The Infinite Onion

by Alice Archer

  I took a step back, and then another. The first step brought Oliver’s whole body into view. The word svelte popped into my head, along with sleek and sturdy. And then annoying, which brought me back to reality. A third step back made the ends of the darts poke me between the shoulder blades. Wake-up call.

  “Ouch,” I said, but I stayed where I was.

  The last time I’d been attracted enough to a man to want to do something about it, I’d been in my early twenties. The fact that I didn’t even like Oliver didn’t keep my body from trying to sway toward him.

  With practiced movements, Oliver grabbed stuff from drawers and cabinets without needing to look. He moved with a grace that made my words dry up, and he didn’t rush to fill the space with conversation, which was good. My internal argument required my full attention.

  Oliver the entitled busybody repelled me. But his tanned ears lay flat against his head, and I really wanted to touch his hair. Toned arms. Hips loose as he moved. Small, firm ass. Was I mistaken, or had I sensed a hint of interest in his gaze, back at the ditch, before I’d gotten rude?

  I closed my eyes to confront the thought. If I got up the nerve, I could toss a rope, see if Oliver caught it, see if he was interested. He lived way the hell out in the woods. Maybe he was desperate for a little something physical. I can help with that.

  “That’s Happy Hollow,” Oliver said.

  It took me a few seconds to figure out Oliver’s statement wasn’t a lewd response to my train of thought. “You named your indoor garbage heap?”

  “Not garbage. Safe haven for hollow things—gourds, piñatas, papier mâché creations.”

  I took a closer look at the crap in the wire container. “Also,” I pointed out, “a wasp’s nest.”

  Oliver shrugged. The memory of Kai’s insistence that I’d been mean gave me pause. I took a deep breath and tried to nudge my ridicule toward curiosity.

  “Do other areas of your house have names?” I asked. “I promise I won’t make fun of you if you tell me.”

  “I don’t care if you make fun of me.” Oliver nodded over his shoulder toward the red stove—a beauty with six burners, a grill top, and two ovens.

  “Stoviet Union,” Oliver said.

  My laugh exploded into the air. The vast room absorbed it to silence.

  I pulled out a chair at the table and sat, so I wouldn’t keel over from hunger or burgeoning lust. As I watched Oliver transfer most of the fridge’s contents to the kitchen counter, I wondered what it would be like to be him, to have so many things, and a house and enough income to keep it all.

  When Laura and I married, she’d offered to support me until my career got off the ground. I’d pondered the conundrum of a career for myself while her coaching business grew. She bought a house, then a bigger house. My name wasn’t on the paperwork, but that wasn’t why those houses never felt like mine. From the beginning, I’d suspected Laura and I wouldn’t be in it for the long haul. We married anyway, stayed married until she excised me with a surgical cut. I couldn’t blame her for taking a stand.

  Envy of Oliver and humiliation about the years Laura wasted on me put starch in my voice. “Why is your place like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “You live in…” I struggled for something polite to say. “A freak show.” And failed.

  “Excellent.” The gleam in Oliver’s eyes seemed genuine.

  “You like it when I insult your home?”

  “I don’t give a damn what you think of my home. I like it when you’re honest.”

  “You don’t know when I’m being honest,” I said.

  Oliver paused to watch me with his intent gaze. It almost made me squirm.

  “What are you?” I asked. “Some type of multimedia artist?”

  “Sometimes. Mostly oil painting. I also teach and consult.”

  “Consult to help people do what?”

  One of Oliver’s straight eyebrows lifted in amusement. “Unclench.”

  I snorted. “Right. What’s on your business card? Oliver What’s-His-Name, Senior Ass-Stick Remover?”

  Oliver set two plates—one red and one purple—on the green placemats. I took my elbows off the table and sat back, but Oliver kept his hands on the plate in front of me and turned his face toward me. We were eye to eye when he said in a low voice, “Hey, if the stick fits.”

  I did my best to ignore the fact that every single muscle in my body was, in that moment, clenched—from my sore feet to my sore shoulders and neck, and everything in between, including my asshole.

