The Someday Jar Read online

  “Charming and fun, The Someday Jar is a reminder to seize opportunity, to believe in yourself, and—most importantly—to fill your life with wonderful experiences that will become cherished memories . . . A book to read today, not someday, and Morgan is clearly a writer to watch.”

  —Stacey Ballis, author of Recipe for Disaster

  Sometimes when your life flashes before your eyes . . . you realize—you need a better life.

  Mid-slurp, the coiled lemon rind shoots down my throat as if sprung from a slingshot and lodges in my esophagus.

  I drop my martini and glass shatters. I thump my chest. Oh, God. I’m choking. Choking! My throat burns and my lungs cramp as if a boa constrictor has wrapped around my ribs.

  Jesus. This is it. This is my end. These are the last moments of my life.

  With horror, my mind flashes to an image of my body lying on a cold, stainless-steel bed at the morgue. Oh, crap. I think there’s a hole in my underwear.

  From the corner of my bulging eye, I see the man jump from his seat. He slides his arms around my waist and lifts me off the ground. His fingers brush under my breasts as he squeezes me against him—I was right about the stone-hard abs—and thrusts his entwined fists into me.

  Nothing happens. I’m still choking. My fingers and lips tingle numb.

  Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

  Moments of my adult life flicker through my mind. Sorting stacks of documents. Oil changes. Scrubbing clean the condo’s baseboards. Sunscreen. Diligence. Order. Routine.

  Then, thank everything holy, with one more heave, the man launches the lemon free. It flies from my mouth and the slimy fruit smacks the bartender on his forehead . . .

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2015 by Allison Van Rooy.

  Excerpt from Can I See You Again? by Allison Morgan copyright © 2015 by Allison Van Rooy.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY® and the “B” design are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information, visit penguin.com.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-18753-5

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Morgan, Allison.

  The someday jar / Allison Morgan.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-0-425-27939-7 (paperback)

  1. Single women—Fiction. 2. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. 1. Title.

  PS3613.O725S66 2015

  813'.6—dc23

  2015003050

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley trade paperback edition / July 2015

  Cover photos: Stardust Jar © _ta’_/Getty Images.

  Wedding Rings with Stars © Alexandre Marques/Getty Images.

  Cover design by Sarah Oberrender.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  To my family and friends

  Contents

  Praise for The Someday Jar

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  chapter twenty-three

  chapter twenty-four

  chapter twenty-five

  chapter twenty-six

  chapter twenty-seven

  chapter twenty-eight

  chapter twenty-nine

  A special excerpt from Can I See You Again?

  one

  Don’t panic, Lanie.

  Don’t freak out.

  Don’t shove your hand into the paper shredder. It won’t fit.

  Sifting through the contracts piled high on my desk—I swear twelve trees are chopped down each time a house is sold—checking the trash can and digging through my purse, I find nothing. Nothing!

  How is this possible? I’m twenty-seven years old with dental floss, multivitamins, and spare staples in my desk drawer. I have no past due library books or expired tags on my car. I never litter. Never chew with my mouth open. I lift heavy things with my legs, not back. A responsible adult by any account. Yet, someway, somehow, I’ve carelessly gone and lost the single most important thing I shouldn’t lose. My engagement ring.

  “Lanie?” Evan, my fiancé, calls from his office.

  Crap.

  “Just a minute.” I push my chair aside and search underneath the desk, finding no more than a few paper clips and a fuzz ball. Apparently, the maid has gotten a bit lax with the vacuuming. Oh right, that’s me.

  “Where are you?” he calls, sounding closer this time.

  Quick to stand, I bonk my shoulder on the desk and hear the silver picture frame of the two of us from last year’s Realtor Awards ceremony fall over.

  “Oh, there you are.” Evan strides toward me in his crisp Armani button-down shirt and creased pants, with a smooth gait that only good breeding spawns—his mom’s a tenured English professor at Stanford and his dad’s a venture capitalist. Evan is smiling, the same smile that garnered him a number six spot on last month’s most-attractive-businessmen poll in the Arizona Republic. More than his Ken-doll good looks and crackerjack genes, Evan’s a proven asset in the real estate community. He’s respected and admired.

  And he’s mine.

  But great. Just great. I’ve gone and lost his token of love.

  Obviously, I could ask him to help me search, but what would I say? Hey, funny thing, I’ve misplaced my ring. You know the one—diamond-encrusted platinum band, passed from generation to generation. Wasn’t it your great-grandmother’s?

  As a perfectly timed distraction, the office door swings open and in walks my dear old friend, Hollis Murphy.

  He’s decked in his usual navy blue, one-piece jumper. The matching belt droops around his waist. He smooths his thin white hair with a finger comb, and his cheeks and nose, laced with a few broken capillaries, flush pink.

  My whole world just got brighter.

