by Remy Rose
“Meh. Not really. I got a raise, though—I think Stu is worried I might quit. And believe me, if I could, I would. If it wasn’t for that pesky food and rent thing...”
“Ugh, I’m sorry. Still hoping to open a café someday?”
“Yeah. Hoping, dreaming, wishing.”
“You know I’ve told you I can loan you some money toward a downpayment.”
“I know. And I love you for that. But I can’t stand the thought of taking money from my BFF, or just accepting something without being able to give back in return.”
“That doesn’t bother me at all. I wish you’d consider it.”
“Thanks, Maddie—I’ll hopefully find a way.”
“Don’t give up, Lane. We can talk more about it later. Listen, I have to let you go—I need to get a few more things at the market.”
“Okay. Do you want to come to Harry Potter trivia tonight at Margarita’s? Amanda’s going, too.”
“Ohh, I would, but I think Jack is staying for dinner. At least I hope he is.”
“Understood. Hammer time trumps girlfriend time. Fuck his brains out.”
“Delaney.”
“I mean it. I want my BFF to be happy. Seriously, I do. We’ll catch up later. Love you lots.”
“Love you lots, too.” I slip my phone in my purse and check the purchases in my basket. Red and yellow peppers and sweet onions to grill, a loaf of French bread, half dozen ears of corn...I’ll get a couple lobsters from the seafood guy and pick up some flowers to dress up the table. Maybe a bag of mixed greens for a salad, with my homemade vinaigrette dressing. Jack says since he’s met me, he’s eaten more vegetables in the last few weeks than in all his life. I remember how his eyes looked when he said that—crinkling around the edges and glowing with warm affection, like he appreciated me looking out for his health.
It’s because I care about you, I had told him, and broke eye contact with him before anything got awkward. I don’t want to scare him, even though I know he won’t stay anyway. It’s funny; at the beginning, I was the one who was cautious. But now...I feel like I could keep on this same path, to see where it takes us.
If only Jack would want to walk with me.
Madeline. My inner voice berates me, and rightfully so. Shut up. Seriously. You are sounding pathetic. Enjoy the flirting, his company, and of course the sex, but be ready to let him go.
You don’t have a choice.
Maybe that’s what I’m having a tough time with—that it’s out of my hands.
Something tells me that it’s more than that.
“Miss? Did you want to buy those?” A college-age girl with two long braids and a nose ring is smiling at me expectantly. I realize that I’ve been standing in front of her holding a bunch of wildflowers in my hand, probably looking like I was in la-la land.
“Yes! Sorry.” I smile and hastily reach into my purse for cash. After paying, I walk down the row of stands, soaking up the fiery colors of peppers, the frilly bursts of flowers, the easy words of people with summer on their tongues, and I think, this. This is what I need to be focusing on. The here and now, with no glance in the rearview mirror or worry for what might lie ahead. The present, which right now includes Jack, who is probably almost done for the day.
But Jack, if I have my way...you’re not done for the night.
Chapter 23 ~ Jack
August 14
Did you know you can shut your eyes and still see someone else’s? You can. I know this, because when I was trying to go to sleep last night, I kept seeing Madeline’s: large and shining, the color of dark chocolate—eyes that can go from vulnerable and pleading to burning with pure lust in a split second. When we were saying our good nights, I stared into them under the flickering light above her garage, and what those eyes were doing to me was so intense, I had to think about boring basic things like picking up a replacement bulb for the flickering light, or else I would have lost my shit. Especially since I was still feeling the effects of fucking her. Especially since every time, it gets better, and like I want to take her again as soon as I’m physically able.
