Finn-agled

by Kristine Raymond

  I remembered those eyes – how their hue changed like the mood ring sitting in the jewelry display. Tumultuous green, stormy gray, placid cerulean. Right now, they closely resembled the teal ceramic ostrich Hattie Ferguson had sworn was a family heirloom even after attempting to cover with nail polish the Made in China stamp on the underside which I’d generously overlooked. It was a kitschy piece, but Hattie needed the money and didn’t own much of value, and it never hurt to salvage someone’s pride, did it?

  But I digress. Back to Spencer and his kaleidoscope peepers.

  They were laser-focused on me, boring twin holes into the deepest depths of my soul. I’d yet to draw breath, which explained both my lightheadedness and the purplish tint to my face, and my legs were going numb. It felt like his gaze was holding me upright, and I was convinced that if he blinked, I’d dissolve into a gelatinous mass onto the floor.

  Just past the point of an eternity, he broke the spell. “Hi, Finn.”

  “Spencer,” I gulped, sucking air into my oxygen-deprived lungs. Not having collapsed as feared, I wobbled on unsteady legs around the end of the counter with the intention of greeting him properly before realizing I had no idea what sort of welcome was customary at this juncture of our relationship. A full-body embrace and French kiss seemed a bit too forward, yet a jaunty salute might come off as mocking. Upon reaching him, I settled for a clumsy half-hug/half pat on the back that was anything but intimate, yet the feel of his well-defined bicep beneath my fingers initiated all sorts of naughty thoughts. “What are you doing in town?”

  Looking as if I’d just asked him to recite the Magna Carta, he replied slowly, “My sister’s getting married on Saturday. Remember CJ? I’m here for the wedding.”

  Duh, Finn! You only helped her pick out a sapphire brooch to wear as her something old and blue. Why else would he be in town?

  Before I could disguise my faux-pas with a witty, yet off-the-cuff comment, a tri-colored Basset Hound lumbered over, his white-tipped tail creating a draft. Spencer knelt and scratched the pooch behind his pendulous ear. “Well, hey there, fella. What’s your name?”

  My heart swelling with maternal pride as it does ever time my beloved canine appears, I replied, “That’s Garfunkel.”

  Spencer snuffled and swallowed a laugh – quite unsuccessfully, I might add. “As in, ‘Simon and’?”

  “As in, the greatest musical act to have ever lived!” A forceful huff escaped my lips as my cheeks turned pink; my disdain for his asinine question unmistakably apparent.

  Resuming an upright position, Adonis…um, I mean, Spencer…wiped a dog-slobbered hand on his jeans. “Didn’t mean to insult your folk-rock sensibilities.”

  Ignoring the sarcasm behind his apology – can it be considered an apology if the word ‘sorry’ isn’t used? – I was overcome with a pressing need to dust the Civil War-era memorabilia. Prancing over to the shelf, I whisked the feather duster back and forth as if my life depended on it, motes highlighted by sunlight streaming through the front window flying right, left, and sideways until a few took a detour up my nose. “Ah-CHOO!”

  “Bless you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Though my back was to him, I knew the moment he stepped up behind me. Abandoning my housekeeping, I turned and resumed ogling his devilishly attractive exterior. For more than a decade, Spencer’s face had danced through my dreams almost every night, but in the light of day, it was nothing at all like I’d remembered. Gone was the adolescent acne that had blemished his perfectly chiseled features; in its place, smooth, lightly-tanned skin, not a pock mark in sight, the faint creases gathered in the corners of his eyes and mouth adding to his beauty rather than detracting from it. Yes, I used the word ‘beauty’ to describe a member of the male species. What? Men can’t be beautiful?

  Thump thump thump.

  Would someone turn down that dang bass? Oh, wait a minute; that’s not music, it’s my heart literally thumping out of my chest. Okay, not literally, but sheesh, cut me some slack! The boy/man of my dreams is standing two feet in front of me looking as if he’s just stepped off the cover of GQ. I think I’m permitted a moment or two of teen-girl histrionics, don’t you?

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  Huh?

