Running Wild (Wild 3)

“How’s work, Oliver?” Fishing charter season is in full swing again, and he’s gone from morning until night, seven days a week. This is the first time he’s made it to Sunday dinner since April.

“Man. Busy.” He stabs two slices of beef with his fork and drops them onto his plate. For such a lanky guy, he can eat more than anyone at this table. “My boss said we’re booked solid until September. All day, every day. It’s good, though. We need the money.”

I don’t doubt it. Oliver’s the only one working right now. Vicki has spent the better part of the last decade figuring out what she wants to do by process of elimination—three years waitressing before she moved to real estate, where it took her three years to decide that selling houses wasn’t for her; a year working in a health store while considering a naturopathic career; one semester in a college fitness and health program with her sights set on a degree toward becoming a personal trainer. She even did a brief stint behind the desk in the clinic when Cory took a few months off to travel across Europe. The place has never been more disorganized than during that time.

Last year, Vicki announced over Sunday dinner that she’d been hired to work reception in a local salon and had enrolled in a hair design program. It’s the most excited she’s ever been about anything … and then she found out she was pregnant.

She’s completed two-thirds of her state-required education hours. We’re all hoping she’ll go back to it soon.

“Did you mention it to her already?” Vicki elbows Oliver, her voice soft. “You know, about Steve?”

“Well, not lately. I brought it up before, though, remember?” he says, equally soft.

As if no one can figure out where this is going.

I stifle my groan.

“Hey, Marie, I think you and Ollie’s boss would hit it off. He’s big on the outdoors. Hiking and hunting. And fishing, obviously. And he’s good looking. Here, you have a picture, don’t you?” She holds her hand out for Oliver’s phone. “A bit more gray than I like, but a full head of hair.”

“Hey!” Jim chirps, glaring at Vicki as he smooths a hand over the bald spot on the back of his head.

“Doesn’t hear me asking him to pass the salt, but that, he hears,” Liz mutters to no one in particular.

Vicki ignores them both—as she often does, she’s never been a fan of Jim’s—and holds up Oliver’s phone to show me a candid picture of a man in waders, standing in the middle of a river. “He’s forty-two. No criminal record. Smokes, but he’s trying to quit. One eighteen-year-old kid. So, proof that his plumbing works—” She waggles her eyebrows. “His ex is way out of the picture. She’s already with someone new.”

I make a sound that might be agreement as I chew. The truth is Steve sounds more ideal than any of the guys Jim has tried to set me up with. He’s handsome enough, in a rugged, outdoorsy way, his hair wispy at the ends, and his face coated in graying scruff. He’s older than I am. Maybe that’s been my issue all along—chasing after younger men.

But is this what my dating life has come to? My siblings taking secret shots of unattached associates at work and presenting their vices and sperm count to me over a platter of slow-cooked beef?

“Oliver already showed him your picture, and he’s definitely interested.”

“Which picture?” I give my brother-in-law an exasperated look. “Why do you have a picture of me?”

He shrugs. “It’s the one Vicki sent me.”

“The one from the clinic,” she clarifies.

“The one on the wall?” My jaw drops a second before I burst out laughing.

“God, no! That would have scared him away.” Vicki giggles. “No, the one on the desk. You’re wearing a black dress.”

“Oh, right.” From Jonah’s wedding.

“Well, he liked it, and he wants to meet you. So, what do you think?” she asks, pausing with a mashed potato-laden fork in the air, eager for my response.

“I’ll think about it.”

Jim sets his cutlery down with a clatter and leans back in the chair to rub his belly. “That was fantastic, as always, Eleanor.” He’s always the first one finished. He’s also always the first one up from the table, leaving his dirty dishes for his wife—or anyone else—to collect.

But tonight, he settles in with a toothpick. “I gave my buddy a call. The one in real estate I told you about?” His attention is on my father. “With the house and the clinic, plus that cabin, he’s saying you could get at least five hundred. Maybe more. The market around here’s hot right now.”

Jim’s words take a moment to process, and when they do, they don’t make any sense. “What’s he talking about?” I shift my gaze from my dad to my mom, back to my dad. “What’s he talking about?”