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  One More Round

  Copyright © 2020 by Alice Clayton

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  “This tale is dedicated to everyone who made it through 2020 with their laugh track intact, and everyone who is bringing some much needed peace into 2021.”

  A great love story never truly ends. It evolves, it changes, it adapts and becomes something new. What was there from the beginning never really goes away, if the two are true. It deepens, it matures, and two individual stories become inexorably linked and overlap into a new story, one that is full and interesting and beautiful on its own.

  Plus, if after years of throwing a leg around, the colors still blur and the thumps still occur, well, then you’ve stumbled into a love affair for the ages. And this is where we find our couple. Wrapped up, in love, settled but never settling…and in a canal? Well, next to a canal. Well, technically, next to a canal while arguing about a canal and—ah, love.

  Once upon a time it ended—not with a whimper but with a bang. But what if it ended with, a cry?

  Take a breath. Grab some popcorn. And zoom in… Let’s get to banging.

  “They freeze, you know.”

  “Freeze?”

  “Freeze. In the winter. Solid.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  “It’s true. It doesn’t happen that often—not anymore at least. But it does happen. And when it does, it’s a big deal.”

  “I would imagine. Doesn’t that, I don’t know, cause a problem?”

  “Nope, they just skate on it.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said, rolling my eyes and pushing Simon away and towards the canal. “They skate on it?”

  “They do! I swear!” He laughed, stepping lightly over the cobblestones, his sapphire eyes dancing. “Why would I make something like that up?”

  “You’re telling me that the canals freeze and people skate on them,” I challenged once more as he picked up my hand, threading it through and placing it back onto his arm. My husband loved a promenade.

  My husband. After all these years, Simon Parker being my husband still gave me a thrill when I thought about it like that. Husband. Husband. I looked up at him, a full moon and softly falling snow creating a perfect picture to frame my husband.

  That same husband leaned in, kissed me swiftly on the cheek, and whispered, “They freeze. Why would I lie to you?”

  “You told me everyone would be wearing wooden shoes,” I pointed out, and the corner of his mouth crinkled up.

  “True.”

  “And you told me everyone ate raw herring for breakfast, along with a side of chocolate milk,” I replied, and the tilt turned into a wicked smile. “Which was a terrible combination, by the way.”

  “Technically you ate the cooked herring, not raw.”

  “That’s the sword you’re falling on? It was still awful.”

  “That one’s on you, Nightie Girl. That one really shouldn’t have snuck by you.”

  “So you can imagine why I might question anything you say right now,” I insisted, choosing to ignore his last comment. I really should have known better. I shuddered as I remembered the combination. What’s Dutch for gross?

  “I didn’t lie to you about the poffertjes,” he reminded, pulling me closer into his side. “You loved those little pancakes.”

  “True.” I nodded but still wasn’t sure whether he was feeding me a line of bullshit. I asked my tour guide, who was about ten feet ahead of us.

  “Hey, tour guide! Do the canals really freeze in winter?”

  She spun around on her heel, which should have been nearly impossible considering that we were on 300-year-old cobblestones and the heels she was wearing were insanely high—at least three inches, if not higher. But Jillian remained the epitome of grace and style, whether navigating the steep hills of San Francisco or moving effortlessly across an uneven walkway adjacent to a moonlit canal in her newly adopted home of Amsterdam.

  “I’m so glad you asked about that, Caroline. I was going to discuss this exact bit of local trivia over dinner tonight. In fact, they do freeze—”

  “Ha!” interjected Simon, as we caught up to Jillian and her husband, Benjamin.

  “However,” Jillian continued smoothly, ignoring Simon and his ha, “it rarely occurs anymore. Global warming has affected this city just like everywhere else on the planet, and one way it’s manifested here in Amsterdam is the canals no longer freeze—”

  “Ha-ha!” I shouted, punching Simon on the arm.

  “—very often. Maybe only once every ten years now. It’s not common at all anymore.”

  “Wait, so who’s right here?” I asked, still punching Simon. Punching Simon—what a great name for a—

  “Neither,” Benjamin said, tucking Jillian’s scarf tighter around her neck. “Or both.” He nodded toward the oaken door in front of us. “Here’s the restaurant.”

  “Great,” I sighed, stamping my feet. “I’m freezing.”

  “You know, the canals freeze sometimes, although not as much as they used to,” Simon said, holding open the door as I slipped under his arm.

  “Shush it, you.” I laughed and followed my friend and her husband inside the restaurant.

  Simon and I had flown over to Amsterdam to visit Jillian and Benjamin before the holidays were in full swing and my life got even busier. It was a wonderful chance to get away, a chance we didn’t get nearly as often as we used to. Our lives were very….full these days.

  So when Jillian had asked if we wanted to take a trip abroad and visit them before things got too crazy, we’d jumped at the chance. Simon had to reschedule a job or two, and I had to make sure everything was nailed down on the home front, but we made it happen. Late November could be a dreary time to be in the north of Europe, but Amsterdam was dressed in her holiday best, and the city was warm and glowing. And an early dusting of snow made it seem all the more magical.

