CHA PTE R 18
HE NEXT MORNING I WAKE up to a Bad Teachers’ conversationT already in progress.
Kim: I’m so tired I cannot deal with Fern today. Layla can you go Layla: I’ll go. Tell her why you’re so tired Kim: I met someone. A guy and I like him Layla: She more than likes him, she blushes when she
says his name, which is Greg Kim: It’s true Me: This is the best news, though I hate that I’ve been out of the loop. How does he stack up against Custodian Hank?
Kim: Not as tall, but he’s funny. I have a feeling Custodian
Hank isn’t funny Layla: He’s not Me: I am so happy to hear this, can’t wait to meet him.
And seriously thanks for dealing with Fern, she’s fine, right?
Kim: She’s living her best life Stewart’s calling. I want to tell them about him, they are a collective vault, but I’ve signed a contract, and I can’t keep blabbing and passing out NDAs to my friends who clearly don’t read Page Six.
“Is this too early?” he asks. It’s seven thirty.
“I’m up,” I say, and get back under the covers.
“You sound like you’re in bed.”
“I am. Are you calling on official business or is this a random bed check?”
“I check on all my employees every morning,” he says. It lands hot in my ear; it’s as if my brain is now programmed to change everything he says into something suggestive. If I was failing at keeping my lusty thoughts at bay in the grotto, the herb garden did me in. I fell asleep replaying a version of last night where he kissed me.
“So no outings this week?” I ask, hopeful I’m wrong.
“Nothing formal. It’s a perfect morning. I just went for a swim and I was thinking about you out there on the sleeping porch.”
Again, this hits me in parts of my body that are not for hearing. I’m imagining him toweling off, imagining me sleeping.
MY DAD’S ALREADY up and drinking coffee when I get to the kitchen. I preheat the oven. I am not surprised to see that I forgot to take butter out of the fridge to soften last night. I must have floated right to bed on my rosemary-scented cloud. Christopher will be up in an hour, and I promised him poppyseed muffins, but I can pivot to blueberry because Maud’s recipe calls for melted butter, not soft.
Dad holds up his Red Sox mug to me. “Morning. How was dinner at the manse?”
“It was really something,” I say, putting on the teakettle.
“I sipped rosé and Sancerre and ate the most delicious coq au vin and didn’t rinse a single dish.”
“Too good to be true,” he says. “Were they nice?”
“Busy and Lilly are great. Henry’s kind of intense.
Victoria is polite but suspicious, and I don’t blame her. If some random woman broke up Gus’s engagement, I’d be watching her like a hawk.” I pull out Maud’s mixing bowl and measure the sugar.
“She’s a good woman,” he says. “Does a lot for the community and still works shifts at the ER when they need her. And now that she’s giving us the Starlight Gala, she should be sainted.”
“Yes, well, she’s a little standoffish.”
“Standoffish or not, it’s all a miracle. We’re getting a new roof. We never would have been able to fix it without their help. We would have been out on the street.”
Sometimes when you’ve known someone forever, simple conversations can unexpectedly veer off into emotional land mines. It starts as nothing: Sancerre, the roof. Then it arrives at my dad’s maddening inability to see any way for us to thrive. Frustration bubbles quietly in my chest.
“Dad, there are a million ways we could make more money.”
He shoots me a look over his coffee. “Don’t think so.”
I laugh a hard laugh to ease the tension building behind my eyes. “It wouldn’t kill us to take a risk and expand on our already thriving business.”
“Almost did once, Doll. I won’t play a fool’s game twice.”
This is the preface to his sermon called “My Grandfather Started a Little Fish Shop and That’s All I Need.”
“I’m not talking about a second location. We could expand where we are, on Main Street. We could use the extra money from the Starlight Gala to get started. Plus my ten grand.”
He waves a hand at me, as if to clear the chalkboard of my approach to the family legacy. “Again, it’s all down to the
Whitfields bailing us out. This charade of yours is completely insane, but since you’re doing this, I’d like to thank him properly. Let’s have him for dinner tonight. I’m getting a bunch of striped bass this morning, and we can barbecue it.”
“Here?” I ask.
“Yes, here. We can eat on the west veranda to watch the sun set over the Newtons’ underwear.” He motions with his coffee to the front porch. He’s changed the subject and made a joke. We have reached this discussion’s end.
When the muffins are in the oven, I take my coffee to the front porch and call Naomi. “Why am I so uncomfortable inviting Stewart here for dinner? I told him about Niles, he’s seen me in a bikini. It’s not like he’s going to be shocked that the rest of my life is a wreck.”
“Not one thing in your life is a wreck. Besides maybe you, currently pretending you don’t want to jump this guy.”
“Stop.”
