“Don’t even tell me you found Jesus or something.”
The swallow reflex kicked in. His Adam’s apple sank down his throat. But there was no other way to say it. “More like He found me.”
She cast him a doubtful look.
“I know, I know. But it’s the truth. And that’s why I took my aunt up on her offer, why I keep the shop. It’s a safe place for me. Not very ambitious. Nothing heroic. I guess I wasn’t destined for greatness.”
She looked at him for a long time, and Clay got the feeling she was about to bolt. But then she said, “You know what? I think the world has enough greatness. Not enough goodness. That’s my theory.”
And then they were smiling at each other. And he realized it was the first time anybody had ever smiled after all that explanation.
Then he sneezed.
“You’re doing it again,” she said.
Another sneeze. Great.
“You’re allergic to me, aren’t you?”
“Not you.” Clay bent down to put the disposal back together, sneezing all the way through. He stood, wiping his eyes, trying not to sneeze again.
“You’re allergic to cats,” she said.
Clay reached for the disposal switch. It roared to life. “You’re all fixed.”
“I am? That was fast. Are you sure? My therapist said it would take years.”
She was fun. Clay grabbed his toolbox. Amber opened the door for him and stepped aside. He went down one step and turned to find that she’d already slipped into the apartment, standing at the screen door, watching him.
“Good night,” she said. “And thanks for coming at this late hour to fix my . . . my . . .”
“Disposal.”
“Yeah. That. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He walked down the rest of the steps. He heard her close the door. At the bottom, he looked up, hoping she might open it again. But all was quiet.
Except the clamoring of his heart. And the ticking sound that never went away.
AS THEY ALWAYS DID after a good game of one-on-one at the college after work, they finished with a game of horse. There were very few people Clay would confide in, but David was one of them, mostly because he was a straight shooter, on and off the court.
Still, Amber wasn’t easy to talk about. Of course, he knew there was no use hiding what he felt from David. He’d probably seen it before Clay had.
“I think,” David said, “you think too much. Now, shoot that ball. We’ve only got fifteen minutes left.”
Clay shot and missed. The ball thumped to the ground and bounced to the fence. David laughed.
“See what happens when you hurry things?” Clay said, watching David retrieve the ball. “Fact: most people know more about someone after a job interview for delivering pizzas than they—”
David stalked back to the court. “Hurry things. Hurry things?” He shot Clay a look. “Whatcha got?”
“H-O-R.”
David found a spot at the top of the key. “Mama called it ‘paralysis by analysis.’”
He shot the ball and it swished through the net. Clay grabbed it and headed toward the spot where David stood.
“I’m not sure if . . . I mean, I don’t have to have someone. You shouldn’t . . .” Clay sighed. “I’m trying to say that I do fine on my own.”
“Oh yeah. You got it going on.” David shook his head. “Just shoot.”
Clay missed again. He walked to retrieve the ball. “What do I really know about her? I just want to be smart.”
“You’re so smart you’re an idiot. S, by the way. Throw me the ball.”
Clay tossed it to him.
“Quit looking for a formula.”
Clay wiped his face with his shirt. “She’s just not . . . what I expected.”
“Good.”
“So you think I should . . . ?”
David slapped him on the shoulder. “I’m done talking about this. You’re either going to go for it or not. Either do it or don’t.” He shot and missed. “See that? I knew you were rubbing off on me!”
Clay sat on the concrete bench off to the side of the court.
“Come on, man. Aren’t we gonna finish the game?” David asked from under the basket.
“Lisa’s really happy, isn’t she?”
David walked over and sat next to him. “Seems to be.”
“What should I do?”
David gave him a tired glance. “Clay, why are you asking me what you should do? Ask your theory what you should do. That’s what drives you every morning when you get out of bed. That’s what sleeps next to you every night. It doesn’t matter what I think.” He ruffled Clay’s hair and stood, grabbing his bag.
Clay’s phone, which sat on the other side of the bench, dinged.
David raised an eyebrow. “Did you just get a text message?”
“What? I text.”
“No, I text. You. And I’m standing right here. So . . . ?”
Clay picked up the phone, laughed, and glanced at David. “It’s nothing. It’s . . . Her refrigerator broke.”
David threw his hands up. “You smile over a fridge breaking? Dude, I will never be able to understand you. I will, however, beat you tomorrow. Same time.”
David walked toward the university building that housed his office. Clay grabbed his bag and hurried off. He was in desperate need of a shower.
Thirty minutes later, he was climbing the steps, toolbox in hand. The sun was setting and the orange hues of the last light encircled Amber as she sat at the top of the stairs. She’d pulled out a chair and had a blanket around her shoulders. When Clay got to the top, he could see that she was drinking hot chocolate with mini marshmallows on top.
“Here,” she said and dropped a tiny hot-pink pill into his hand.
“What’s this?”
“Allergy medicine.”
Clay glanced at Mr. Joe, who was pawing at the screen. “So the fridge . . .”
“Yeah, I don’t know. I mean, it’s out. Luckily I didn’t have much food in there.”
