Chapter 1

One

M ax

2018

Two days before Thanksgiving

As soon as the plane arrives at the gate at O’Hare, I check my messages. There are dozens from my staff and friends in San Diego, mostly wishing me a safe trip home to Chicago.

Unexpectedly, a call comes through.

“Hi, Paula,” I say, grinning as I answer.

“Hey, girl. I know you need this vacation time to think about it, but I just wanted to reiterate to you that Green Wave really, really wants to buy your company. I’ve spoken to the partners and they’ve doubled my offer.”

My heart floats up into my throat. “Doubled? OK…”

Paula squeals on the other end. “OK as in, you’ll think about it over this week? Or OK as in, yes, email me the paperwork today and I’ll sign the Crunchy Agency over to you right this minute?”

I laugh. “I mean OK as in, I’m not even off the plane yet and I’m starving. I’ll talk to you in a few days, after I’ve had all the pumpkin pie my hips can handle. I just need to step away for a bit and put things in perspective.”

Paula understands. Green Wave is the biggest advertising agency in the world, marketing products to environmentally conscious consumers. And I know that my own brand, Crunchy, caught Green Wave’s attention for a good reason.

A number of Crunchy’s humorous ad campaigns about green products had gone viral on YouTube, and I had a direct hand in every creative choice.

“I think Crunchy will bring a much-needed boost of energy to this giant machine of a company, and we’ll pay top dollar,” Paula reminds me. “OK, I’ll leave you alone now.”

Paula gave me the pitch last week. The pitch came with an offer with so many zeros behind it that I would never have to work again, if I took it. Neither would anyone in my family, for that matter.

I say goodbye to Paula and then dial up my dad, who’s waiting in the cell phone parking lot. Despite my success and my ability to rent and drive a car on my own, my father insisted the whole family drive to O’Hare to pick me up.

They do this every time I visit, which is usually only on Christmas.

When my dad, Ed, answers the phone, I get a jolt of unexpected happiness from down deep in my stomach. “Hey Daddy. My plane just landed. Should be outside the terminal in about ten minutes.”

“Roger that, Maximus. I’m leaving the cell phone lot right now. Aren’t these things amazing?”

I smile as I hang up. Yes, mobile phones are so amazing that I can summon a Lyft with the touch of button. But my daddy is so proud to be able to do “Dad” things like pick me up from the airport, I’m not going to take that away from him.

“Where’s Mom and Sam?” I ask when my dad’s Suburban pulls up to the curb outside of arrivals. The SUV is empty except for him.

My dad hugs me and kisses me, ignoring the Chicago traffic cop who is blowing her whistle and urging us to quickly load up the car and go.

My dad shrugs. “Oh, you know.”

I give him a sympathetic look. “Samantha stuff?”

He nods, but then his spirits pick up as he happily helps me load my bags, commenting on the sturdiness of my fancy new luggage and chattering about my flight and whatnot, continuing to ignore the urging of the whistle. Ed Novak takes his time.

On the way back to the house, the same house I grew up in, he asks all about my flight. He’s always highly impressed with my anecdotes about mimosas and warm cookies.

“You know, you and Mom could fly first class on your trips to see me,” I say as I stare out the window as we pass the outer northwest suburbs of the city.

“Ah, that’s not for us, we’re not fancy people.”

“If you sold the house and moved into a retirement community in the suburbs, you’d have enough cash to do whatever you want. You know that, right?”

He waves me off.

I know my parents would never sell the house; it’s been in the family more than a century. They’re not rich people. But they’re definitely not poor, by any stretch. My parents have money because they barely ever spend money. That’s their generation, the children of immigrants, and I love them for it.

“Hey, is Mom making kolaczki cookies this year? I am dying for some.” My mouth is already watering thinking about those little folded, buttery confections, filled with jam and dusted with powdered sugar.

“She made a batch just this morning. You know she does this every time you visit.”

“Oh thank god, I’m starving.”

I can smell the baked cookies as soon as I step inside the house. “Mom!” I call.