  “What? Wrong with who?” I swiveled my head around, searching the store for the elusive customer who’d entered without my knowledge. Just as I’d thought – empty, aside from me and Spencer. “Who are you talking about? There’s no one in here besides us.”

  “Your dog. He’s bald. At least, most of him is.”

  “Oh, that!” I laughed, waving away his observation. “He suffers from Color Dilution Alopecia.”

  “Alo-dilut…what?” Furrow lines appeared on Spencer’s brow. I wonder if he knows how adorable he looks when he’s flummoxed?

  “Color Dilution Alopecia. I would’ve thought an author such as yourself would be a little more well-read.” My indignation matching his perplexity, I stomped over to where my pooch was enthusiastically nuzzling his boy parts. “It’s a real thing. Look it up!”

  Raising his hands in supplication, Spencer said, “Hey, I believe you. I’ve just never seen a dog that’s fur-less over most of his body. It’s…unusual.”

  Casting him a scathing glare, I knelt and gathered Garfunkel to me – all sixty-five canine pounds – and stroked his long, silky ears. “Don’t listen to him, baby. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re unique, is all.”

  My adoration for my four-legged buddy was rewarded with a vigorous face licking. Kinda gross considering where his nose has been, but I’ll take affection where I can get it. Brushing non-existent dog hairs from my person, I left Garfunkel to his canine interests and donned my figurative store proprietor cap, completely unaffected by Spencer’s presence.

  Yeah, right; keep telling yourself that.

  “Is there anything I can help you with? Did something, in particular, bring you into the store today?”

  Spencer nodded. “As a matter of fact, yes. Be my date for CJ’s wedding.”

  Huh. Wasn’t expecting that!

  Chapter Two

  There are three things my mother is constantly reminding me of. One – I’m her only child, ergo the only one capable of providing her with a grandchild; two – I’m not getting any younger, as if turning thirty-three last month qualifies me for a room at Peaceful Waves Retirement Villa; and three – no matter how many times I call Garfunkel my baby, if she can’t burp him, change him, or rock him, it doesn’t count.

  So, when she found out Spencer had invited me to be his date for the wedding – my phone was ringing before I even had a chance to tell him I’d think about it – she flew into matchmaker mode, ambushing me that evening at Monday night supper with the grandparents.

  “Patty McIntosh opened a boutique in Smithport last month.” Her fork hovered mid-air as she delivered the news. “We should start our search for your dress there.”

  “You make it sound like we’re embarking on an archaeological expedition,” I mumbled around a mouthful of gołąbki. Have I mentioned Grandma Lena’s cooking rivals the best chefs in Poland? No? Well, it does. Take my word for it.

  Spearing another cabbage roll, I split it open on my plate and poured ketchup over the steaming mixture of minced meat and rice – yeah, I know; I have weird tastes – earning me a look of disapproval from the cook herself. Feeling slightly guilty for marring her authentic cuisine with the condiment, I shoveled the incriminating evidence into my mouth as quickly as possible, burning the roof of my mouth in the process. Grandma Lena’s smug grin told me she thought I’d gotten what I deserved.

  “The wedding’s in less than a week,” my mother continued, spooning a helping of rice pudding onto my plate like I was five. “That doesn’t leave you much time to shop, not to mention you’ll have to buy something off the rack. There’s no way to have it altered by Saturday. Why did you wait until the last minute? Honestly, Finley (she’s the only one who gets away with calling m
e that), do you find joy in making everything such a challenge?”

  Rolling your eyes and biting your tongue at the same time is quite a feat. I should know; I’ve had years of practice. Savoring my dessert as a stall tactic while formulating an answer that would appease my mother and let me off the hook at the same time, nothing sprang to mind. The fact that I’ve known about Spencer’s invitation for exactly six hours and thirty-seven minutes is no excuse in my mother’s opinion. By her way of thinking, I should’ve begun preparing for this eventuality back in grade school. Maybe if I pretend I didn’t hear her.

  No such luck!

  Sneaking a peek in her direction, I saw the woman who’d given birth to me staring back expectedly. I should’ve known there was no way out of this. When my mother asks a question, no matter how trivial, she’ll wait ’til the end of time to get an answer. The pleading entreaty I shot at my father yielded no solution either. He’d been married to his beloved long enough to know better than to get in the middle. Smart man.