  “You know what?” I said. “If you don’t want to have a conversation, I can wait on the porch until you’re done eating.”

  Oliver straightened and moved away.

  Whatever creative shit Oliver did for a living, if his lifestyle was the result, I wanted the opposite of creativity. I wanted streamlined and spare. Minimalist and austere. Nature and peace. Not a chaos of stoves, throw pillows that mated and multiplied, indecipherable lawn sculptures, and nowhere easy for the eye to land. No matter how attractive I found Oliver physically, I needed to leave as soon as I’d eaten a few bites, even if it meant a long walk in the rain.

  I could find my own solutions.

  I tapped the zodiac scroll in my pocket and vowed to get rid of it once and for all, to throw it into the woods to rot. To prove I was serious about rejecting creativity, I turned away from Oliver and his home to stare out the window. The leaves of a cherry tree fluttered in the pelting rain.

  “I consult about innovation,” Oliver said. “And I teach art. Sometimes to kids.”

  I kept my eyes on the cherry tree. “Kai sure had an immediate thing for you.”

  “The feeling was mutual.”

  “So, the consultations you do—are they like… art lessons for grown-ups?” I asked.

  “More like how to think around corners. How to stop fighting nature and enjoy the mess.”

  I had zero interest in fighting nature. I loved nature. And I didn’t want to learn to enjoy chaos. The relief of realizing Oliver had nothing to teach that I wanted to learn calmed me and I let the subject drop.

  The table filled as Oliver brought more to it. And then more. Butter dish with a painted cover shaped like a corn cob. Six jam jars in a metal caddy. Ceramic honey pot with a bee on the lid. Cow and farmer salt and pepper shakers. Another honey pot. Yellow platter of cut kiwis, strawberries, and mangoes.

  “Overkill much?” I said. “My forehead hurts from raising my eyebrows at the ridiculous crap you’re piling up here.”

  Oliver nudged one of the honey pots to make room for a bowl of candied ginger. “I’m setting the table.”

  “You’re making a spectacle out of setting the stage for a muffin to enter the scene.”

  It shouldn’t have, but it pleased me to see Oliver’s lips twitch with amusement.

  “Listen,” I said. “The muffins smell great. Let’s grab a couple and go. You can drop me off and come back to snack until dinnertime. Meanwhile, I’ll check in at the motel, demolish a can of beans, and flop onto a creepy bed in a small room for a fifteen-hour nap.”

  “If you think you’ll stop after one muffin, you’re more out of touch than I think you are. So… no. I prefer not to underappreciate the food.” Oliver pulled out the chair across the table from me and sat down.

  “Wow.” I faked a stunned look. “There must be a lot happening in your head.”

  “You have no idea,” Oliver whispered, softly enough that I almost didn’t hear him.

  “Also, you’re wrong,” I said. “I’m not out of touch. I’m a realist.”

  “We’re all out of touch,” he said.

  “Prove it.”

  “Okay.” Oliver sat back and folded his arms. “Do you know why you don’t have a job? I’d bet my house you have no idea why your life is in shambles.”
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  That sounded suspiciously like the questions Laura used to ask me. Questions that led to her crying and leaving the room, even though she was a life coach, because that was how far beyond coachable I was.

  “I don’t want your dung heap of a house,” I said. “No deal.”

  A timer dinged. Oliver took his private smile to the stove across the aisle from the sink. When he opened the oven door, a cloud of sweetness wreathed my head and made my stomach tighten.

  “Maybe you want to wash your hands before we eat?” Oliver set an enormous bowl of muffins on the wide windowsill, and I declared my crap day worth all the trouble.

  Before I’d finished chewing the first bite of hot muffin, I took a second bite. Mmm. White chocolate chips. Without pause, I inhaled two more muffins, one right after the other—and they weren’t small. I didn’t lift my head or pause for butter or jam or honey. I burnt my mouth. I also might have groaned. When I came out of my muffin trance to an awareness of how greedy I must seem, I forced myself to lean back and take a breath.

  “Or not.” Oliver snorted and made a show of lifting the cloth napkin from his plate, unfolding it in his lap, and slowly reaching for his first muffin.

