“Oh, it’s quite–”
Missing the last part of Spencer’s reply as the group moved away from me towards the pub, I yelled, “Hey! Wait up!” and sprinted after them. Yup, high school all over again.
Once inside, I caught up as the group was shown to a table, exhibiting a rare burst of moxie and sliding into the seat next to Spencer at the same time Gigi lowered herself into it. Coming in contact with my lap, she started and sprang up.
“Oh!” Her distasteful expression telegraphed exactly what she thought of my stunt and the glint in her eye as she took a seat next to her husband promised retribution. “Finn. I didn’t see you there. Where did you come from?”
“The parking lot,” I replied sweetly, laying a paper napkin across my lap daintily. “Same as you.”
Her retort was drowned out by the drum solo from the live band playing on stage, but beside me, Spencer’s shoulders heaved in suppressed laughter, and that warm, tingly feeling that’d been with me since he’d appeared in my shop (was that only this morning?) ratcheted up a degree or three.
“I didn’t mean to leave you behind,” he bellowed in an attempt to be heard over the crowd’s boisterous encouragement as Randy and Jake reenacted the game-winning touchdown from the State Championship senior year. Gigi and Claudia, Jake’s wife, reprised their role as cheerleaders, waving fans crafted from plastic menus in place of pom-poms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was going to be like this.”
“How did you think it would be?” I clamored back, giving mental props to Claudia for the flawless cartwheel she’d just executed between two tables of hungry diners. “You’re a celebrity to these guys, and they want to show off for you.”
Spencer shrugged. “I guess. But I was there. At that game, I mean. I remember how it ended. We won. But it was also fifteen years ago, so why relive it?”
I stared at him for a minute, gauging his sincerity. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
He shook his head. “Explain it to me.”
Leaning close so I wouldn’t have to shout (the proximity of my face to his a plus), I said, “The furthest these guys have ever been from Port New is a weekend at the Cape. You’re their hero. You got out; did what you said you were going to do. My God, man, you’re a bestselling author with multiple awards to your name. You’re famous, known around the world. Before you came back, this town’s biggest claim to fame was the four-pound quahog Whiff Tremantle dug up two summers ago.”
“Too bad I missed it,” Spencer commented wryly. Being elevated to the same stature as a hard-shelled clam was doing little for his ego.
Realizing he was having difficulty grasping the positivity of the comparison, I tried again. “Don’t you see? You bring hope to those who have bigger dreams than living their entire life in a little seaside town selling souvenirs to tourists.”
“Isn’t that what you do?”
Dang, he had me there! Grabbing a glass of water the waitress had just placed on the table, I took a sip before answering. “Well, yes, but I like my shop. Love it, in fact. I don’t want anything different for my life.”
“Nothing?” His sapphire orbs held me hostage. “Not even a family of your own someday?”
Did someone turn up the heat ’cause it’s awfully hot in here? And where’s that pounding noise coming from? Surely not my heart.
Grabbing one of the menu fans Claudia had tossed on the table, I waved it vigorously in front of my face creating a headwind of approximately three knots. Okay, probably not that fast, but the way those laminated sheets were whipping around, I could’ve easily put my eye out. Or worse; Spencer’s.
His face playing peek-a-boo behind the plastic I fluttered in front of mine, it became apparent that he’d been bestowed with the same gift as my mother – waiting expectedly for an answer to his question – because his eyes remained glued to mine. Dropping the menus to the table, I shrugged nonchalantly and fibbed, “I’ve never given it much thought.”
“Uh huh.”
Clearly, he didn’t believe me. Not surprising since it was painfully obvious that I was lying. At least he had no idea how many hours I’d spent picturing myself walking down the aisle toward a man who could be his doppelganger. If he’d known…well, let’s just say he’d be shocked. Stunned, even. Maybe a little bit scared.
Time to turn this around. “I have a question for you.”
“Okay.”
“Why’d you ask me to go with you to CJ’s wedding?”
Setting his glass on the table, he pinned me with his gaze, his irises cycling through a spectrum of colors. “Why do you think I asked you?”