  Now, don’t get me wrong. I love my mother. She’s funny, feisty, and has a heck of a roundhouse kick thanks to the Taekwondo lessons she’s been taking at the community center for the past six months. Her gardening skills are unparalleled, her eye for decorating flawless, and she mixes a mean mojito. Platinum streaks are the norm in her short, brown hair, and all of that kicking and punching, along with regular yoga classes, keeps her in peak physical condition. Though only five-foot-three, she runs her household with military precision and loves my dad (who towers over her by a good nine inches and outweighs her by fifty-three pounds), her in-laws, and me without exception. I want to be her when I grow up.

  She’s also achieved global recognition and won multiple awards for meddling in her daughter’s life. There’s not a day that goes by that she isn’t offering some advice on how I can improve the shop, my home, or my appearance – sometimes all three at the same time – and has taken it on as her self-appointed mission to have me married, and preferably pregnant, by year’s end.

  Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating a bit. I’ve tasted a few mojitos that were a little on the weak side.

  Her interfering aside, I love her to bits, even when she’s driving me nuts. As she happens to be at this moment. Polishing off the last of my pudding, I sucked in a breath, looked her square in the eye, and said, “It’s not my fault. I didn’t know Spencer was going to ask me to be his date for the wedding.”

  “That’s no excuse! You should’ve kept the possibility in the back of your mind. You’re not getting any younger, you know, and you could do a lot worse than Spencer Dane.”

  “Mom, I haven’t even said I’d go yet. I told him I’d think about it.”

  Oops.

  “Maude Finley Bartusiak, you pick up the phone right this instant and tell him you accept! What’s wrong with you? How could you even consider giving him the opportunity to ask someone else? I swear, sometimes I think you don’t want to get married and start a family!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Dropping my head into my hand, not before catching my father’s and grandparents’ sympathetic, yet amused expressions, I rubbed my forehead in an attempt to stave off the migraine that was brewing. The fact that I hadn’t seen Spencer since high school – hell, that he hadn’t even known my name in high school – wouldn’t make a difference to my mother. In her eyes, I’m crazy to even consider passing up the chance to date Port New’s most eligible bachelor.

  Excusing myself from the table, I dug my phone out of my pocket and dialed, anticipation zinging off my nerve endings like lightning off a metal dinghy. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Was he away from his phone or screening his calls? Mentally preparing a message to leave on his voicemail, my brain missed the part where he answered.

  “Hello?”

  That’s his outgoing message? Hello? No ‘I can’t answer your call right now, leave a message’ sort of thing?

  I waited for the beep. Where was the beep? Wasn’t there supposed to be a beep to let you know when to start speaking?

  “Hello. Is someone there?”

  Oh, crap! This isn’t a message! It’s him. Speak, Finn. Speak. “Uh…”

  “Finn? Is that you? Is everything alright?”

  “What? Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. How are you?”

  There was a pause, then he answered slowly, “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “I’m good.”

  Way to knock his socks off, Bartusiak! Nothing like engaging in witty banter to garner the man’s interest. Bet he’s thanking his lucky stars right now that he asked you to the wedding.

  The wedding! “Oh, shoot!”

  “Bang.”

  I laughed, imagining his deadpan expression. “Very funny.”

  “I thought so. Do you need something, Finn?” A questioning voice sounded in the background followed by his muffled reply. “Sorry. I’m back. Trying to coordinate plans here. Getting ready to meet up with a few friends.”

  A jealous pang shot through me. Isn’t it funny how time works? In a flash, I was sixteen again, sitting home alone on any given Friday night, fervently praying that he’d call and ask me to a movie or for a burger or to take a drive by the beach. I’d have said yes in a heartbeat. Is that why I wanted him to invite me along now?

  “Finn. Are you still there?”

  Crap! I did it again! Tuned him out while he was talking to me. Mumbling the first half-assed excuse I could come up with, I said, “Sorry, my phone’s been acting up lately. Time for a new one, I guess.”