  “Er,” I said. “Sorry?”

  He grinned. “Not a problem.”

  “I just haven’t eaten in a while.” Embarrassed, I looked around at the food crowded onto the table. “Haven’t you ever heard of protein?”

  “Lunch was only a couple of hours ago,” Oliver said. But he got up and went to the fridge, returned with a plate of crumbly cheddar cheese under a glass dome, which he managed to shove onto a corner of the table. “Don’t stop on my account. Have at it.”

  “If this isn’t lunch or dinner, what is it?” I asked.

  “Afternoon tea. It’s all about decadence.”

  “There isn’t any tea on the table.”

  “Tea is the second course.” Oliver didn’t look up from the serious work of splitting a muffin with a butter knife. With his head bent, his trim mustache almost hid his lips. If I hadn’t been staring at his face, I would have missed the quirk of his smile.

  My unwashed thumb required a severe scrub against my filthy jeans to keep from reaching across the table to stroke Oliver’s lips.

  I sighed and reached instead for a fourth muffin.

  Chapter 12

  Grant

  Tipsy as I was on muffins, I barely heard the knock at the front door.

  Oliver shoved a strawberry into his mouth and went to answer it. A brown-skinned pixie with an edge—spiky, dyed blond hair, pierced eyebrow—stomped in on a wave of words, saw me, and interrupted herself. “Oh. I saw the backpack on the porch and thought you’d be Freddie.” She looked at Oliver. “Why isn’t he Freddie?”

  “Who’s Freddie?” I asked.

  “He’s Oliver’s…” She caught Oliver’s hard stare and finished with, “Never mind. Hi. I’m Talia.”

  “You here for business or pleasure?” Oliver asked her.

  Talia hung up her coat and made a beeline for the table where I sat. She gave Oliver a sheepish look. “Business,” she said. “Aren’t we having tea with this?”

  “Tell me,” Oliver said.

  “Edward is in the slammer again.” I couldn’t tell if her sniffle was real. I wondered if I should excuse myself to give them privacy.

  “What did they nab him for this time?” Oliver asked.

  Talia shrugged and stared out the window. “Reckless endangerment? Oh, and thievery.” Her chuckle seemed inappropriate for those serious charges.

  “Isn’t this his third offense?” Oliver fetched a chair for Talia from the dining table on the other side of the kitchen area, and then a placemat and plate.

  Talia nodded. “He raced a Porsche down Bank Road. The lady pulled over and opened the car door to scold him. He shoved in and grabbed her purse. Ran off with it.”

  “Well, that wasn’t too bright of her,” Oliver said.

  I almost interrupted at that point to defend the woman in the Porsche.

  “I know.” Talia nodded. “That’s what I told the cop. He didn’t agree.” Talia’s attitude seemed harsh, considering what her—son? husband?—had done.

  “At least Edward didn’t bite her,” Talia said.

  I couldn’t keep quiet anymore. “What the hell?”

  “In Edward’s defense,” Talia said, “the woman had a bacon sandwich in her purse.”

  “Oh, fuck.” Oliver seemed to surprise himself with his peal of laughter.

  His laugh stilled me. The skin at the outer edges of his eyes folded. His shoulders shook. He scooted his chair back and turned to the side to bend over, like what Talia had said was so funny it made him weak. “She did not.”

  The proud look on Talia’s face made me say, “This doesn’t seem like a laughing matter.” I set down muffin six on my plate and wiped my fingers. “I can’t believe your… son, or whoever, who sounds like he has some real problems, did all that, and you guys are laughing about it. Edward must be—”

  “A dog.” Oliver doubled over again with laughter. “Talia’s delinquent Swiss Mountain dog.”

  “Whom I love,” Talia huffed. “Even though my particular Swissy has issues.”

  “He means well,” Oliver said, and they both snickered. “How did he escape your backyard this time?”

  Talia gave Oliver a guilty glance.

  “For heaven’s sake, Talia. It’s not Edward who needs the training. You’re too soft. It doesn’t help either of you.”

  She bowed her head. “He just wanted to go running with me. I even put him on the leash.”