“You know and I know, we don’t have to talk about it. But invite him over. Besides Gus, that house is your life’s great labor of love. It’s charming. And I guarantee that Audrey woman can’t retile a bathroom.” This hits me right where she wants it to. Last year, the week after Christmas, I retiled the downstairs bathroom, and it is a work of art. Aqua tile buffed to look like sea glass. It was Gus’s and my Christmas gift to my dad, and we wrapped up a single tile and a trowel.
Gus made me include a roll of toilet paper, which made Christopher laugh so hard that it made the holiday. I’d like to show Stewart that bathroom, so I text him.
Me: What are you doing tonight?
Stewart: I was going to ask you that earlier, but then I
thought it was too much Me: Total stalker
Stewart: I was thinking about taking the boat out for sunset. Want to come?
Yes, I want to come. I want to get on that boat with him and watch the hell out of that sunset.
Me: My dad has striped bass and he wanted to invite you
for dinner tonight. To thank you
Stewart: Really?
Stewart: Ok
Stewart: Yes, I accept Stewart: Thank you Stewart: Bringing wine, is that ok? What time?
Me: That’s great and six Stewart: Ok, great
IT’S A COOLISH, dry evening, and the sky is a deep July blue. The leaves on the maple in our front yard are huge this year. The Goldbergs aren’t home, so there’s no polka music, and I’ve set up the picnic table on the front porch so that only two people have a view of the Newtons’ underwear line. I will seat Stewart strategically.
I wander around Goose Lane and clip one flower from every garden—yellow wild indigo, milkweed, a few white daisies, and a bloom of hot-pink hydrangea from the back of Mrs. Goldberg’s prize bush. I line them up along the center of the table in Maud’s little cream bottles, and it looks beautiful. I shower and put on my favorite jeans (clean) and a sleeveless white top from Patsy’s stash. I don’t have time to completely dry my hair, but I do put on mascara and lip gloss.
I make a face at my reflection in the mirror because I’m sure she’s about to tease me for caring so much.
“What’s all this?” Gus asks, dropping his bike in the driveway.
“Striped bass,” I say. “Pop got some fresh this morning,
so I thought I’d make a party.”
“Who’s coming?”
“Just us,” I say. “And Stewart.”
“Cool,” he says. He smiles at me and I take him into my arms without even considering the risks. “Okay, that’s enough,” he says.
“It’s a beautiful day in paradise,” Christopher announces
just before six.
“Pants!” I reply.
My dad is tending to the coals on the barbecue in the front yard. I stand on the porch and look out toward town, little glimmers of water between the low buildings. I have the bass laid out on a platter in the kitchen. It’s been sitting in olive oil and garlic for twenty minutes, and I wish I had a bit of rosemary to sprinkle over it before serving. I think to text Stewart but he’s probably already on his way, and asking him for rosemary seems sort of suggestive, like I’m trying to take him back to that romantic moment in the garden. This restless, buzzy feeling I’m having started then.
I’ve been trying to rationalize it. Maybe he didn’t lean in.
Maybe he does periodic abdominal crunches that cause his torso to dip forward. But he did; he leaned in with his eyes too. My heart does this weird dip into my stomach when I think of it.
I’m helping my dad roll the barbecue away from the house when Stewart pulls in to the driveway. My hand flies up to my dahlia necklace like I have pearls to clutch there.
He pulls hisMarian tote out of the backseat, and we meet in the middle of the driveway.
“I’ve overthought this, I think,” he says. He’s about to explain, but I smile and he smiles back, and we just stand there like a couple of teenagers. “Hi,” he says. The word washes over me like a breeze.
“Hi,” I say back, and tuck my still-damp hair behind my ear. “What did you overthink?”
“Oh, the wine. I wanted to get it right and ended up bringing all of it. Is that going to make me look like a drunk?
Be totally honest.”
I laugh. “No, that’s very generous. Thank you.” I peer into the bag and there are five different bottles of wine.
“Like I said.” He reaches deeper into the bag and hands me a small bouquet of herbs—thyme, sage, and rosemary.
It’s the thing I worried would be too romantic, but on the receiving end it is the exact right amount romantic.
I lead him over to my dad, who’s adding wood chips to the coals. He puts down his tongs, wipes his hands on his apron, and extends one to Stewart. “Hello,” he says. “So glad you could come.”
“Well, thank you for including me. I hear the striped bass just jumped right out of the ocean.”
“Practically,” my dad says and laughs. “Dolly’s got it prepared, should be delicious.”
Christopher, in pants, rises from the front steps and
makes his way to us.
“Hey, buddy, you remember Stewart.”
“He took you on a boat,” he says.
“He’s staying for dinner, Dad’s making striped bass.”
“Gross,” Christopher says.
“You can make a sandwich after dinner if you hate it,” I say.
“Our mom used to say that,” he says to Stewart.
