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Steve followed his brother into Good Sports and halted by the door. The place was packed with Sunday shoppers looking for last-minute Christmas presents. Large screen televisions hung on all the walls, each airing a different sport. Closed captions ran along the lower portion of the screens. The strains of “March of the Armchair Quarterbacks,” a spoof Christmas song, was piping through the speakers. Their father, dressed in a red plaid shirt, jeans, and hiking boots, was standing with a customer alongside a line of colorful kayaks and gesturing like a display floor model. Steve had learned his salesmanship skills at his father’s knee. If only his dad had taught him how to sell a free trip to Disneyland.
“What’s that sound?” Lincoln asked.
Steve’s cell phone was buzzing. He scanned the readout and saw a text from Gloria, of all people. She’d asked how he was doing. Honestly? After all this time? She wrote a follow-up text: Miss you. He grunted and swiped the screen to eliminate the message.
Seconds later, his phone buzzed again. This time his agent had sent him a text: No offers yet. Peeved, Steve wrote back: Write when you have something. Not before. He didn’t want to hear the negative. Only the positive.
Then his phone rang. Unknown caller. Since Gloria’s text had come directly from her, he knew she hadn’t changed her phone number. It wasn’t her.
He answered.
“Hi, Steve, it’s me, Todd.”
Steve grinned. “Hey, kid, what’s up?”
“The sugar cookie contest is starting at Aroma Café. You should come.”
Steve considered the idea. Maybe he’d see Hope and he could change her—
No. He wouldn’t browbeat her. For whatever reason, she’d turned him down a third time. However, if he went, he could catch a glimpse of her, and that notion buoyed him.
“Good idea, squirt,” he said.
Todd snorted.
“What’s so funny?” Steve asked.
“My dad called me squirt, too.”
Swell, Steve thought. He and the heel had something in common.
“See you soon, Steve,” Todd said, and ended the call.
“Who was that?” Lincoln asked.
“Todd Lyons, Hope’s son.”
“He’s nice. I liked looking at his baseball cards.”
“I bet you did. So why are we here, bro?”
“I want a new lure,” Lincoln replied.
More? Honestly? Steve sighed, knowing he was in for the long haul. Lincoln wouldn’t be appeased until he’d found just the right one.
“Let’s go fishing this summer,” Lincoln said.
“You got it.”
“I love to fish. I like trout, genus Oncorhynchus, species clarki lewisi, common name Westslope cutthroat trout. And I like salmon, genus—”
Steve flicked Lincoln’s arm. “Cool it with the genus stuff. My head aches.”
“Do you need aspirin? Mom gives me aspirin.”
“No, it’ll pass.”
On one of the TV screens, an ESPN analyst was touting the NBA’s superstar’s latest stats. How Steve wished he could have landed a gig at ESPN in his twenties, but his parents had begged him not to move to Connecticut. Now Lincoln was older; he could cope, couldn’t he?
Steve groaned. He was shallow. Heartless. He needed to rethink his priorities. It wasn’t like he was ever going to have the career he’d dreamed of. Could he imagine something else he ought to be doing? Something noble?
“Bro?” Lincoln said. “Why is your forehead pinched?”
“I’m thinking.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Yeah.” Steve grinned. “A lot.” He smacked himself on the side of his head and yelped on purpose.
Lincoln cackled and mimicked the move and response.
Steve chortled along with his brother. If he wasn’t careful, he might lose his sense of humor. That would be dire.
In a short while, they found two lures that Lincoln didn’t own. After paying for them—Steve wouldn’t allow his father to give him the family discount—he and Lincoln exited the store and stood on the sidewalk. Snow was drifting down. Shoppers were out in droves. Everyone seemed content. Even Steve, in spite of himself, found himself whistling.
“Coming to the tree-lighting ceremony tonight?” one woman asked a friend as they breezed past Steve.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“See you there.” The two women parted ways at the stoplight.
“Are we going to the tree-lighting ceremony?” Lincoln asked.
“You always do,” Steve said.
“Yes, but are we going? You and me?” Lincoln wagged a finger between the two of them.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Steve said, mimicking the cheery woman he’d overheard. He gazed up the street and saw a line of people entering Aroma Café. “Want to go to the sugar cookie decorating contest?”
“Sure. I love sugar.” Lincoln yukked and offered a goofy grin.