  “Uh huh.” He wasn’t buying it. “I asked if you want to come out with us tonight. Nothing fancy. Just some of the old gang heading to Darby’s for drinks. Whaddya’ say?”

  Yes!

  “Yes. That sounds like fun.”

  “Great! Do you want to meet us there or should I come by and pick you up?”

  “I can meet you ther–”

  “Pick her up.”

  Forgetting how stealthy Mom can be, I turned to find her hovering near my shoulder, listening in. “Do you mind?”

  “Give me the phone.” Leveling me with The Look, she held out her hand. “Now.”

  A thirty-second game of keep-away ensued.

  I lost.

  Holding my cell to her ear, Mom spat out rapid-fire instructions that would’ve made Patton proud. “Finn is at her grandparents’ house. Do you need the address? No? That’s fine. She’s dressed in blue jeans and an appalling Bohemian-style blouse. Will that attire do for where you’re taking her, or do I need to rifle through her grandmother’s closet to find her something more suitable to wear?”

  “Mo-om!” Why does the floor never swallow you up when you want it to? Damn, Yankee craftsmanship! “Can I please have my phone back?”

  “You, too, Spencer. Give my love to your mother.” Mom handed it back as if she hadn’t just humiliated me. “He already hung up. He’ll be here in eight minutes, which gives you just enough time to brush your teeth and fix your hair.”

  “What’s wrong with my hai…never mind,” I sighed.

  When Spencer pulled up seven and a half minutes later, I was already waiting at the curb. Being the gentleman that he was, he opened his door with the intention of getting out and opening mine, but I beat him to it by sliding into the passenger seat and slamming the door. “Drive.”

  Amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth as he followed my instruction, and navigated the six miles to Darby’s, a pub and eatery located in the center of downtown not far from my shop. “You alright over there? You’re awfully quiet.”

  “I’m fine,” I huffed, my arms crossed tightly across my chest. As ticked off as I was at Mom for her part in this, I was equally peeved at Spencer for going along with her. “You didn’t have to pick me up, you know. I’m perfectly capable of driving myself – in fact; I do it every day.”

  “You’re mad?”

  Well, duh! He sounded surprised – no shock to me considering he exudes Y chromosomes. Still, he had invited
me to come along without any prompting. Unless…

  “Did your mother make you ask me out?” I swear I heard him snort, but when he answered, his voice was perfectly modulated.

  “She did not. I’m thirty-three years old and don’t need my mommy to fix me up on a date. Why, did your mother make you go out with me?”

  “No.”

  He glanced in my direction, his face a mask of skepticism. I amended my answer. “Well, sort of. Can we please talk about something else? How long are you staying in Port New?”

  I expected him to say until after the wedding. Two weeks at the most. I didn’t expect him to say–

  “Permanently.”

  “Excuse me?” My heart rate rose along with my eyebrows.

  As casually as if he were reciting Bushman Grocery’s weekly sale items, he said, “I’m tired of city life. New York is great and all, but it’s never felt like home. I miss my family. I miss the ocean. I miss…”

  “Yes?” I asked, hopefully.

  “Cruiser!”

  Huh?

  So intent on his words, I’d completely missed the fact that we’d arrived at Darby’s where Jake ‘Cruiser’ Kaczynski and other alumni from Port New High School – Go Clamdiggers! – were waiting in the parking lot to greet their former classmate.

  You know how no matter how old you are or where you are in life as soon as you’re around people you went to high school with it feels like you’re still there? Yeah, that’s what I’m experiencing right at this moment.

  Hanging back, I watched a bit enviously as Spencer and his friends exchanged fist bumps, macho hugs, and slaps on the back. Oh, and let’s not forget the star-struck adoration radiating from the wives of said friends. I lost count at how many times they kissed his cheeks. Plural. You’d think he was a celebrity or something!

  “What’s it like to hit the bestsellers list? Seventeen times!” Gigi Davies gushed, looping her arm through Spencer’s and draping herself against him as her husband, Randy, looked on with a goofy grin plastered to his face. Apparently, neither of them had changed much since graduation.