Free The Someday Jar by Allison Morgan Page A

silly.”
    Ugh.
    We turn the corner into the kitchen and I’m stunned. It’s the largest kitchen I’ve ever seen, larger than my old apartment. My entire apartment. The Wolf refrigerator hides behind two paneled doors, and the stainless-steel stove is some fancy European style with more dials than a cockpit. There’s a built-in espresso maker and two dishwashers, one on either side of the fifteen-foot, yes, fifteen-foot-diameter round granite island.
    Wes knocks on a couple of walls. “This is a bearing wall, so it’ll need to stay put.” Pointing at another, he says, “You can rip this one down.”
    “Good.” Evan taps on the wall himself. “See, Lanie. It’ll really open the space.”
    Nodding, I walk toward a breakfast nook, shaking away negative thoughts and picturing Evan and me on weekend mornings with the
Republic
divided between the two of us. He’ll comment on the Middle East chaos and I’ll mention the week’s stock exchange rally or predictions for the Cardinals’ upcoming game while stirring Bailey’s into our Sunday morning coffee with a shared spoon. Well, Evan will want his own spoon. But still.
    The pool with the dark rock, blue water, and green grass surrounding catches my eye. Stepping toward the window, a smile spreads across my lips as I imagine how fun it’ll be to barbecue with friends and family in this backyard, Evan standing by the grill with a spatula in one hand, Rob and Dylan splashing in the pool. Kit and I will sip mango margaritas and munch on chips dipped in her homemade salsa. I’m excited now. This will be a great house. I peek at Evan and smile. Regardless of how we got here, this will be
our
house.
    Evan’s preoccupied watching Wes measure a wall, so after a moment I disappear from the kitchen and investigate the rest of the house. I meander through the six guest bedrooms, family room, office, and I forget how many bathrooms, comparing this home to the tiny apartment with the windowless bathroom and narrow kitchen Mom and I shared after Dad left. Orchid Lane reminds me nothing of my childhood and yet, I find myself thinking of Dad.
Again.
Not because he’d marvel at the hand-carved balusters, his-and-hers closets, or the laundry room large enough to park a Chevy truck, but for this long hallway I stand in. I can picture him now, slipping off his shoes and saying with the slightest flick of his chin toward the hallway’s end, “You got what it takes?” Then, with a troublesomegrin across his face, I imagine him sliding in socks along the smooth marble, his laughter echoing off the walls.
    Why not?
    I’m about to step out of my shoes when a woman’s voice, other than Mom’s, calls from the front door. “Evan? Hello? Anyone here?”
    I find an expertly dressed, tall and thin woman standing in the foyer, a clipboard in her hand. “Hi,” I say. “May I help you?”
    “Oh, good, you’re here,” she says. “Did you see the stain in the corner of the dining room? I think it’s red wine or something. Make sure you get it out.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “I didn’t stutter.” She forces a smile and scans me from head to toe.
    Even though I copied my outfit from a Pinterest post—dark jeans, white scoop-neck blouse, light blue checked scarf, silver drop earrings—I feel like an unwanted stepchild in hand-me-down clothes compared to her.
    “You’re with the cleaning crew, right?” she asks.
    Cleaning crew?
“No, I’m Lanie Howard, Evan’s fiancée.”
    “Oh goodness, of course. I’m sorry.” She pats my forearm. “It’s just, with the hair, I thought . . .”
    My hair?
I reach to touch it but stop and fiddle with my earring. I can’t help but notice
her
shiny blond cropped hair. A style I’ve never had the courage to try. Her eyebrows are angled and plucked, her earrings dangle but don’t sag, and though her eyes are set slightly far apart, her face has an exotic appearance instead of that of a dazed circus animal, like I’d have preferred.
    “I’m