Chapter Six
The next Friday, my driver, Manny, dropped me off at the Eichler Shelter located in Lower Manhattan. I’d called earlier in the day to inquire about volunteering, and the receptionist told me to arrive at four o’clock to help prepare dinner. Dinner started at five and ended at seven, but people were already lining up outside the front door. I found the side door that the receptionist mentioned earlier with the words VOLUNTEERS ONLY in red lettering on the front. I pushed the metal door open and found myself in the cafeteria. Six long white tables that reminded me of the tables in my old high school cafeteria were stretched out across the large room. A stainless steel serving center was set up just before the kitchen, with a glass front that curved over the top of the empty warmers waiting for its finished products.
Next to the serving center, I saw a young boy, who’d been wrapping white plastic silverware in napkins, staring at me. He either recognized who I was, or was scared of strangers, but I’d put money on the former.
“Holy moly!” he whispered loudly, jumping down from his seat. He ran into the nearby kitchen and yelled, “Mom! You have to come here!”
“Zane . . .” The mother’s tone carried a hint of annoyance. “I can’t right now.”
The voices carried me closer to the kitchen.
The boy peeked his head back out and looked at me with big blue eyes before hurrying back into the kitchen. His obvious excitement made me laugh as I glanced into the kitchen. The scent of Italian food invaded my senses and my stomach growled. The grin on my face grew when I recognized a familiar face. The boy tugged on her shirt, and she glared down at him.
“I’m busy putting together these salad bowls, Zane,” Whitley said, her brown hair tied in a messy bun on top of her head. White gloves covered her hands, and a blue apron was tied around her waist. “Whatever it is can wait.”
A large bowl of mixed lettuce sat on the countertop in front of her with a tall stack of Styrofoam bowls next to it. She filled each bowl with a handful of salad and lined a big, tan tray with the readied bowls. Tight blue jeans hugged her hips and a gray t-shirt with a school’s logo on the front clung to her small breasts. It was nice to see her out of her professional work clothes and into something more relaxed. Other adults worked around her, rushing to get everything done on time. One lady filled small cups with different salad dressings. A man stirred a large pot of spaghetti noodles, while another one worked on browning a large amount of meat.
“Mom!” he insisted, pointing toward the door. “Look who’s here!”
She stopped what she was doing and glanced over to where I stood in the doorway. A weak smile spread across her beautiful face before she looked down at her boy.
“You didn’t tell me Max Waters would be helping us today!” Zane cheered, his body buzzing.
The boy’s enthusiasm and loud childish voice caught the attention of the other volunteers, causing them to stop what they were doing.
“I didn’t know he was going to be here,” she said, laughing lightly.
Even though she did know. She’d heard Sophie tell me about Fridays at the shelter.
Walking farther into the kitchen, I knelt down in front of Zane so that I was eye level with him. His small body stood before me rooted to the floor in shock. His enamored eyes took in every part of me, like I was going to disappear if he blinked. So, I offered him my hand. “What’s your name?”
“Zane,” he answered, his small hand grasping mine tight. “Zane Eichler.”
Eichler. Like the Eichler Shelter.
I smiled and shook his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Zane. I’m Max, but you already knew that.”
“Yeah . . . Oh, and this is my mom, Whitley,” he said, pointing up to her proudly. “Are you here to help us serve tonight?”
I stood and looked around at everyone in the kitchen. “I am. What do you guys need me to do?”
Whitley quickly introduced me to the others and then nodded toward five large loaves of Italian bread that were sitting on top of the other island countertop. “You could start by cutting up the bread.”
“I’ll show you where the knife is at!” Zane offered.
“No.” Whitley caught him by the back of his shirt and glared at him. “You’ll go back to wrapping silverware. Let the adults work in the kitchen.”
“It’s plastic, Mom!” he muttered on a groan. “Why does it need to be wrapped?”
She rolled her eyes as she pulled off her gloves and nudged him out the door. “Because it’s easier to carry that way. Now, get to work!”
The rest of the staff laughed at their mother-son banter, and then continued what they were each working on. I followed Whitley around the kitchen and washed my hands in a large metal sink. She showed me where I could find a set of gloves, and she grabbed a set for each of us and then led me over to the island of bread and pulled a large knife out of the drawer.
“Have you ever used an electric knife before?” she asked with a cringe.
I scoffed, taking the knife from her hand. “What’s with that face, Gonzalez? Of course I’ve used an electric knife before.”
“Really?” she asked incredulously.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” she said, mildly impressed. “So, you’ll want to cut the bread in even slices. Not too thin, but not too thick. We want it to go a long way.”