  “So you haven’t told me yet, how are things going down at the station?” Jillian murmured to me as the boys hung up our coats and we waited for our table.

  “In a word? Nuts.”

  “How about two words?”

  “Fucking. Nuts.”

  She laughed. “Got it.”

  “I mean it. Who would have thought one little appearance on Wake Up San Francisco would have led to all this?” I exclaimed, weaving through a crowd of well-dressed Amsterdamians (this makes perfect sense in my head) toward our table. Like many structures in this town, the ceilings spoke of their creators’ shipbuilding past. Thick wooden beams punctuated throughout, carving up the ce
ilings and supporting the weight of usually several floors above. But instead of feeling heavy and weighted, it made everything seem cozy and cared for. Warm candles lit the space, with pale linens and wintertime arrangements of cream-colored amaryllis studded through with pine and holly on the tables. Oh, it was a beautiful room.

  And it was goose season!

  “I honestly had no idea this was even a thing,” I remarked to Benjamin as we were seated. “Who knew?”

  “Oh it’s a big deal. Roast goose is the thing to eat in Europe this time of year. You know, in olden times—”

  “Oh hush up about your olden times. My protégé is on television every week nowadays, and I want to hear about it!” Jillian cried, waving her husband off and zeroing in on me once more. “I can’t believe you’re on Wake Up. I pitched segments there for years, and they wouldn’t have me on.”

  “Well, then you shouldn’t have moved across the pond just as their new station manager started.” I pretended to peruse the menu—the non-goose side. “The same one who has a crush on the number-one sportscaster in town, my good buddy Neil.”

  “Whose good buddy?” Simon asked, and I raised an eyebrow. Neil was one of his oldest friends and the sportscaster on the local NBC station. He happened to be married to Sophia, one of my oldest friends.

  “He’s my good buddy, at least now that I’m on TV and my new gig paid for the business-class pods we took over here. And when the new station manager, who is head over heels for Neil, found out he had a friend who was a designer, it all came together like two pieces of perfectly mitered Carrera marble.”

  “Which is quite supportive, if anyone cares to know,” Simon added, squeezing my knee under the table.

  “Okay, I can’t handle all this banter.” Jillian sighed. “Just fucking tell me about Wake Up San Francisco while Benjamin orders us some champagne, or I’m going to throw someone in the canal. Which isn’t frozen.”

  I grinned as I watched the tableau unfold in front of me. Jillian had given me my first job right out of college after an internship. She was, and remains, the woman I aspire to be one day. Smart, quick witted, stunning, and fashionably astute, she defined city chic. I had grown into her lead designer under her tutelage and now headed up her interior design shop in San Francisco since she and Benjamin, an investment banker in very early retirement, decided to start splitting their time between the west coast and their new home in Amsterdam. She’d started taking some design jobs almost as soon as she moved across the pond—a few here and there, and only when it didn’t get in the way of them living the most ridiculously awesome lifestyle. But her keen sense of style meshed perfectly with the clean aesthetic of her new town, and Jillian Designs now had an official second shop. Located in the Nine Little Streets district, she was surrounded by tiny vintage shops and young fashion designers, with just enough of a touch of whimsy to suit her to a tee.

  Whimsy touched with class, that was Jillian.

  And with her spending more and more time in this, her new city, we didn’t get nearly enough time to spend together. Which is why, after landing early this morning and begging off only two hours for a disco nap, she was all up in my grill.

  “Honestly, Caroline, just spill it already. Tell me everything.”

  “You’ve seen the video clips I sent you. You know everything there is to know!” I insisted, blushing a little. This new development was pretty cool—wonderful, in fact, not only for myself but for our company. But it still made me a little…hmmm…what was the word? I wasn’t embarrassed, but it just wasn’t in my nature to—

  “Boast. Brag,” Simon interjected, raising a glass of the champagne that had been delivered to the table and opened with a flourish. “My girl won’t do either, so I’m gonna do it for her.”

  “Simon, come on, that’s not really necessa—”

  “First, to Benjamin and Jillian, for inviting us and also for offering to pay for dinner.”

  “Every time. He does that to me every time, “ Benjamin muttered, and I couldn’t help but smile. Simon really did do it every time.

  “And to my wife, Caroline, who just signed a two-year contract to appear on Wake Up San Francisco every week, and be featured on over thirty NBC affiliates around the country. Congratulations.”

  He clinked my glass while Jillian shrieked. In a restaurant. Surrounded by wonderfully fashionable and Euro-restrained Amsterdamians.

  Still not sure that’s what you call them…

  Her eyes flashed. “You little shit, you didn’t tell me about the affiliates.”

  “I know, I know. I didn’t want to make a bigger deal of it than it is.” I sighed, but was having a hard time keeping the smile from creaking back in. It was pretty epic.