The sex Wednesday night—it was un-fucking-believable. We were sitting on her patio drinking a couple beers after dinner, with the fire pit going. We were talking about states we’d visited, she was looking comfortable and relaxed leaning back in the chaise lounge with her hair draped down her shoulder, and I was taking in the sight of her with the orange glow of the fire illuminating her like she was some kind of angel. She was telling me about her trip to Arizona last winter to visit her parents, and I’ll be honest, I started looking at her rather than listening to her—watching the curve of her lips as she smiled, and definitely the curve of her breasts under her tank top. When she paused in her story to take a sip of beer, I fixated on that beautiful mouth on the top of the bottle, and suddenly the bottle became my cock. I got this major urge to take her, right then—got out of my chair without a word, took her drink out of her hands, set it on the patio floor and climbed on top of her, unbuttoning my pants before I started to kiss her. She didn’t protest at all, which was even more of a turn-on, because I know Madeline Callaway is not the type to be into having sex outside, where someone might see. The night was calm and still, the only sounds being the little snaps and pops of the fire, my heavy breathing and her tiny little gasps, which made me fuck her harder.
I know she wanted me to stay—I could see it in her eyes—and I quickly kissed her goodnight and walked to my truck before she saw that I didn’t want to leave her.
If she’d had the chance to ask me, I would have stayed.
I’m over at Ed’s again today. His house is under contract, and the home inspection came up with a couple items that needed attention: drippy faucet in the downstairs bathroom, which was an easy fix—replacing the O-ring in the faucet cartridge. The other thing was a sticky door in one of the bedrooms, so I drove a long jam screw through the top of the hinge and brought it back in line. So that should wrap up what I need to do for Ed. I’m really gonna miss this gentleman.
He’s in a talkative mood today. Seems a little anxious, like he’s got a lot on his mind, which I’m sure he does. He asks me twice if I’d like to have a cup of coffee, and I answer yes both times. It’s breezy but not too hot today, so we sit on his back deck at the glass-topped table and cushioned chairs, with our mugs and a plate of blueberry muffins which taste like store-bought (Callaway has definitely spoiled me).
“So, Ed—congratulations on the sale pending.”
He nods, lifting his mug to his thin lips. “It’s a good thing.”
“Mixed feelings, though, right?”
“Most certainly, Mr. Decker. Although with every box I pack, this place is feeling less like home.” He pauses to take another sip of his coffee. “Truth be told, I hate to leave.” His voice quavers. “I feel Marian here, and I don’t want to lose that.”
I have no clue what to say, but I feel like I should say something. “That must be very comforting for you, sir.”
“Yes. It has been.”
“She’ll follow you, Ed. I know she will.” As I say the words, I’m pretty amazed to find out I actually believe them.
He gives me a small smile. He seems to have aged since the last time I saw him. His face looks a little thinner, and his hair’s hanging down his forehead instead of combed back like it usually is.
“My Marian,” he sighs. “She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. We met at a department store in Bangor as teenagers. I was a stock boy, and she worked at the soda fountain. She always said I kept coming back for her ice cream sundaes—she used to give me extra whipped cream and two cherries—but it was her dimples. And maybe also the sundaes.” He chuckles, and it turns into a cough.
Grinning, I break off a piece of my muffin. “Sounds like she knew you pretty well, even early on.”
“She did. We clicked, you know. Like a key in a lock—she opened up my heart, and I was a goner.” He clears his throat a few times. “You’re a han
dsome fellow, Mr. Decker. I trust you have someone special in your life?”
I swallow, the muffin sticking in my throat, so I wash it down with coffee. “I don’t do that.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“I don’t do relationships. I’ve been burned in the past.”
“Ah. So you’ve given up on love.”
“I guess you could say that.” I realize he’s headed down an avenue I usually like to keep blocked, but surprisingly, I’m not getting up from the table or trying to change the subject.
Why am I not getting up from the table or trying to change the subject? And why do I say what I say next?
“There’s this—girl I’ve been kind of seeing. She’s really great. But it’s just going to be a short term thing.”
“Because you don’t do relationships.”
“Right.”
“If you don’t mind me saying so, that sounds like quite a lonely existence, Mr. Decker.”