I eyed the loaves wrapped in plastic and nodded. “Not too thin, but not too thick. Got it.”
Her eyes sparkled, like she was impressed that I’d shown up. “Okay, you’re all set. Let us know if you need anything.”
***
Minutes later, I was working on my second loaf of bread when Zane entered the kitchen again. He pulled a tall metal stool over to the island I was working at and perched himself across from me.
“Zane,” Whitley called out, shaking her head. “What are you doing? Max is busy.”
“I’m just watching, Mom.” He looked at me and rolled his eyes, just like his mother. “I promise I won’t be in the way.”
Glancing over at Whitley, I waved her off. “It’s cool.”
“See,” Zane insisted. “He said it’s cool.”
Whitley glared at both of us and went back to her salad bowls as I focused on my bread. Smiling to myself, I enjoyed the attention Zane provided, even if it annoyed the hell out of his mother. I could already tell I was going to like him, and not because he recognized me, but because he wanted to spend time with me, something his mother wasn’t too keen on doing just yet.
But I hoped I could change her mind.
“So, how old are you?” I asked, sawing off another slice of bread.
“I’m eight,” he answered. “But I’ll be nine soon.”
If he was eight and Whitley was somewhere in her twenties, then—
“Did you know this place is named after my dad?” he asked quizzically.
The mention of his father caught my attention and it took everything in me not to look over at Whitley. I heard one of the other guys clear their throat as a sliver of tension entered the room. “No, I didn’t know that. That’s pretty neat.”
“Yep!” he exclaimed, his voice proud. “He used to help out here when he was in high school. This is where he met my mom.”
“Oh, yeah?” I asked, hoping he continued. Whitley had been cast as the female lead opposite me in my nightly dreams, so I was eager to learn more about her, even if it was from her son.
“Yeah, but Mom wasn’t helping at the time. She actually lived here back then.”
What? Whitley was homeless at one point?
Again, the need to look at her and silently ask if he was telling the truth grew stronger, but I held back because part of me knew he was. Everyone in here probably already knew the ending to the story except me.
“Where’s your dad now?” I asked, concentrating on the loaf in front of me as I started the blade up again.
“He died,” Zane answered matter-of-factly.
His words made my grip slip on the knife, causing the blade the stop again.
I peered up at his sweet, boyish features and smiled weakly. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“That’s okay. He died before I was born.” He shrugged nonchalantly and picked a breadcrumb up with his finger, and I went back to working on slicing the loaf. “He was trying to stop a robbery at a store when the bad guy shot him. So, he’s kind of like a superhero, right?”
Holy. Shit.
I swallowed around the lump in my throat and nodded reassuringly. “Y-yeah, Zane, I think so.”
Zane went back to picking at crumbs, and silence and tension enveloped the kitchen as everyone focused on their individual tasks. Speechless, I mentally thanked him for giving me the time to let his words marinate as I cut through two more loaves of bread. Whitley had been homeless, probably gave birth to Zane sometime in her teen years, and lost his dad at the same time. Not to an illness or a freak accident, but because he was being the good guy, the one attempting to stop the bad guy. Questions ping-ponged through my mind the more I thought about it all. How’d she become homeless? How did she manage to get back on her feet? Was she still in love with Zane’s dad? Did she have any help raising Zane? How did she raise such a well-mannered kid? In the short time I’d spent with Zane, he never once complained about being here to help others. Most kids his age just wanted to be at home with their video games.
But most importantly, I thought, when was the last time Whitley did something just for herself?
“Who’s your favorite superhero?” Zane asked, interrupting my thoughts. “And you can’t pick any of the Secret Warriors!”
“Um,” I said, uncertain. “I don’t know. It’s hard to just pick one.”
“Okay, fine,” he mused, tapping his finger against his chin. He snapped his fingers and asked, “Marvel or DC Comics?”
Easy, I thought, glancing up from the cutting board. I shared a look with him that said we were both Marvel boys, and then we both shouted in unison, “Marvel!”
Zane crawled up onto his knees and high-fived me, and we both laughed, causing the rest of the kitchen to laugh along with us, allowing some of the tension to disappear.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at Whitley and saw the woman next to her pat her on the back in comfort. Now, I felt bad for encouraging Zane to talk about his family, but at the same time, it was obvious he wanted to tell me about them. He never once hinted that he was sad about never meeting his dad. He talked about him and his mom proudly, as he should, because they’d both done heroic things.
“Zane,” Whitley called. “Go turn on the warmers so we can start setting the food out.”