  “Hollis, what a nice surprise.” I slide around the desk and open my arms for a hug.

  His skin is cool and clammy, he smells of too much cologne, and staleness heavies his breath, but I don’t care. I love this old man.

  We met several years ago, when I crashed my shopping cart into the side of Hollis’s truck. In my defense, People had just released the Sexiest Man Alive issue and a shirtless Ryan Reynolds, a
long with each one of his gloriously defined abs, was pictured on page thirty-seven. Who wouldn’t be distracted? Besides, it was only a scrape. Okay, dent. But Hollis was forgiving and we’ve been friends ever since.

  He grasps my hand and says, “Zookeeper chokes to death eating an animal cracker.”

  Nearly every time we talk, Hollis rattles off a peculiar obituary. It’s a sick ritual and I’ll likely rot in hell for making light of someone else’s misfortune. Still, I can’t help but chuckle. “That’s awful.”

  “Good one, don’t you think? My Bevy clipped it out.”

  “How is Mrs. Murphy?”

  “A slice of heaven. Today is our fifty-fourth wedding anniversary.”

  “Congratulations!” I say, making a mental note: Send Murphys wine. “Any special plans?”

  “She’s making meatballs tonight. My favorite.”

  “Sounds perfect. When will you bring Bevy by? In all this time, I still can’t believe we’ve never met. I’d sure love to meet her.”

  “She says the same about you, but I swear that woman never has any free time. She’s busier than the tooth fairy at a crackhead’s house.”

  Evan approaches, extending his hand. “Mr. Murphy, it’s nice to see you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “To what do we owe this honor?” Evan asks.

  Hollis fishes in his pocket and pulls out a candy cane, his favorite treat that he carries year-round. He offers it to me. “Just came by to give Lanie-Lou something sweet.” He eyes me, waiting for my answer.

  “Because every woman deserves a candy cane.”

  “That’s right.” He squeezes my arm and says, “Everything good?”

  “Everything’s great, thank you.” Except for the fact that I can’t find my ring. I quickly scan the carpet.

  “All right,” Hollis says. “I’m off.”

  “Good to see you,” Evan says.

  “Give Mrs. Murphy my best,” I say, walking Hollis outside.

  “I already gave her my best this morning,” he chuckles, and then he drives away.

  Evan waits for me beside my desk. He holds out his open palm. “Look what I have.”

  Damn. He found it first.

  I step toward him, conjuring up a witty explanation like, Silly little bastard, that ring must have legs, but words escape me as I stare into his hand.

  He doesn’t hold my ring. He doesn’t hold the symbol of my future. He holds a piece of my past. My Someday Jar.

  “My God.” I try to hide the tremor in my fingers as I reach for the glass crock. Nostalgia surges through me like a desert flash flood and all at once I smell my dad’s cologne masking his one-a-day cigarette habit and hear his voice, usually light and high-spirited, pivot adamant and stern when he said a dozen years earlier, “This jar is for your goals and aspirations, Lanie. None too big. None too small.”

  “Where did you find this?” My voice is no steadier than my hands.

  “In a box at the bottom of my office closet. Found your ASU graduation cap, too. Maybe you can wear that to bed later?” He teases, but he must see the focus in my eyes because he strokes my arm. “What is it?”

  I lean against my desk, my body heavy with sentiment. “This is my Someday Jar. A gift from my dad. God, I haven’t seen it in years.” The last time I held this, I wore bubble-gum-flavored lip gloss and braces dotted my teeth. With the jar close to my ear, I give it a little shake and listen to the slips of paper tumble inside.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Fortunes.”

  “Fortunes?”

  “Yeah. Every year for my birthday Dad took me to the Golden Lantern, a Chinese restaurant in Mesa.” I half smile, remembering the dome-shaped chandeliers covered with crushed red velvet and dangling tassels decorating the dining room. “They had this wall with dozens of fortunes pinned to it. Dad plucked a handful of slips, flipped them to the blank side, and said, ‘Write your own fortunes, Lanie. Create your own path.’”

  I remember scribbling Learn something new on the first slip, thrilled with his nod of acceptance as I tucked the goal into the jar.

  Now, as I rub my thumb along the nicks in the glass, a lump forms in my throat. “Dad made me promise that I’d empty the jar. He made me promise I’d claim my own stake in the world, fulfill my desires and dreams. He made me promise I’d do this . . . before I got married.” I’d forgotten that last part until just now.

  Evan tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Your dad was never afraid to throw caution to the wind, was he?”

  “No, he definitely wasn’t,” I whisper, staring at the jar.

  “You okay?”

  I shake my head to clear it and force a little laugh. “I’m fine. It’s just an old piece of glass that brings back a lot of memories, I guess.”

  Evan pulls me close and holds me for a minute.