“I understand how it might look that way, sir. But I’ve made sort of a deal with myself. And I’m doing all right with things the way they are.”
Ed brushes a few crumbs off the table into his hand and drops them onto the plate. “You’re a young man, but I don’t want you to be fooled by the illusion of time, and I don’t want you to have regrets. How old are you?”
“Almost twenty-eight, sir.”
“Ah, to be twenty-eight again.” There’s a gleam in his pale eyes, like he’s remembering. “Did I ever tell you the butterfly story?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Marian and I were watching a PBS special one day. I think it was the mid-1980’s. Now before you get any ideas, our lives were not sitting in front of the TV watching nature programs, mind you.”
I laugh. “All right, Ed. I believe you.”
“I’ll be honest...we were in a bit of a rut coming up on our twentieth wedding anniversary, and for me, the days were grinding along in this seemingly endless string of days. I was a professor at Bates and had just been named department head. Quite full of myself, and I’m ashamed to say I’d lost sight of what was most important to me. What really mattered…Marian, my son Garrett. I was putting most all of my time into work—staying late at my office, holding meetings that really weren’t all that important, reading in my study at home instead of talking to my wife and boy, submitting articles for publication out of sheer vanity.” He frowns and shakes his head. “Well, Marian and I were watching that show about butterflies and their life cycle, and it struck me that she was awful quiet. A few days after that was our anniversary, and we exchanged gifts. I gave her flowers and a silver charm bracelet, and she gave me something much more meaningful.” Ed gets up from his chair stiffly and walks into the house. A few minutes later, he comes back to the table, holding out a wobbly hand. “This is what she gave me.”
I take the object from him carefully. It’s a butterfly made out of crystal—heavy and delicate at the same time, its wings open and frozen in flight. The prism effect throws little rainbows all over the table.
“Marian never liked confrontations. If she was upset about something, she’d let me know in a gentle way. She put a little card in the box and wrote that she hoped the butterfly would be a ‘crystal clear’ reminder of how fleeting and precarious life is. The show we’d watched had mentioned that the average butterfly species live only a couple of weeks, and only a fraction of larvae even make it to adulthood.” Ed pauses. “She added a note that said twenty years, which was how long we’d been married, felt like a butterfly lifetime. That’s all she needed to say. She made me realize that human life, too, is but a blink, and that I needed to focus on what was most important. Family. Love.”
He leans forward, his filmy eyes intense with feeling. “What I’m trying to say in a very roundabout way is, Mr. Decker, is don’t be a fool like I was and take for granted what’s most precious in life. Your family relationships, like your father and brother. And having a relationship with someone special. Fortunately, I learned my lesson before any real damage was done, and I guess the teacher in me wants to pass it along, because I like you.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m honored.” I set the butterfly carefully on the table. “And might I add that Marian was one lucky woman.”
He waves a hand at me like he’s not used to taking compliments, but he’s smiling. Marian was totally right: time does go by so fast, because it’s like I blinked and I’m done working for Ed.
And tomorrow, I’ll be wrapping things up for my favorite client.
If someone could invent a pause button for my life, I’d appreciate it.
Chapter 24 ~ Madeline
August 15
Even though it’s Saturday and I usually sleep in (if Murphy will let me), I’m awake at six-thirty. I make coffee, eat half a banana, do a yoga workout, change over my laundry, pay some bills, water my potted flowers, try not to think. I’m still restless at 8:30, so I throw on a tank and shorts, lace up my sneakers and go for a run down past the beach area of Newbury Neck. People are setting up oversized striped umbrellas and staking out their spots with Coleman coolers and beach towels, and all of them look like their only worry is whether they’ll get enough of a tan today.
I wish that was my major source of stress.
Jack is finishing the bathroom today—right on schedule. Most clients would appreciate their contractor getting the project done on time, of course, but most people probably aren’t having the most amazing sex of their lives with the hottest handyman on the planet.
