Read Online Club Sandwich by Lisa Samson - Free Book Online

oceanographer—isn’t that the hippest combo imaginable? And she’sone of those naturally happy people. I love that about her. She comes from big-time money through her grandmother, but you can’t tell.
    Harry taps the table. “See, kid? Reinforcements have arrived.”
    Nothing else to be done. I sit opposite him, place my chin in my hand. “What do you want to talk about?”
    He never asks me about my life. He only talks about himself. Gee, who does that sound like?
    “You can congratulate me for starters, Ive. I’m getting married next month.”
    “Oh.”
    “Yep, a real sweetheart. Reminds me of your mother.”
    “Don’t even go there.”
    “You’re not happy for your old man?”
    “It’s number four.”
    “Hey, the last two were not my fault. Now, I admit, I ruined it with your mother, but I was young, and we messed up.” He shrugs. “What can I say? I won’t make excuses for myself.”
    How about an apology? Even one.
    “So, Harry, got any more contracts?”
    “Oh yeah. Lots of brickwork down in Canton these days.”
    Brian sets down his plate. “Enough to pay for a sirloin burger?” He turns around right away.
    Three ladies with shopping bags enter. God bless you, girls.
    “Gotta seat these customers, Harry. Eat up.”
    Dear God, let him leave soon.

4
    P eople wonder how I can be so sure of Rusty all the time, with him traveling all over the place, hanging around lonely women who flirt and make sweeping hints that usually begin with talk of “a cup of coffee.” It amazes me here in America we initiate so many of our mating rituals with “a cup of coffee.” I mean, it yellows our teeth, makes our hands quiver like a ninety-year-old’s, and gives us dog breath. But for many of us, it’s our first date. Well, it’s a surefire method of avoiding kisses you’d rather keep to yourself.
    You’d assume Rusty’s obesity would be a deterrent. But you’d be about as close to the truth as Tim Robbins to a speaking engagement at the Baseball Hall of Fame. Think about men like Orson Welles, or even that Meatloaf guy. He doesn’t seem to have a problem with the ladies, although I could be wrong. Or maybe he’s actually a nice guy with a sweet wife who realizes the thing that pays the bills is only his schtick. He probably gets in the shower right away and washes all that grease out of his hair. And I’ll bet Meatloaf’s wife doesn’t mind
his
concert tours. I’ll bet Meatloaf’s wife goes with him everywhere she can!
    I’ll also bet some women out there watch my husband sing and think to themselves, “I’d follow that man to the ends of the earth,” as if a great singing voice provides for all needs. My mother always said, “You can’t live on love.” Well, you can’t live on a fabulous tenor voice, either.
    Women throw themselves at Rusty. Married or not. He performs solo concerts at churches from time to time when he can arrange the gig. And those ladies are the worst. Anybody who says adultery isn’t alive and well in the North American church is about as wrong as low-rise jeans on Hillary Clinton. I mean, consider my own thoughts since the class reunion. And honestly, a lot of church people out there don’t want to admit the sinning that runs rampant in the holy hallways. But sometimes dirty laundry needs airing. If nobody did that, it would molder and fester and rot. And these ladies, or should I say women, would love to generate some dirty laundry with my husband. I know, it makes me sick too.
    So how do I cope? With this: Rusty says he looks at the prettiest woman and thinks, “No matter how good she looks, some guy somewhere is tired of putting up with her junk.”
    That is plain truth, Rusty style. Now I know he puts off these women with as much gentleness and Christian charity as he can muster, but every once in a while he lets someone have it: “Lady, if you’re this desperate, there isn’t a man alive who’d have you if he knew the truth.” And then he’ll tell me