“Okay!” he said, hopping down from the stool.
I watched him leave the kitchen and then felt a nudge to my side.
“One more loaf of bread, Waters,” Whitley said, pointing to the table.
I focused my attention on cutting the last loaf, while the others filled metal trays with the cooked spaghetti and meatballs smothered in sauce. Whitley and the other woman carried trays of salad and dressing out to the cafeteria and then came back in to help with the main dish.
By the time I was done cutting the bread, Whitley had joined me at the island and started lining the slices onto another tray. I didn’t know what to say to her about what Zane had told me. He hadn’t talked quietly, so she’d heard everything he said. Instead, I kept my head down and my hands busy as I worked on filling the tray with bread.
“Do we want to put out the individual containers of butter?” the woman asked Whitley.
“Yeah, that’d be good,” she answered, pointing to the fridge. “They’re in the tub on the bottom shelf.”
“Thanks!”
Whitley and I filled two more trays of bread while the others prepped the serving area with plates and trays.
“So,” she finally said, “we’ll have two servers and two runners when we serve the meal. The runners make sure to restock items when the serving line gets low. Zane will be at the end of the line handing out dessert to those who want it. Do you want to be a runner or a server?”
Part of me was relieved she was keeping our conversation work-related. Part of me hated it. “Server.”
“Okay, tonight we’re just having spaghetti and salad. It’s a meal that goes a long way and it’s filling. But whichever you’re serving, it will go like this. They’ll get a couple of ladles full of spaghetti, a bowl of salad and whatever dressing they choose, and one piece of bread. Claire’s labeled the dressings. We have low-fat Ranch, regular Ranch, Thousand Island, and Italian. Whenever you’re getting low on something, just wave at one of the runners.”
“Got it,” I said, nodding. “Are you serving or running?”
“I’ll be a runner tonight,” she said. “Claire’s husband, Todd, is going to be the other server. Claire and I will make sure they’re taking one bread and switching out the trays when they get low.”
“What will the other guy be doing?”
She smiled. “Joe will clean off tables so we can feed more people.”
“There’re really that many people who come here?”
“Yep,” she said with a proud nod. “It’s amazing how many times those tables fill up. Which means we should probably get out there and get ready to serve.”
“Right.” Neither of us moved though as I searched her eyes, silently begging her to share more details about her personal life. I needed to know more about the amazing woman standing before me.
She stared back at me calmly, not giving an inch of her soul away, and mused, “You look like you have a million thoughts flying around inside your head right now.”
And they all concern you, woman.
***
Two hours later, after the last person was fed, the volunteers were given the opportunity to make themselves a plate and sit down and eat. It floored me how many people we’d fed tonight. I bet each of the tables filled up at least three times, if not more. Many of them filled with mothers and kids. The last group of folks surrounded us, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Whitley right now. She’d finished eating and momentarily floated around the room, graciously greeting everyone she knew, carrying small children who weren’t hers, and making sure everyone was satisfied with the meal. The only people who’d recognized me tonight were the kids, and that was only because Zane pointed it out to every boy that came through the line. Now, they were drilling me with questions about the movie.
“Have you guys started filming the next Secret Warriors movie?” Zane asked eagerly, a posse of friends surrounding him.
I laughed. “No, not yet. We’ll start in a few weeks.”
“What’s a movie set like?”
“How long does it take you to get into costume?”
“Is the costume itchy? My Halloween costume was itchy last year.”
“Boys,” Whitley chastised, resting her hands on my shoulders. “Your mothers are looking for you.”
Zane’s shoulders slumped in defeat, but he said good-bye to his friends and then looked over at me and smiled. “She does this every time, makes my friends go back to their moms.”
I looked up and found her grinning at me. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome!” A laugh fell from her lips as her name was called from across the room. “Be right back.”
Faced with Zane across from me, a mischievous idea formed in my head. I rested my elbows against the table and leaned across it. “Do you know your mom’s phone number?”
“Yeah,” Zane responded unquestionably.
“Would you mind giving it to me?”
“Depends,” he said, mimicking my posture, setting his tiny elbows on the table like we were about to negotiate a major deal. “Are you going to call her?”
“Yes.”
His bright blue eyes pierced mine as he continued. “Are you going to ask her out on a date?”
“Would that be okay with you?”
“Yeah, I guess,” he said with a shrug. He rattled off Whitley’s number, and I programmed it into my contacts list. “But Mom told Oma that if she dates, she’s a selfish, slutty mom. I don’t know what that means, but it sounded bad.”