  Several months ago, I’d been working on a kitchen remodel for a house in Pacific Heights that was owned by the grandmother of the new station manager at Neil’s station in town. A happy accidental meeting, a cocktail or two, and once he made the connection between me and Neil, I’d been extended an offer to appear on our local morning show.

  All I was supposed to do was talk about chintz. That’s it. I threw up three times in the thirty minutes before I went on, and twice in the thirty minutes after my only-five-minute segment was over. Chintz—the fact that it was coming back, and how it could be integrated into the modern home without adding a side of Grandma Beverly. Who knew chintz was going to be my calling card? If I were the kind of person who did, in fact, boast, I would tell you it was the most highly rated segment of the first quarter. And the second. And maybe the third. And that my five-minute segment on chintz ended up selling out most of the large-floral-print chintz fabric at every Joann Fabrics store in San Francisco. And San Jose. And maybe inland all the way to Sacramento. So yeah, they invited me back…

  “But this is incredible! Think of all the work this will generate for you—for us! We’re going to need to hire a new designer,” Jillian said, cutting into her goose with wild abandon.

  I couldn’t do it, but I’d been thrilled to realize that Amsterdam had some of the best Indonesian restaurants this side of the South Pacific, so I was in heaven with my rijsttafel, a Dutch creation of many Indonesian flavors—dish after tiny dish of highly flavored and incredibly seasoned rice and vegetables and meats and basically the best way to try a little bit of a lot of different food. Delicious.

  “Forget that; we need to hire three new designers, with at least two new assistants to assist them,” I told her. “And I need a new assistant.”

  “What about Monica?”

  “She’s taking her own clients now. She almost needs help herself. There’s someone I’ve got my eye on. She interned with us last summer from Berkeley. Remember the one with the super-long hair and the super-thick glasses?”

  “With the super-long legs? Yep, she’d be perfect! She’ll need some help, though, with her—”

  “Attitude? Agreed. I spoke with her about that when her internship was over—that she needed to let her guard down a bit and remember she’s still learning.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, and you should speak with her about her constantly mentioning who her mother is. She doesn’t need to—”

  “Name drop.” I nodded. “Yeah, we discussed that too. Just because her mother is a senator doesn’t mean she gets whatever she wants. She’ll start out just like I did—at the bottom—and she’ll work her way up. I also thought her work was leaning a little too dark. I told her to work on lightening up her palette and hello, everything didn’t need to suddenly be kelly green and… What?” I paused, a skewer halfway to my mouth.

  Jillian stared at me, her mouth hanging open a little bit.

  I looked at her strangely. “What’s wrong with your goose?”

  “When did you grow up?”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean it. When did you become the mentor?”

  “You wanted me to be partner a few years ago, Jillian. Didn’t you think I was a grownup then?”

  “Yes, yes, yes. But now—good lord, w
oman. You’re an actual woman!” Jillian insisted, reaching across the table to clasp my hand in hers. “I can’t tell you how proud I am of you.”

  “Well… I just… Dammit, Jillian,” I sputtered, patting her hand and reaching for my napkin.

  “Why is she crying?” Benjamin whispered to Simon, stopping their discussion of football or balls or whatever it was they were talking about during my moment.

  “Jetlag?” Simon shrugged as I dabbed at my eye.

  “You two, just zip it,” Jillian laughed, now dabbing at her own eyes. “It’s not often you get to see someone succeed, and surpass you. Well, at least not someone you like and you’re actually happy for.”

  I laughed, struggling to swallow against the lump in my throat. “I thought this was just supposed to be a nice dinner to welcome us to town.”

  “Welcome to town, Caroline,” Jillian said, patting my hand once more and going back to her goose. “So, where shall we go tomorrow?”

  “I feel like she wanted to ask, but didn’t.” I sat on the edge of the bed in our hotel room, brushing my hair.

  “What do you mean?” Simon stuck his head out from around the corner, pulling his toothbrush from his mouth.

  “I mean, did you ever notice that people have stopped asking us?”

  He rubbed his tummy. That was his tell. When he was uncomfortable, he rubbed his tummy. The fact that I’d been with this man for years now and the tummy remained unchanged—still flat as a board—spoke volumes about how he was going to age. He’d age well.

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Did Benjamin say anything?”

  “No,” he replied, still rubbing his tummy. “But to be fair, it’s not something he would ask.”

  “Well, it is something Jillian would have asked. Before, at least.” I attacked my hair with my brush like it had done something to me. Before. What a word.

  “I think you’re overthinking it,” Simon replied, disappearing back into the bathroom. I heard him spit, rinse, spit again, and then the bathroom light went off. As he walked toward the bed, I took another moment to regard him. Simon Parker, resplendent in navy-blue-plaid pajama pants, was a sight to behold. Was he getting better looking the older he got? Yeah, he was.