“Stewart brought herbs from his garden.” I hold up the precious bouquet. My dad leans in and smells it, eyes closed.
“The thyme,” he says. “Let’s use the thyme.”
“Okay,” I say. “He’s also brought enough wine to get us through the summer.”
Stewart holds up his bag. “A bit of indecision, actually.”
“Thank you,” my dad says.
“Come inside and we’ll get it in the fridge.” Stewart follows me up the front steps and into the kitchen. I see it through his eyes. A photo of all of us on the wall, before the accident. The round table with five spindled chairs. The original porcelain sink and wooden countertops. The yellow wildflowers I picked yesterday and placed in a Cookie Monster coffee mug. The chipped platter in his family’s ivy pattern on its special stand.
“We have that too,” he says, gesturing to the platter. “My mother uses the tea set all the time.”
“And the dinner plates around St. Patrick’s Day,” I say. “It was in the paper; my mom was all over it.”
My back is to the kitchen sink, and he takes a step toward me. “I like those curtains,” he says, to the window behind me. They’re white, with red poppies embroidered along the bottom.
“I made them,” I say. “Out of an old dress of my grandmother’s, actually.” I take the bottles of wine from his bag and put them in the refrigerator. I empty the big piece of crockery we keep spatulas in and fill it with ice.
“Maud?” he asks.
“Yes. I’ll show you where I sew.” So much easier to say thanI’ll show you where I dream about kissing you.
I lead him to the sleeping porch. He looks around and
smiles.
“This is paradise,” he says.
I smile, because I know he means it, and I totally agree.
“This is Maud’s sewing machine. It’s old-school obviously, pedal operated. But it makes the most perfect stitches, slightly irregular, like they’re by hand.”
“You made those curtains here?”
“Yes. She used to wear this dress all the time in the summer. She died when I was ten and I missed seeing her in it, the way the little red poppies swished around her ankles when she walked. So when I got a little older and mastered that machine, I made curtains out of it. When the wind blows, it’s that same happy effect.”
He steps toward me and my whole body tells me that he’s about to touch me. He’s going to put a hand on my waist and pull me toward him. The fizzy feeling I’ve had all day is at a boiling point. It’s a mix of two energies—wanting something and knowing it’s a bad idea—and it’s causing a reaction inside me, just under my heart.
He crosses his arms instead, taking them out of play, and asks, “What else did you make?”
I turn around and gesture to my bed. The place where I lie all night, replaying a scenario where I leaned in at the exact second he did. I look up at Stewart to see if he saw that thought cross my face. He’s looking at me like he did.
“This is all new,” I say to the bed, trying to hide the red in my cheeks. “I made the duvet cover and the pillowcases, to replace what burned. I wanted it to be a lightweight pale blue fabric.” Like that shirt of yours, I don’t say. “There was nothing like that at Target.”
“It’s beautiful,” he says, and picks up a pillow to inspect it. “You know what I think you should do with the ten thousand dollars?” I shake my head. I never thought I’d see the day Stewart Whitfield would be spending my money.
“Rebuild this so that you can replace the screens with
windows in the winter.”
“And a fireplace,” I say.
“Yes. Just there. Maybe river stones.” His expression is almost boyish. He’s excited about this project.
“It would be beautiful,” I say. I would never spend money on something like that, but it’s fun to talk about in this waking dream where Stewart is here with me in my personal
space.
“Let me get you some wine,” I say.
When we’re seated on the porch, Stewart across from me with his back to the Newtons’, my dad says, “We don’t see that much of you out here. I see Oscar and Busy all the time in the summer.”
“I haven’t been for the whole summer since high school.
But this summer a lot of my office is working remotely, so I’m here.”
“Do you work in your grandfather’s office up top?” my
dad asks. “With all the windows?”
“How do you know about that?” I ask.
“Saw it in a newspaper article when he passed. The whole thing looks like a lighthouse, three hundred sixty degrees of windows.”
Stewart nods. “Yes, we call it the crow’s nest. My dad’s been working out of his study, so it’s my office now. Though I have to admit it makes me dizzy if I’m up there too long. I can see too far in every direction, and I get a little overwhelmed.”
“It’s a lot of responsibility doing what you do, big shoes to fill.”
“They’re not quite mine to fill yet. I’ve got to beat out my cousin,” Stewart says. “But yes, it’s a lot of pressure. Like anything.” He catches my eye, and we meet in that place
where I know just how much pressure it is. This happens to be the same place where I climbed into his lap.
“Do you think you’ll win?” asks Gus. “I mean, are you better at your job than him?”
Stewart leans back in his chair and considers the question. “I’m not really sure, actually. I’m more interested in what we’re doing than how much money we’re making. So I guess it’s up to the company to decide what they want.”
“They probably want money,” Gus says.