  Though it serves no purpose but longing and regret, I let my mind wander to my childhood days with Dad. The days where pancakes were dinner, chocolate cake was breakfast, and jokes and laughter filled our bellies in between. I hate to admit it, but I wonder what Dad would think of me now, so different from the carefree teenager he knew. Would he be proud of the woman I’ve become or disappointed by my structured life? Worse yet, indifferent?

  Evan steps back and says, “Listen, I don’t mean to rush this moment for you, but I’m in a tight spot and sure could use a favor.”

  I blink away tears foolhardily forming in my eyes. “Yes, of course. What is it?”

  “Can you pick up Weston Campbell from Sky Harbor Airport, executive terminal? He’s flying in from Los Angeles.”

  “A new client?”

  “No, a business associate of my parents turned family friend. You’ve never met him?”

  “The name doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “Well, anyway, he’s going to lend me a hand with an upcoming project.”

  “How will I spot him? I have no idea what he looks like.” For some reason, the name Weston Campbell evokes an image of a wirehaired and well-fed Irish farmer stabbing bales of hay with whiskey breath spewing from his toothless grin. I should work on being less judgmental, but honestly, where’s the fun in that?

  “No problem recognizing him.” Evan aims his phone’s camera in my direction. “Smile.”

  “Wait.” I set the jar on my desk and comb through my shoulder-length brown hair, fluffing the bangs that hover over my Irish green eyes, thankful I wore my favorite sleeveless dress cinched above the waist with a ridiculously cute Michael Kors belt. “Okay, go.”

  He snaps a photo of me.

  Dang. I think my eyes were closed.

  “This is Lanie Howard.” He punches at the keys. “There, I forwarded your picture to him. All you have to do is stand outside the security gates and he’ll find you. The executive terminal isn’t very big.” Evan slides into his jacket and steps toward the leather-framed mirror hanging on the wall to study his reflection. He swivels his head side to side and checks for any budding “parasites,” as he called the two gray hairs discovered earlier this year on his thirtieth birthday. “I’d go myself, but Weston changed his flight and I’ve got that 1031 Exchange lecture tonight.”

  “What time is Weston arriving?”

  “Six.” Evan spins around and catches me peeking at the clock. “I know, the Cardinals game. Maybe you’ll miss the first half, but you’ll be home in time to catch the rest. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.” He winks. “You’ll take care of Weston for me?”

  Waiting in a stuffy airport is the last thing I feel like doing, especially if it means missing a Monday Night Football game. But Evan’s in a pinch and business outweighs pleasure, so I hide my discontent with a smile and reply, “Sure.”

  “Great. Weston’s staying at the Biltmore. Just drop him there.” Evan slips his hands around my waist and pulls me toward
him again, my Someday Jar wedged between us. His lips brush my neck and he whispers, “I’m such a lucky man.”

  After his quick kiss, I watch his Mercedes drive away, then slump into my chair. With the tip of my forefinger, I trace the jar, top to bottom, following a crack. “Promise me you’ll explore life,” Dad had said with narrowed eyes and hands clasped around mine. “Promise me you’ll color outside the lines.”

  Now, here I am, a grown woman, many years later, wondering if I should twist off the cork. Reach beyond my comfort zone and tackle my ambitions, challenge myself like I vowed. Should I color outside the lines?

  My inbox chimes with an e-mail, jarring my thoughts to the present. Glancing toward the computer and spotting the lotion bottle, I’m reminded why I took my ring off—for age-defying, triple-moisture smooth hands—and see the jewel behind the knocked-over frame.

  Thank God. With relief, I slip the ring on my finger and decide that my future is what deserves my attention, not the painful reminder of days behind. I tap the jar’s brittle cork and drop the keepsake into my purse. Those days are gone.

  An hour later, I lock the office and head toward my car, juggling an armful of files and a ringing cell phone.

  “Hey,” says Kit, my best friend of countless years. She’s chewing on something, odds are a papaya granola bar as she lives off those things, admitting they taste like cardboard, but loves the fact that they can double as a kickstand for her son’s bike, should the need arise. “Want to catch the game and share a plate of greasy potato skins?”

  “God, I’d love to, but I’m on my way to pick up a colleague of Evan’s, then hurrying home to catch what I can of the second half with a mound of paperwork piled on my lap. Dammit,” I say as much to myself as her, “I need to swing by Nordstrom’s. Evan’s out of shaving cream.”

  The judgment in her silence is deafening.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I’m just wondering what happened to my nutty BFF who used to hustle pool tables and dance on the bar after a couple drinks. Has she been eaten alive by the responsibility monster?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She chews another bite, then says with confidence, “The Vine, Labor Day weekend, senior year. You danced on the bar in that denim miniskirt. The bartender’s arm was sticky from your sloshing lemon-drop martini. He was pissed.”