Laughter shook through my chest, but I masked it with another question. “Who’s Oma?”
“My grandma,” he said, furrowing his brows in confusion. “You don’t have an oma?”
I shook my head.
Horror crossed his features. “Who gave you cookies and ice cream as a kid?”
I leaned further across the table and he met me halfway. “We weren’t really allowed cookies and ice cream back when I was a kid.”
“Oh, man, that sucks!” he exclaimed.
“Don’t say ‘sucks,’” Whitley lashed, ruffling his blond hair with her hand as she walked by.
He fixed his hair and made a funny face at her back. “I swear she has supersonic hearing!”
My grin widened, watching her work the room. “All supermoms do.”
***
It was a little after ten by the time Zane and I walked into our apartment that night after helping out at the shelter. Meeting Max and hanging out with some of his friends who regularly visited the shelter energized Zane, so he’d insisted we stay longer than usual. But it was summertime, so at least I didn’t have the added stress of helping him get homework done before Monday.
“I can’t believe we got to ride in Max Waters’ truck!” Zane declared on the way to the bathroom. “How cool was that, Mom?”
Max’s driver had ended up giving us a ride home tonight, even though I’d told him we’d get home just fine on our own. Zane had gotten the final say, so of course, he wanted to ride home with his new friend.
“Yeah,” I said, following him down the hall, “that was pretty awesome.”
Once in the bathroom, both of us commenced our nightly routines. We brushed our teeth and flossed, and then Zane changed into his jammies. I washed the makeup off my face, and then pulled my hair out of its knot and brushed the tangles out of it. I combed Zane’s hair once before we headed to bed.
He entered his room with his back to me, rubbing his tired eyes. “I hope he calls you.”
What. Did. He. Just. Say?
It was late, so for a moment I thought I misheard him. Leaning against his doorjamb, I eyed him suspiciously. “What did you just say?”
He jumped up on his bed and pulled the covers down. “I said, ‘I hope Max calls you.’”
What’s he up to? I crossed my arms over my chest. “I doubt that will happen, bud. He doesn’t have my number.”
“Yes, he does,” he retorted truthfully, resting back against his pillows. “I gave it to him when he asked me for it.”
Gah! I’m going to kill Max Waters!
“He asked you for my phone number?” I asked, completely shocked that Max would go to such lengths to get my phone number.
“Yeah,” Zane said with a shrug. “He said he would ask you out on a date.”
So, this is what it feels like to be pimped out by your child?
Utterly embarrassing!
Part of me wished the wood flooring would open up and swallow me whole, but that’d leave Zane parentless and I couldn’t do that to him. He had no idea what he’d done tonight would embarrass me. He didn’t fully understand the concept of embarrassment yet, but I was definitely saving this moment in my brain to remember when he started dating. I’d get out every cute, naked baby picture of him I owned.
“He said that, huh?” I asked rhetorically, my voice shaky as I walked over to him.
“Yep!” he stated proudly, crawling under his sheets.
I ran my hand over his short, sandy locks and then bent over and kissed him on the forehead. “Sleep well.”
“Love you, Mom,” he said, hunkering down further in his bed.
I turned off his nightstand lamp. “Love you, too.”
Grabbing the doorknob, I pulled the door shut behind me but kept it cracked a little.
“Oh, Mom, I almost forgot!”
I peeked back into his room, smiling. “Yes, Zane?”
“Max didn’t seem to mind the whole selfish, slutty mom thing either. Whatever that means.”
Oh, sweet baby Jesus!
“That’s great . . .” I said uneasily, sarcasm thick in my voice. “Thank you for remembering that.”
“You’re welcome, Mom,” he said innocently. “Good night!”
I continued down the hall to my room in a flustered daze. I hadn’t even realized he could hear Julia and me talking the other night, but he obviously had if he knew the phrase “selfish, slutty mom.” Why would Max want to date a mom who clearly wasn’t that great of a parent if she was letting her son use phrases he didn’t even understand?
He wouldn’t.
So, he wouldn’t call.
I was probably worrying for nothing.
Spotting my bed, I fell back on the soft mattress and took a deep, relaxing breath and then let it go. I kicked my shoes off toward the closet and shimmied out of my jeans. I pulled my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans and plugged it into the charger on my nightstand. Then I crawled under the covers, turned off my lamp and sighed.
Finally, I thought. Time to sleep.
