sometimes the parents want a play-by-play of what their child did while they were in church for forty-five minutes.”

  “No problem,” I whispered. “So are these the same students you teach all week?”

  “Some of them are. Some are a grade or two above and some others attend public school. I have the pre-K kids during the week.”

  “Oh.” I bit my lip, deep in thought. Jack seemed to be of pre-K age. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was one of Hannah’s students, and if he was, I wondered how much she knew about his mother and father.

  “Ready?” Hannah asked as she gathered her belongings.

  I nodded, following her out of the classroom, trying to get Thursday Afternoon off my mind and focus on Sunday afternoon instead.

  ***

  “So what’s your story going to be about?” I asked Hannah as we sat down with our peppermint lattes.

  She sighed heavily. “I’m not really sure. I’m kind of making it up as I go along.”

  I didn’t know anything about writing a book, but I was fairly certain that some type of plotline was needed before you began. “What are the names of your main characters?”

  “Barbara and Larry.”

  I choked on the sip I had just taken of my latte, failing miserably at my attempt to hide my amusement. I wasn’t into romance novels, but I did watch soap operas—which were close enough—and I knew her characters needed trendier names than Barbara and Larry.

  “Don’t you like those names?” She seemed a little upset.

  “Oh no, those are very nice names, but I think for a romance novel you need to go with something a little more hip. When I hear the name Larry, I think of someone’s dad or a plumber. You know, just an everyday guy. Don’t you want your reader to think of some hot, powerful businessman with a gorgeous body, crystal green eyes, perfectly chiseled facial features, deep dimples, and an adorable cleft in his chin?” I had just subconsciously described Thursday Afternoon—minus the British accent.

  She gazed at me questioningly, waiting for me to come out of my foolish little fantasy. “I thought you didn’t read romance novels.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Well you sure did a really good job of describing your hero.”

  “Oh, that’s from all the soaps I watch. But really, you can make him look however you want. Brown eyes, blue eyes. White, black, Asian.” I tried playing it off. “He just has to be appealing to the reader and not come off as, well…boring. And the name Larry screams boring.”

  “What name would you suggest?”

  “Hmm…” I stared straight ahead, thinking of some of my favorite soap opera characters. “Dante.”

  She turned her nose up.

  “Andre, Steele, Grayson…Simon.” Did I really just say Simon?

  “Oh, I kind of like Simon.”

  Shit! Of course she did! I hoped she would never be able to put the pieces of the puzzle together and figure just who her hero was molded after.

  “What about my female character?”

  “Again, Barbara sounds like she could be someone’s grandmother or—” I paused for a moment. “Don’t take offense to this…but the name Barbara sounds like a nun.”

  She raised an eyebrow at me.

  “I’m sorry, but it does.”

  Unable to hold back her laughter any longer, she confessed, “I had a Mother Superior who was very kind to me when I first joined. Her name was Barbara.”

  “There you go.” I laughed back. “You need a modern name like Taylor, Madison, or Peyton,” I rattled off.

  She didn’t seem to care for any of them too much.

  “You can think about it. But you get where I’m coming from, right?”

  “I do.”

  “And are you writing under a pen name?”

  “Oh my, I didn’t even think about that.”

  “Well, you better. You don’t want it getting out to all of the other nuns that you’re peddling smut,” I joked, trying to get her to crack a smile. She was clearly overwhelmed by everything I was throwing at
her. “Maybe your pen name can be Barbara.”

  She nodded vigorously in agreement. “What about the last name?”

  “Latte,” I replied, looking down at my coffee cup.

  “Barbara Latte,” she repeated. “I like that.”

  “Great!”

  “Bree? Do you have a pen name?”

  “I-I don’t follow you?”

  “Do you go by a different name to your clients?”

  “Sorta.”

  “So Bree isn’t your real name?”

  “Sorta,” I reiterated.

  “I’m confused.” She crinkled her forehead.

  “Bree is a nickname for my real name. And no, I’m not telling you what it is. That’s a name reserved just for my family and friends.” I picked up the papers on the table and began to read her story:

  She lay on the bed, waiting to feel his manhood blossoming inside her. The yearning inside of her growing as she waited to be mounted.

  “What do you think?” she asked in anticipation.

  I looked down at the piece of paper once again, trying to pretend I was deep in thought and not on the verge of laughter. I had offended her enough for one day by criticizing her name choices. “Well…” I paused, trying to choose my words carefully but also wanting to be completely honest with her. She wanted the opinion of an expert, and that was what I was going to give her. “First off, the word ‘manhood’—it sounds like a word from the eighteen hundreds that one would use to describe the male anatomy.”