Elizabeth Novak comes out of the kitchen in her favorite polka-dot apron and hugs me close. “Oh, it’s so good to see you, Baby Max.”

I snuggle into my mother’s embrace and let myself feel happy at my mother’s favorite nickname for me.

It doesn’t matter how successful I am or how old I get, I will always be Baby Max.

Even though technically, I’m the older sister. “So sorry you had Samantha stuff to deal with and couldn’t make it to the airport,” I say.

“I’m right here, obviously,” my sister Samantha says, hands on her hips.

Sam always stands like that, arms akimbo, whenever I’m getting too much attention.

I grit my teeth and hug my sister. “How’s my little sis?”

Sam starts in on me as soon as the hug is over. “Well, I still can’t work because of my back and I think the last doctor really messed it up this time. I can’t sit, I can’t lie down. Nothing feels good. The doctor won’t give me pain pills, the liquor store won’t sell to me because my sponsor talked to them.”

Here we go, I think. Don’t engage. But I do. “Get a new sponsor then.”

“I can’t just do that, do you even know how 12 Step works?”

Oh god, I think. She’s off her meds and on a tear.

As I smile and nod politely at my sister’s exhaustive list of all the ways in which the world is to blame for her problems, I text Joy.

I landed in Chicago about an hour ago. And I need a drink already.

Thank god for my lifelong best friend.

Joy nearly sprints over to join me in stuffing our faces with my mom’s kolaczki cookies.

Then, we grab some more and, like a couple of grannies, stuff them into our handbags to take to Butch’s Bar with us.

“We can’t get these in San Diego,” I say, munching on one filled with apricot jam, my favorite, as I enjoy the ride in Joy’s cookie-delivery minivan. “Well, I can, but they don’t hold a candle to Mama Elizabeth.”

Through a mouthful of raspberry-filled ones, Joy says, “I make these for the Cookie Cottage, but they’re never as good as your mom’s.”

She parks the car on Milwaukee, a block down from the bar.

As we approach, I notice the now-empty rectory and I start having high school flashbacks. “Well, this place hasn’t changed a bit,” I say. I still get the willies looking at it.

“Why did we wait 20 years to drink at Butch’s?” Joy asks, clearly eager to steer my attention away from the place she knows is creeping me out.

“Because I have existential dread of running into people from high school.”

Joy laughs.

As soon as we set foot in the bar, I recognize Stoner.

I draw in a breath. The last time I’d seen him was grad night. As I recall, he’d brought me safely home. According to Sam, who had been creepily watching from her room, Stoner had put me in my bed and, other than removing my shoes, left me untouched.

According to what we were able to piece together over the months after graduation, Joy and I had deduced that Stoner had actually saved us from a would-be assault by Rick Fullerton and his band of assholes.

But on this day, Stoner looks 20 years older, and in an impossibly better way. Chiseled jawline. A little bit of gray at the temples. His shoulder and chest are broader and he has the build of a fighter.

It’s definitely Stoner Spice, just a 100 percent hotter version of himself.

I have to keep my cool and try not to let my jaw drop open as I approach the bar.

“Look who it is,” Joy mutters.

“I know, can you believe it?” I say out of the side of my mouth.

“And he is checking you out,” she says in a sing-song voice.

I hiss at her to shut up without moving my lips, slide onto the bar stool facing Stoner and order myself a dirty martini.

He’s still got gray eyes, but now when he smiles he’s got some crow’s feet that are seriously sexy.

He doesn’t seem to recognize me, so I go first.

“You know, it’s not fair.”

He smiles at me and says, “What’s not fair?”

Oh god. That deep, sexy voice got even deeper and sexier.

“That men can look their age at 38 and be sexy as hell. And women have to start re-evaluating their skincare plan on a weekly basis,” I say.

He laughs, “I don’t know what a skincare plan is, Maxine, Maxine, Pumpkin Queen, but I’ll take that as a compliment.”

I laugh and stick out my hand to shake his. “Good to see you, Stoner Spice.”