Because we’re soul mates. Because you spend every waking hour fantasizing about our life together. Because you can’t imagine growing old with anyone else.
“Because no one else said yes?”
Don’t you hate it when someone laughs at you for giving them an honest answer? Okay, so technically I answered Spencer’s question with a question, but really, it was more of an inquisitive statement. Shouting to be heard over the band, I said, “I fail to see the humor in my response.”
Quelling his mirth, Spencer took my hand and pulled me towards him. “You really don’t know, do you? Finn, I–”
Unfortunately, his revelation was halted by the return of our former classmates who flopped, panting, into their chairs and began chugging microbrew.
Darby’s is known for two things – cold beer and whole-belly clams – and while the esteemed athletes from Port New High had been busy reliving their glory days, the pub’s wait staff had delivered generous servings of both to the table. Abandoning my water in favor of something stronger, my mouth watered as various culinary aromas perfumed the air. Too bad I’d already filled up on gołąbkis.
“Mmmm. I’ve forgotten how much I missed these. Don’t you want any?” Spencer asked around a mouthful of clams, waving the basket of deep-fried mollusks under my nose. Without waiting for an answer, he dumped a pile onto my plate then rolled a trio of hush puppies on for good measure.
Ignoring the number of trans-fats staring me in the face (good thing I hadn’t yet bought a dress for the wedding) I dug in with gusto, hedonistic satisfaction exuding from my person as the clams melted on my tongue. Washing them down with a swig of beer, swirling the liquid over my taste buds to fully experience the heady draft, I popped a hush puppy into my mouth, chewing slowly as I leaned back in my chair and listened with half an ear as Gigi urged her husband to share his latest high seas adventure with Spencer in hopes that he’d use it as the plot for his next novel. Randy oversees paddle boat rentals at the marina, by the way. Hardly the stuff of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, but I give them points for trying.
Over the course of the evening, three things happened – the band amped up the decibels as if they were playing an outdoor arena; to compensate, the conversation in the pub increased to the level of an outboard motor with a cracked engine housing; and the third beer I polished off went straight to my head – and stomach. I’ve never been much of a drinker, and alcohol mixed with the gastronomic combination of fried clams and my earlier meal of stuffed cabbage, in conjunction with the whomp whomp whomp of amplified bass, brought about a rather unpleasant – and sudden – feeling of queasiness. Not wanting to memorialize my first (unofficial) date with Spencer by regurgitating in his lap, I excused myself and set off in search of the ladies’ room.
Apparently, the entire female population in Darby’s had the same thought because the line to use the little girls’ room snaked out past the stage. Covering my mouth with my hand, I bypassed the queue and burst out into the parking lot through the back exit, making a sharp right before coming to a halt beside the dumpster. Big mistake. The malodorous aroma wafting from the garbage bin did nothing to facilitate my efforts to keep from upchucking; instead, it had the opposite effect. Gagging, I pinched my nose closed between two knuckles and held my breath as I reversed direction, scurrying backwards until I smacked into a solid object – one which
grabbed me around the waist.
Terror has a way of erasing non-pertinent thoughts from a person’s mind. Forgetting about the malady that brought me outside in the first place, I shrieked and stomped on the foot of my attacker, his resounding yelp bringing a smile to my face even as I wrested out of his grasp and lit out across the parking lot.
“What the hell, Finn?”
Uh oh.
Skidding to a halt, I turned slowly, my nausea returning at the sight of Spencer swearing verbosely as he hopped around on one leg. “Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay! I think you broke my foot!” He glared at me. At least, I think he was glaring. Kinda hard to tell in this lighting.
Taking his arm, I steered him over to the curb and plopped down, leaving him no choice but to join me lest his shoulder dislocate. “I didn’t step on it that hard. Don’t be such a baby! Let me take a look.”
“No!” he sputtered, pulling his foot out of reach. Retying the laces on his Oxford – I have very nimble fingers – he scooted his butt along the concrete shoulder until there were a good thirty-six inches of space between us. “Anyone ever tell you, you’re a menace?”