Stewart laughs. “Probably.” He takes a bite of his bass.
“This is so good. Do you guys eat fish every night?”
Christopher says, “Gross.”
“We eat a lot of it,” my dad says. “Except for when Dolly treats us to chicken.” My dad winks at Christopher, opening the floodgates. When Christopher laughs, it is infectious. It comes from deep inside him, and he lets it go on as long as it needs to. He doesn’t have thatThat’s enough, I’m done shutoff valve the rest of us have. So we laugh with him, always such a gift to tap into his joy. Stewart is laughing too, though he doesn’t even know what’s funny.
“Tell,” Christopher says.
“It’s barely a story,” I say. “Though they never stop bringing it up. When I was thirteen, I was temporarily burned out on fish, so I decided to roast a chicken.”
“She bought it, found a recipe and everything,” my dad says, grinning.
“Nowhere in that recipe did it say to take it out of the plastic before cooking it,” I say.
Christopher is laughing again and this gets Gus going.
“It smelled so bad.” My dad wipes his eyes. “For days.”
Stewart says, “When I was little I brought a skunk into the front hall because I thought it was a kitten. Trust me,
we’re still talking about that.” He raises his wineglass to me, and Christopher starts laughing all over again.
“At Eight Oaks?” Gus asks.
“ ’Fraid so,” says Stewart. “He sprayed, and for a week people were coating the carpet on the front stairs with tomato sauce. We made a game of sliding down the banister to avoid it, and Oscar broke his arm. It was a whole thing.
We eventually replaced the carpet, but we never stop bringing it up.”
When we’ve finished dinner Gus takes the plates into the kitchen and returns with the chocolate cake. “Too soon?” he
asks with his most impish smile.
“No, perfect,” I say.
“You made this?” Stewart asks.
“She made it this morning and wouldn’t let us have any,” says Christopher.
“Oh please,” I say, passing plates around. “You had three blueberry muffins for breakfast.”
Stewart takes a bite. “Wow,” he says. “This is amazing.”
I have been baking for years, but watching Stewart’s eyes as he eats this cake turns baking into something erotic for the first time. His mouth on the tines of the fork, the way his eyes dip closed. It’s too much.
The next words that come out of the mouth I’m staring at are: “Would you want to go to a Red Sox game this summer?” Stewart is speaking to Gus, who immediately stops eating.
“Are you serious? Of course.” He turns to me. “Could we?”
“Sure,” I say, as if I’m the generous one.
“We could all go,” Stewart says. “Which game would you
like to see?”
“Any game,” Gus says.
Stewart looks at me and then back at Gus. “They can’t all be the same to you. Pick one you’d really like to see.”
Gus looks to me for guidance. I’m sure he’s waiting for me to tell him to figure out which one the cheapest game is, or he’s thinking he should go with a game that’s at the most convenient time for everyone else. I have been making decisions along these lines for my entire life. I can’t even say I prefer tea over coffee. I don’t know why I think not asking for things is a virtue. I don’t know why I think I’ll get extra points on my deathbed for going without. I want Gus to say what he wants, to know it’s okay to want everything he can imagine.
“He said any game,” I say. “Who would you like to see?”
“Well, the Yankees, obviously,” he says. My dad makes a yikes face and Stewart laughs.
“I’ve been dreading that one, but let’s do it. Three weeks
from Saturday, I think.”
“Seriously?” The smile on Gus’s face.
“Freddie? Christopher? Are you guys in?”
Christopher shakes his head. “Too loud.”
“We’ll stay here and see if we can see you on TV,” my dad says.
“Invite Clay if you want,” Stewart says.
Gus is furiously texting Clay, Stewart takes another bite of cake, and I am melting from the inside out.
STEWART: THANKS AGAIN for tonight Me: Thanks for coming, it was fun Stewart: I have a bunch of work to do tonight, but I was thinking about doing that sunset cruise tomorrow. Something
to look forward to. Can you do that?
Me: Yes My heart is racing, and if I type any more words, they will have exclamation points after them.
Stewart: Sun sets at 8:41 tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at 7
Me: Great, thank you Stewart: Good night Dolly He texted my name. He could have just said good night. I text Naomi: Not only did he eat my cake like he was making out with it, he texted “Good night Dolly.” That’s more than just good night, right? Feels different?
Naomi: HE LIKES YOU!!! The absolutely unnecessary excursions, the effort with Gus, the totally pornographic hand-holding. Come on Me: There’s something between us and it terrifies me Naomi: Because he’s so hot his body may burn you into a pile of ashes?
Me: Ha ha. You know what I mean. A person could fall for a guy like this Naomi: A person could do a lot worse. Maybe it’s time to let go of your tragically low expectations Me: We’re going on his boat tomorrow night. Sunset Naomi: STOPPPPPPPP!!!!!