Clay walked inside, gently shutting the screen door. He set his toolbox down and for the first time noticed a large glass jar sitting on the counter. It had a few dollars in it, only about a quarter full. He went to the sink and took the pill, cupping his hand for water.
“Saving up for something?” he asked as he tried to scoot the fridge out from the wall.
“Gas money.”
“That’s it?”
“Just a jar.”
He glanced at her as he got the fridge pulled out. “That’s not much of a story.”
She only shrugged, sipped her hot chocolate, watched him.
He started grabbing the tools he thought he might need. “You know, the stories are my favorite part of what I do. Folks rarely drop off dusty lamps or family heirlooms without telling a story, the ‘why’ under the surface that gives those things meaning. No matter how faded or everyday they appear, everything has a story.”
She smiled, a playful grin that seemed to say she knew more than she was saying. “I agree.”
“You do?”
“That’s why I have that.” She pointed to the other side of the kitchen—to a large, cork bulletin board on the wall. Clay walked over to see it better. It was covered with pictures, mementos. Quotes.
“I’ve lived in fourteen states so far,” she said. “And I try to keep in touch with at least one person from every place I’ve been.”
“‘Love is the only gold,’” he read from one of the quotes at the top.
“Tennyson. Alfred, Lord Tennyson.”
“Oh yeah. Al. He’s great.”
“I collect famous quotes, in case you didn’t notice.”
Clay read another. “‘We make a living by what we get. We make a life by what we give.’”
She smiled. “Winston Churchill.”
“What’s this under the quote? This list?”
“It’s all the things I’ve done to try to live tha
t way.”
Clay leaned closer, reading.
Let cars merge onto the highway.
Carry someone’s groceries.
Pay for a soldier’s meal.
Pay someone’s toll behind me.
Give up the parking space.
Give away my coupons.
Forgive.
Tell someone they’re pretty.
The list went on. His eyes roamed the rest of the bulletin board. It was delightful and disorganized, worthy but messy. It was like he was staring right into what made her tick.
He nudged a drawing of a rainbow so it was straight.
“Hands off the rainbow,” she said.
He returned to the fridge.
“The first time I read that quote by Tennyson, I was at a high school football game. Home game. Our team was the Fighting Quakers.”
Clay laughed. “Fighting Quakers. You’re serious.”
“We had a Quaker for a mascot and everything. Red and black were the school colors. I played French horn in the marching band. Stood right behind Jeff Furbay, who, for the record, I had a major crush on. The game was boring. Not even close. So I read. Did homework. It was third quarter. Two minutes left. Snow was starting to fall. I was sipping hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows.” She paused and lifted her mug in a cheers motion. “And then I read that.”
Clay paused, turned to look at her. “And?”
“And what?”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah. That’s the story behind the quote. You said you liked stories.” She grinned; then her eyes drifted to the jar on the counter. “When the jar is full, I know I have enough.”
“For what?”
“To get far enough away if I need to. Make a fresh start. Go where the wind takes me. Follow the warm fuzzies.”
Clay returned to studying the back of the fridge. “Life isn’t just warm fuzzies.”
“It isn’t just rules either, religioso.”
Clay peeked out from behind the fridge. That was funny.
“And besides, it’s how I ended up here. I hit empty on County Line Road.”
Was this girl for real? “You’re kidding me. You just packed your car full of everything you owned and started driving until you ran out of gas?”
At that moment the breeze rippled her blouse, then caught her hair, lifting it up and out. It seemed like she could float away right there in front of him, tail to the wind. The whole image flew in the face of the measured preciseness to which he clung so tightly. So . . . religiously.
She was watching him as he climbed out of his thoughts. “Now that’s a story,” he said.
“Since we’re into stories . . . ,” Amber said, waving her cast. “My last boyfriend didn’t want me to wear nail polish. I did.”
“So he broke your hand?”
“He didn’t mean to. But he did.” For the first time, she wasn’t looking into the apartment but staring away, out into the darkening sky. “Once was enough for me.”
“No nail polish.” Clay tried to wrap his mind around it.
“Yeah,” she said, her playful tone back. “Sounds like something you’d come up with.”
“Depends on the color.”
“It was clear.”
He laughed. They both did. Then they slowly settled, the laughter dying, but it seemed neither wanted it to.
“Anyway, he was nothing like you.” She shadowboxed the air with her free hand. “My one and only fight. I lost.”
“No. He did. He lost.”
Her hand dropped to her side. She looked like she was about to cry, the kind of cry that comes from a deep compliment.
Clay cleared his throat. He didn’t want her to cry. “Well, I better get to this.” He squatted behind the fridge and for the first time noticed the wires. They were dangling from the back like they’d been yanked out. He moved his head a little to look at Amber again. She blinked innocently. He returned to behind the fridge, where he couldn’t suppress a smile for a good five minutes.
Over the next week, the faucet handle on her bathtub mysteriously lost a screw. Then she blew a fuse, twice. A panel from the wood floor inexplicably popped up. Her window got jammed. And then, on Saturday, the screen door fell off.
Though he’d climbed the stairs a dozen times, this time his feet felt heavy as he looked at the screen door leaning against the doorframe. He knew she was just inside. Waiting for him.