Outside the café, Steve paused and looked in. The place was swarming with children and adults standing around tables covered with holiday tablecloths, each decorating Christmas tree-shaped sugar cookies. Hope and Zerena were moving between the groups, offering tips, guiding hands, showing how to swirl icing onto cookies.
Lincoln cupped his eyes to peer inside. “Are we going in? I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry.”
Steve started to push the door open. At the same time, the Lyons children darted out, both bundled in jackets, snow hats, and scarves.
“I can catch more in a minute than you can,” Todd exclaimed.
“No, you can’t,” Melody said.
They tilted their heads back and stuck their tongues out. Snowflakes landed on them.
Without closing his mouth, Todd said, “One, two . . .”
Melody cried, “Three, four, five. I’m winning. Six, seven, eight, nine.”
“Hi, kids,” Steve said. “How’s it going?”
Todd said, “Hey, Steve! Look, Melody. It’s Steve and Lincoln.”
Melody said, “We can’t talk to you.”
“Why not?” Steve bent at the waist, bracing his hands on his knees, so she wasn’t forced to look up at him.
“Because . . .” Melody licked her lips. “Because our mom wouldn’t want us to.”
“Why not? I don’t bite.”
She mulled that over.
“I bet I can catch more snowflakes than you.” Steve tilted his head back and opened his mouth like the children.
“Uh-uh,” Todd said, opening his.
Melody lost her attitude, and together she, Todd, and Steve searched for falling flakes. Lincoln joined in the fun.
Steve counted quickly. “One, two, three.” Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Melody slyly gazing at him.
“I’m winning,” she said.
“Yes, you are. Your brother is beating me, too. Guess I lose.” Steve threw his arms wide.
“What about me?” Lincoln asked.
“You beat me, too, bro.”
“I beat the Voice,” Lincoln crowed.
“We all beat the Voice,” Todd said. “Hey, Voice . . . I mean, Steve. Um, I’ve been thinking.”
“About?”
“About the prize. Mom said she won’t accept it, but . . .” Todd looked over his shoulder toward the café and back at Steve. Lowering his voice, he said, “What if our Dad said yes?”
Steve gawked. Their father. He’d never considered the notion. “Where is he?”
“He’s—”
“Todd, stop.” Melody gripped her brother’s hand. “Mom will be mad.”
Todd wriggled free. “He’s on a trip. He’s winning all sorts of money.”
“Is he?” Steve said, not believing a word of it, but Todd was nodding, and Melody’s eyes were bright. “What does he do?”
“He plays cards,” Todd said. “He’s very good. An ace.”
So the guy was a gambler. That was how he’d run through their savings, by blowing it in poker games. What a cad.
“He’s in Portland,” Todd added.
Steve didn’t know of any game parlors in Portland, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exist. Or perhaps Hope had told her children Portland because that was a town they could wrap their heads around, seeing as they’d lived there. More likely, the ex-husband had migrated to Las Vegas to seek his fortune. However, if he was in Portland—
“I’m cold.” Melody brushed snowflakes off her shoulders. “Todd, let’s go back inside.”
“Wait!” Steve said. “Todd’s idea might have merit.”
“Merit?” Todd cocked his head. “What does that mean?”
“It means you made a good point,” Steve went on. “If your father accepts the prize and signs the contract, then you can still win.”
“Really?” Todd smiled. “Except we don’t have his—”
Melody thwacked her brother on the shoulder. “Great idea, Steve. We’ll be in touch.” She grabbed her brother’s hand and dragged him into the café.
When the door swung closed, Lincoln stamped a foot and huffed. “Why did you do that, Steve?”
“Do what?”
“Lie.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“Yes, you did.” Lincoln folded his arms across his chest, making him look every bit as stern as their mother when lowering the boom. “You lied to Hope’s children.”
“Not really. If their dad comes through,” Steve argued, “it’s not a lie.”
“Don’t you get it? You’re like Santa to them. If you lie, then Santa lies.”
“But it’s not a lie.”
“Yes it is. Your boss fired you. You can’t give Todd and Melody the prize if you don’t work at KPRL.” Lincoln didn’t wait for Steve’s rebuttal. He marched into the café.
Steve shoved his hands into his pockets, shocked by his brother’s moment of clarity while at the same time ashamed by his own momentary lack of scruples. What the heck was wrong with him? Since when had he become a lying louse? Things had to change.
He had to change.