He’s coming over around 3:00-ish, after he helps his friend Owen finish building a shed. He still needs to hang the mirror, put up towel racks, toilet paper holder—things like that. He mentioned paint touch-ups, but I haven’t spotted one blemish. Everything looks absolutely perfect, from the tropical blue wall color to the suede gray shower tile he suggested. The big soaker tub will be heaven on cold winter nights—I have plans for a cozy fringe of Boston ferns, aloe and candles—and the white vessel sink (another one of Jack’s ideas) makes a classy, unique statement.
So I will have my luxurious spa-style bathroom.
But I will lose Jack.
As I’m cooling down from my run, the jangle of my phone jars me from my thoughts. I wipe my sweaty hand on my shorts and look at the incoming call and escalate from depressed into pissed. What the fucking fuck?
It’s Paul. Again.
I decline the call, and seconds later, he tries again. My blood is boiling. I answer with a low, voice, because there is a young mother walking past me with the most adorable baby boy in a stroller, and I don’t want to scare them by screaming obscenities. Even though my ex deserves my full wrath, at this point.
“What is it you think you’re accomplishing with this?” I hiss through clenched teeth. “How much clearer can I make it that I don’t want you contacting me?”
“Linnie.” He uses his nickname for me and my stomach twists, because that was a lifetime ago. “I’m calling to tell you that Corey was in a car accident.”
My heart freezes. Corey is one of our best friends from college—free-spirit, long-haired Corey with his easy laugh and mischievous blue eyes, who moved out to LA after graduation to pursue an acting career. We’ve kept in sporadic touch, but he’s one of those people you will always feel close to, regardless of the distance or the passage of time. As I’m trying to process this, I get a text from Delaney with a sad face emoji: Did you see on Facebook about Corey?
“Oh my God, Paul,” I manage. “Is he...”
“He’s alive. Ended up with a broken leg, ribs, concussion and some nasty road rash. He was rollerblading and got hit by a teenage girl who was texting. I just got off the phone with his sister. He’s going to need surgery for his leg, but fortunately, he should recover fine. I thought you’d want to know.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Of course I would. Thank you.”
“Lin...”
Jesus, don’t use this, Paul. Please be above using
this. Don’t go there.
“Hearing about Corey brought me back to those good times we had in college—lots of great memories, with you.”
He went there.
“I’d like to take you out for a drink so we could just talk about things.”
“No. But thank you for telling me about Corey. I’ll follow up with him.” I end the call with a very forceful finger and text Laney back before I walk home, taking deep breaths of the warm salty air to soothe my stress.
At 11:45, I get on Corey’s Facebook, read the encouraging posts from friends and relatives and add one of my own. There is an update from his sister thanking everyone on his behalf and adding that he’s in good spirits, is flirting with his nurse and will be having surgery later today.
At noon, I make a salad with mandarins and cranberries for lunch and discover that I can’t eat it, so I put it in the fridge, pour myself a glass of Chardonnay and sit at the kitchen table with the newspaper while Murphy twists himself around my bare legs.
At 12:30, I walk down to the ocean and wade in to my knees. Today, the water is a rich navy blue tipped with white froth. I wave to a power boat slicing through the waves and watch a pair of cormorants dip down to the sea in hopes of snagging a small mackerel.
At 1:05, I go back up to the house and take a leisurely shower—using the guest bathroom, since Jack made me promise not to use the new one until he was completely finished. Shave silky smooth (everywhere), apply baby powder and generous deodorant because my sweat glands will be working overtime given my nerves, then put on a casual yet romantic summer dress—white cotton, off-the-shoulder, above the knee American Eagle—and neaten up my bedroom.
At 1:40, I call my mom to wish her a happy birthday and see if she got the blueberry jam and Maine cookbook I sent, and then because it’s her birthday, I tell her that I am having someone over for dinner tonight. Judging from her reaction, she likes the male better than the mail.
At 2:00, I tell myself not to keep checking the time.