But sleep didn’t come as easily as I’d hoped. I tossed and turned. One minute I was too cold, the next I was too hot. I shed my shirt, opting for just my panties and bra, but I still couldn’t get comfortable. I closed my eyes, but an image of Max greeted me instead of darkness. He’d been great tonight with not only my kid but with all the kids. He’d been genuinely nice to the men and women we fed tonight, listening to each of them as they told him their story. None of them acted like they recognized him, but when one of the women flirted with him, he’d flirt right back. It was refreshing to see him help others outside of the hospital. He’d spent the last few weeks helping those who couldn’t change their health or conditions. Tonight, he’d met people who’d had a hard life and were struggling to stay afloat, and he’d handled them just as well.
And then he used my son to get my phone number.
Goddammit, Waters.
Zane came from a family of givers. He saw the good in people and never questioned if they might carry some bad. Listening to him tell Max about Adam had been hard, but it warmed my heart at the same time. He spoke so proudly of not only Adam but me as well. At eight years old, he wasn’t ashamed of the fact that his mom had met his dad while she had been bunking at a homeless shelter. Someday, his thoughts could change, so for now I relished his innocence.
Even if it embarrassed me from time to time.
Staring up at my ceiling, I noticed a light flash from my nightstand before my phone started ringing. I quickly grabbed it and swiped right to answer the call, more concerned about not waking Zane than anything else.
“Hello?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.
“Whitley, it’s Max.” Max’s voice sounded sexy and hoarse on the other end. “I know it’s late, but I—”
“You what?” I said, interrupting him sharply. “You wanted to use the number you got from my son? I cannot believe you did that!”
He laughed. “Are you more mad that I asked him for your number, or the fact that he said he was okay with me asking you out on a date?”
I groaned internally. “I’m equally mad about both!”
He laughed harder, and my body grew hotter, causing my thighs to clench together. The phone amplified his voice in a way that made my body needy.
How have I not noticed how sexy his voice is until now?
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice more tender. “I saw an opportunity and I took it.”
“You could’ve just asked me for my phone number,” I stated.
“Really?” he asked incredulously. “Would you have given it to me?”
I thought about it for a moment and rolled my eyes.
“No,” he chuckled. “That’s what I thought. Zane followed me around like my shadow tonight, so I just—”
“I’m sorry about that by the way,” I interjected, silently chastising myself for interrupting him again.
“About what?”
I sighed and relaxed back into my pillow. “Zane is one of your biggest fans. He loved the Secret Warriors movie, and he can’t wait for the sequel. He loves comic books, and he’s actually started working on creating his own. So, I knew when the two of you eventually met—whether it was at the hospital or the shelter—he would react that way. He’d follow you around and never shut up, and that’s exactly what he did tonight. So, I’m sorry about that. I should’ve talked to him about you.”
“You have nothing to apologize about,” he said kindly. “I got to know you a little bit better through him, though I would’ve loved hearing it directly from you. It’s obvious he loves you, and he’s proud of where he comes from.”
For now, I thought.
“That’s actually why I called though,” he continued. “I know there’s more to your story than what Zane told me, and I’d love to hear about it over dinner sometime. Would you be interested in going out on a date with me?”
The idea of going out with him, and possibly being followed by the press and stared at by fans, scared the ever-loving shit out of me. I knew he had security; they came with him every day to the hospital. But I was more concerned about Zane and me. I didn’t need our lives in the press, too, simply because I went on a date with him.
“This is the part where you’re supposed to say something,” he added nervously.
I laughed lightly. “Max . . .”
“Look, I know I come with my own baggage that isn’t going away anytime soon, but we don’t have to actually go out. We could just have dinner at my place. It will be low-key and comfortable.”
“You’re going to cook me dinner?” I asked skeptically.
“I can cook,” he insisted. “How does next Saturday night sound?”
The ache at the apex of my thighs urged me to give in. One Whitley sat on my shoulder in a sexy, pink teddy, flipping through an outdated calendar, reminding me that it’d been years since I’d been kissed or touched by a man. The other Whitley on my opposite shoulder sat in old sweats reading a tabloid with Max’s picture on the cover along with the headline, Waters Kisses Another Woman Who Isn’t His!
“Whitley, are you still there?”
“Yes.” I shook the image of both Whitleys away and took a risk. “Yes, I will come over for dinner next Saturday.”
“Great!” he said confidently. “I’ll have Manny pick you up around six. Does that work?”
His driver? Really? I rolled my eyes. “If you give me your address, I think I can find it on my own.”
“Manny already knows where you live.”
“Was that also part of your little plan?” I pushed.
He laughed heartily, sending a shiver down my spine. “No, but it worked out pretty well, didn’t it?”
Oh, isn’t that just perfect!