  “Edward weighs more than you do, honey, so who walks whom?” A thoughtful look came over Oliver’s face. “What about what’s-his-name, down the street from you? Brian?”

  “Brian Osborn. Yeah. So?”

  “He’s a runner, and he likes dogs. When we were in high school, he volunteered at an animal shelter in Seattle. Invite him to join your new running club and hand him Edward’s leash.”

  “Uh-huh.” Talia’s eyes glazed. “Brian. Strong. Yeah, I could do that.”

  With another laugh, Oliver said, “Go easy on the guy,” and offered Talia the bowl of muffins. “What did you bring me for payment?”

  I’d had enough at that point. “Are you kidding?” I said to Oliver. “She’s your friend. Why should she have to pay you for a chat about her dog?”

  “The green flag is up at the mailbox,” Talia said. “That means visitors with problems are welcome. Payment appreciated.”

  “Payment for what, exactly? Drop-in creativity consultations?”

  Talia snorted. “Okay. Sure. I’ll bet that’s what Freddie calls it.” She shook with silent laughter.

  That made Freddie sound like Oliver’s boyfriend. My irritation rose another notch.

  “Oliver’s like a country doctor,” Talia told me. “He accepts payment in piglets and jam, but doesn’t require it.” She dismissed Oliver with a flick of her fingers. “He doesn’t need more money anyway.”

  “Must be nice,” I grumbled. A deep pang of envy pushed up from where I’d hidden it behind my disapproval of Oliver and his lifestyle. “How do you know what to pay him?”

  “That’s the fun part. Today he gets cleaning products.” She turned to Oliver. “That eco brand you like was on sale.”

  “Talia’s all about the variety,” Oliver said. “Last week it was mangos, kiwis, and strawberries.”

  “Depends on the season,” Talia mused. “In winter, I mostly pay in driveway maintenance, filling potholes, which helps me blow off steam, because of the—”

  “Because of the ferry,” Oliver said.

  Talia’s eyes narrowed and her shoulders squared. “The assholes who know how to drive, but the moment they board the ferry in the rain they become murderous—”

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nbsp; “Down, girl.” Oliver patted the air in front of Talia then pointed a finger at the floor, which made Talia blink and snort.

  “Dickhead,” she said to Oliver. “Also, kudos for using dog commands to remind me I’m human.”

  Talia and Oliver’s easy banter and friendship spotlighted yet another lack in my life. Before my internal pity party turned the air black, I needed to leave. “Excuse me. I need to go now,” I said.

  “Talia can give you a ride in a few minutes,” Oliver said.

  “Sure,” Talia said. “If he pedals my bicycle with his backpack on, I can drape over the top like a princess.”

  Oliver hadn’t even finished his first muffin, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I’d hike through the lull in the rain, fueled by muffins and cheese, until I got to a busier road. I’d sweat out my confused feelings, find comfort in the rhythm of one foot in the front of the other.

  I stood from the table and pushed in my chair. “I’ll hitch to town, or take a long walk. It’ll do me good. Um… thanks for the food.”

  “Are you sure?” Oliver asked.

  Oliver and Talia wished me good luck but didn’t try to stop me, which was a relief, as was putting a closed door between us. The effort required to lift my pack and put it on almost made me reconsider. I shuffled down the porch steps. When I passed the first curve of the driveway and could look back without seeing the neat blue house with white trim, I heaved a deep sigh.

  The music of rain on leaves was all I needed. I tried to minimize the sound of my footsteps, to hear more of the swish and swell of leaves in the breeze.

  At the end of Oliver’s driveway, I turned left onto the gravel road, one more turn away from creativity’s inexplicable, unpredictable mayhem and excess. I wanted less, not more.

  Laura had wondered about my lack of big dreams. I never told her that at the beginning of my senior year in high school the guidance counselor had literally yawned over my aptitude test results. Manual laborer or gardener. I’d been more upset by the counselor’s lack of interest than my test results. I’d snatched the paper and fled the room. After graduation, I’d fled my hometown and my parents’ relentless work ethic. In Seattle, I’d tried working at a gardening center, but hated bossing around the plants and so I’d fled that too.