Clay got to the top and there she was, smiling as iridescently as sunlight bouncing off ocean water.
He set his toolbox on the stoop. “You’re wearing me down, woman.”
Amber lifted her hand. The cast was gone.
“Hey!”
“All better.”
He looked at the screen, surveyed the situation, then returned his attention to her. “How did the door get off its hinges?”
“Why haven’t you asked me out yet?”
He kept his gaze on her. “Doors don’t just fall off their hinges.”
She stepped closer to him. And he stepped closer too—there wasn’t a door in the world he wouldn’t open for this girl at this moment.
Clay looked down at their feet. They stood on either side of the threshold, the toes of their shoes just inches apart.
“Hint, hint,” she whispered.
He could feel her breath—cinnamon. His chest rose and fell and there was no stopping it. He didn’t even try. He didn’t want to try to stop any of it.
He nudged his feet one inch closer to hers. She did the same. She was so close, looking up into his eyes, her brown hair falling away from her face, her arms clasped behind her back, her eyes reflecting more light than the sun was providing.
“If I do ask you out, will you stop breaking things?”
Amber nodded vaguely, not completely admitting to her evil deeds.
It all felt so right. And so out of control. The words of those who loved him rushed to his thoughts. He could hear them practically chanting in the air. But crashing into the enthusiasm were all the hateful words he’d heard his parents scream at each other. On an October night, two days before Halloween, they’d wished each other dead.
It wouldn’t be until years later, but a woman would one day say those exact words to him.
And right in front of him was this beautiful girl, wavy hair trickling down her back like a waterfall. He nudged his shoe once more. She came closer too. When was the last time he felt so breathless?
“My rules,” he said quietly. “My way.”
She nodded sincerely. “Okay, stress boy. Okay.”
IT WAS A LONG DEBATE with Mr. Joe, but after several attempts at dressing safe and sexy, Amber decided to just go with safe. Stress boy had enough on his mind without having to deal with her thighs. Which, she thought, were a nice blend of strength and tone. But that was neither here nor there.
The weird thing about it all was that she didn’t have to worry. She was pretty sure she could show up in a T-shirt and sweats and he’d be fine with it. In the end, she threw on a simple cotton dress and a jacket—an old standby that had gotten her through lots of different circumstances: job interviews, car breakdowns, slow dances . . .
Clay came to the door and got her, as she suspected he would. This wasn’t the kind of guy who was going to honk his horn and wait at the bottom of the stairs. He opened the door to his old pickup, which had a lot of charm to it, she had to admit. It rumbled and purred like Mr. Joe when he was hungry.
But what happened next, she never saw coming. How could anyone see it coming? Sure, she’d tried not to get her hopes up about this being an overly romantic date. The guy seemed to have aversion to romance. She thought he might choose something really docile, like a petting zoo. Or a G-rated movie. Possibly kayaking—that way he could keep a good paddle’s distance away from her. But this?
He did have a nice sense of humor. Maybe it was a joke.
Amber gazed up at the sign. “You’re kidding, right?”
Clay checked his watch. “We’r
e right on time.”
“You’re not joking, are you?”
He only smiled and opened the door of the Agape Counseling Center for her.
Agape? She didn’t know how to pronounce it, much less what it meant.
Inside, there was a small waiting room with nobody waiting. And then they were directed to Dr. Stuart’s office.
“Come in, please. Sit down.” He gestured broadly to the two chairs in front of his stately, methodically organized desk. Amber noticed Clay admiring it. Several framed diplomas lined the walls. Bookshelves squeezed to specification sat behind him. A leathery, spotted scalp divided two white tufts of hair, one above each of his temples. His round body was stuffed into a maroon sweater vest and dark slacks. His expensive leather chair squeaked with the tiniest movement, so he folded his hands on his desk, made a steeple with his fingers, and stretched a joyless smile across his paunchy face. She’d been wrong before about people, but the way he blinked at them made her feel like he had a superiority complex. Or a tic.
On his desk sat a pile of books. Amber picked one up because it was offered there like a bowl of chocolate candy. Red, Yellow, Green—Your Guide to Marriage Compatibility. Unbelievably, it had a traffic light on the cover. And it looked like a workbook.
“Clay, Amber, this is truly such a wise choice,” Dr. Stuart began. “Very mature. Discerning. So first, let me simply affirm your prudent decision to take solemnly the idea of holy matrimony.” He looked at them both. “Have you set a date yet?”
Amber kept staring straight forward, focused on the little ceramic church sitting on the corner of the desk, wishing she could crawl right inside it.
“Hm?” Dr. Stuart nudged. “How long have you been engaged?”
“We’re not,” Clay said. “We just met.”
Amber shifted her eyes to the counselor, who, not surprisingly, looked surprised. But he proceeded to the workbook and all the steps they were going to need to take in order to assure themselves a solid, functioning, long-term marriage.
“And happy?” Amber asked.
“What?” Dr. Stuart said, looking up from the book.
“Is happiness guaranteed? You know, if we pass the traffic-light test here.”
Old Fashioned Page 9