“Wow! That hurts! Excuse me for defending myself!”
“Defending yourself? From who? Me?”
“Well…yes. I didn’t know it was you when you grabbed me.”
“Who did you think it was?” he grumbled, clearly still viewing himself as the injured party. Which, I guess technically, he was, but that’s no reason for him not to see the situation from my point of view.
“Uh, I had no clue. That’s why I fought back. Duh,” I added, under my breath. “How would you feel if a stranger grabbed you from behind in a dark parking lot and manhandled you?”
“Manhandled?”
I didn’t appreciate the way he was looking at me as if I’d just sprouted a second head and opened my mouth to tell him so when he burst out laughing. Hmmm. Wasn’t expecting that. Giving him a reasonable amount of time to express his mirth – at least thirty seconds – frown lines creased my forehead when he gave no indication of stopping anytime soon. “Would you mind telling me what – exactly – is so damned hilarious?”
Before he could reply (and I’m not sure he had any intention of doing so, just giving him the benefit of the doubt, you know) a dark Chevy muscle-car pulled up beside us. Ready to leap to safety if the moment warranted, dragging Spencer with me, of course, my evasive maneuver was deemed unnecessary when the driver rolled down the window and draped himself over the doorframe.
“Hey, Spence! Good to see you, man! What brings you back to this neck of the woods?”
His foot apparently no longer a hindrance, Spencer hopped up and shook his friend’s hand. “Hey, Monty. How’re you doing? What’s it been – ten years?”
“More like eleven. Whatcha doin’ hanging out in the parking lot…oh, who’s the babe?” Pushing blond, surfer-dude hair out of his eyes, Monty Halloran squinted in my direction, drawing a blank even though we’d shared a classroom every year from first grade through twelfth, and ran into each other around town at least twice a month.
Despite the compliment – I mean, I can count on two fingers the number of times I’ve been referred to as a ‘babe’ and one of them was when I actually was an infant – my response came out a tad waspish as I stood and brushed God only knows what from my backside. “Montgomery. How’re things at the shop? You get that part in for my Miata yet?”
“Bartusiak? Is that you? I didn’t recognize you; all made up like that.” Monty gave a low whistle. “Damn, you clean up nice!”
How a charmer like Montgomery Theodore Halloran the Third is still single is beyond me, what with his talent for dishing out compliments. Clean up nice, indeed! He makes it sound as if I usually walk around in need of a shower and change of clothes. Not that I don’t – occasionally – wear a baseball cap on those days when I’m running late and don’t have time to wash my hair, but the cap is always clean and freshly scented.
Aware that both Monty and Spencer were staring at me – the former ogling, the latter clearly enjoying my indignation – I did what any red-blooded, self-respecting woman would do.
I threw up.
Chapter Three
Isn’t it funny how everyday sounds and experiences that normally facilitate pleasure do the complete opposite when one is recovering from a hangover? Take Lance, for instance. Most mornings, he purrs along like a well-fed kitten, his tires rolling smoothly upon the asphalt with nary a quiver. Today? Well, this morning his engine rivals that of a chainsaw-wielding psychopath revving up to decapitate his next victim, and don’t even get me started on the wheels of my so-called chariot. They’re not hitting every bump and pothole – they’re hurdling over them like a herd of gazelles bounding across the savannah in an attempt to outrun a predator! Good thing my shop is only four point two six miles from my house because I seriously doubt I’d survive if the trip took much longer.
What’s that? How did last night end after I humiliated myself in front of the love of my life? (Thanks for bringing it up, by the way.) Well, if you really want to know, I’ll tell you, but first, let me get some coffee on. I have the feeling I’m going to need a gallon of it today. Now, which key is it?
Four attempts and a dozen curse words later, I managed to unlock the door to Finn’s Finds; the cutesy, seashell wind chime I’d hung to announce visitors clanging against my head as I stepped inside. “Ouch!”