“California looks good on you, girl.” He’s making some serious eyes at me but not in a creepy way. At the moment, I am regretting not keeping in touch with him.

“How did you know I was still in California?”

He shrugs and gives me a mischievous smirk and turns away to fill another drink order.

“I have my ways,” he says when he returns his attention to me. He gestures with his chin in that way that only confident guys seem to be able to do. Wow, he really has changed. “You went blonde and tan, so it’s an educated guess.”

Joy sighs, “Oh my god, you two talk as if Facebook stalking is not a thing.”

Stoner shrugs. “I’m not on Facebook.”

I smile. “Well, maybe you should be. It would be good for business.”

He waves off the idea. “I’ve been trying everything to get fresh crowds in here. I’m not doing bad business, but it would be nice to have some new clientele. I’m thinking about buying the empty rectory next door and building a kitchen. Maybe serving food.”

I nod enthusiastically as I stir my drink. “You should do that! I hate seeing that place sit empty.”

“Yeah,” he says absently, as if his mind is already on to something else.

“Tell you what, you make it happen and I’ll hook you up with all the advertising you can stand.” I slide my card across the bar.

He picks it up, staring at it as if I’ve just handed him the golden ticket to a chocolate factory.

He then meets my gaze and he has that hungry look like he wants to leap over the bar and kiss me.

I break his gaze and look over at Joy, who is staring at her phone.

“Oh my god,” she says. “Speaking of Facebook, check out this shit.”

“What?” Stoner and I both say at once.

Joy holds up her phone to reveal an event announcement.

“Annual St. Emil’s Class of 1998 Turkey Crawl, starting at Butch’s Bar. Beginning right now.”

Joy and I and Stoner each exchange panicked looks and then Stoner shifts his focus to the front door where the bell is ringing.

“Emmett, incoming!” he shouts to his other bartender.

“Pumpkin Ale keg, coming right up!” Emmett vamooses into the stock room.

Over the next 30 minutes, the place becomes the high school class reunion I never wanted. Rick Fullerton, Betsy Carpenter, and everyone else who peaked in high school are pouring in and ordering pumpkin-flavored everything.

Fortunately, not many of them stop to talk to me or Joy. Maybe they don’t recognize us or they are choosing to pretend they don't. Either way, it suits me fine.

I sit up straight to get Stoner’s attention and say, “Joy and I are gonna get a table,” I say with a wink.

Stoner reaches across the bar and grabs my hand just as I step off the stool. Electricity sparks all through me.

“Whatever you do, don’t leave the bar yet. They do this every year and they’ll be gone soon. You and I are going to continue this conversation.”

I nod and blush at his forcefulness. No way am I leaving.

Off at the corner table, Joy gives me the third degree.

“What was that all about? That hand grabbing?”

“You were right there, you tell me,” I say with a chuckle.

“You want to know what I think?”

“Of course I do.”

“He never stopped having a crush on you.”

I smile and look over at Stoner, who is filling beer glass after beer glass of seasonal ale. He catches me looking and gives me a subtle wink.

That wink sends gooseflesh rising on my thighs, and heat everywhere else.

I hope that the St. Emil crowd gets bored and moves on quickly.

No such luck. Betsy Carpenter saunters up without warning. “Oh my god, I didn’t know you guys were in town; you’ve never joined us before!”

“Hi Betsy. Yeah, just a fluke, I guess. Didn’t mean to crash your pub crawl,” I say.

Joy rolls her eyes at me. “Hi Betsy, I’m Joy. I never left Chicago. But as always, thanks for the invitation.”

Betsy looks confused. “But I didn’t invite you to anything before.”

“I’m fucking with you, Betsy. Enjoy your night,” Joy sneers.

“As enchanting as this conversation is, Betsy, I think your group is leaving,” I say.

It’s true. The mass of thirty-something moms and dads are starting to file out the door.

Betsy seems to forget that we exist instantly.

Even though two dozen bodies just left the bar, the temperature in the room goes back up to a warmer, more comfortable level.