Garfunkel, who’d been waiting rather impatiently for me to open up so he could take his morning nap, hopped out of the car and trotted inside without so much as a glance towards his aggrieved owner. Reaching his oversized bed…
(he’d claimed it as his own four months earlier when Lillian Killebrew had her chauffeur unload her dearly departed Great Dane’s belongings in the middle of my shop with instructions to find good doggie homes for everything. And while I have to admit that the canine furnishings are nicer than anything currently occupying my home, potential buyers can’t seem to get past the gold-plated nameplates adhered to each piece spelling out the name R-E-G-I-N-A-L-D in glittering rhinestones, thus leaving me with an overabundance of Dane-inspired mementos)
…he hoisted himself up a foot off the ground and sunk into the memory foam mattress, one long ear draped across his face. He was snoring within eight seconds. Some best friend!
Navigating to the small kitchenette at the back of the shop without turning on the lights, I made a beeline for the coffee pot and began measuring grounds into a paper towel (I’d forgotten to buy filters the last time I was at the store). Shoving the basket into the coffee maker with more force than necessary, I absently rubbed the sore spot on my head as the precious liquid fell drop by drop into the glass pot. When there was finally enough for a decent sized gulp, I poured the brew into my favorite Port New Centennial commemorative mug – careful to avoid the chip on the rim so as not to cut my lip – and promptly scalded my tongue. To make matters worse (though what’s worse than pimpled taste buds?) the paper towel had slipped inside the basket leaving coffee grounds floating in my cup. And it’s not even eight o’clock yet. What’s next?
I should know better than to ask that question.
Dumping the polluted mess into the sink, it was still swirling down the drain when the wind chimes announced my first customer of the day. Dammit! I’d forgotten to lock the door behind me when I came in. Checking my teeth in a quahog shell mirror, scraping away a ground stuck between two incisors, I washed my hands and hurried to greet her. Or him, as was the case, and it also turned out he wasn’t a customer at all. Rather the one person I’d hoped not to see until two things happened – a) I recovered from this damned hangover and b) I scrubbed last night’s mortifying experience from my brain.
Since neither was likely to occur in the next five seconds, I stepped forward and mustered up a smile, one that expanded exponentially when I saw my guest arrived bearing gifts – two cups of what my nose told me was freshly-brewed Kona and a b
ag emblazoned with the Dough Knots logo.
“Thank you,” I said, relieving Spencer of his burden. “You’re a life-saver!”
Cornflower irises twinkling as they watched me belt down the java, my hero peeled the lid from his cup. “You’re welcome. I figured you might be in need of a pick-me-up. How’re you feeling this morning?”
“Mmfph.” Cramming half of a salted caramel bagel into my mouth (one whiff of the freshly baked treat and suddenly I was starving), I washed down the crumbs with another swig of coffee and discreetly wiped my mouth before turning an apologetic grin in his direction. “Sorry, again, about your shoes.”
He shrugged, his mouth quirking at the reminder of the previous night’s fiasco. “Not a problem. Really. I needed new ones anyway.”
It was nice of him to lie.
Tilting my cup back to take another sip, frowning to discover it empty, I gazed longingly at Spencer’s, my still-tinged taste buds breaking out into a happy dance when he sighed and handed it over. Without a shred of guilt, I polished off the remainder of his coffee, my lips lingering on the rim where his had been a mere moment before. A tad junior-highish, you say? Maybe, but at the rate I’m going, it’s the closest I’ll ever get to his smackers! When it comes to Spencer Dane, I’m oh-for-two in the making an impression department – a favorable one, that is.
“Why is it so dark in here?” the object of my ill-timed mishaps asked. “You forget to pay the electric bill or something?”
“Oh, crap! I didn’t turn on the lights!” Remedying that oversight, I blinked rapidly in the sudden brightness, a familiar feeling of pride ballooning in my chest as I looked around the shop. Countless hours I’d spent refinishing the floors and painting the walls that gorgeous shade of seafoam green. The former occupant had been a chain-smoking fishmonger who hadn’t given a thought to how the placed looked – or smelled. If I told you about half the stuff I’d scraped off the floor…shudder!
Finn-agled Page 3
