“And totally mess up my life again by going back to the very thing I left? No. Thank. You.”
“Wow.” She stares at me, her blue eyes narrowed and evaluating. “I never realized it before, but you can be really stubborn sometimes.”
“And this from the woman whose husband doesn’t know she left him.”
Ella opens her mouth to say something back, but stops and lets out a small laugh.
“We’re a hell of a pair, Car,” she says, grabbing the bag of Doritos out of my hand and diving in. “We should take this act on the road.”
***
Ella and I spend a quiet evening at home, eating ice cream and talking things to death. We decide that my fledgling relationship with Will is an exciting new start, and that her marriage is just going through the classic first year bumps. Before she leaves the next morning, she promises to call me when she gets home, and makes me promise to call the guy from the independent station. We hug tightly before she takes off, and I watch her walk away until the foliage overtakes the path and she disappears. I go inside, tuck the piece of paper away in the front of my phone book, stick it in a drawer and decide to think about it later.
Work is work. I stock shelves, I ring up customers, and I gossip with Janesse. Best of all, when I leave, I don’t think about it anymore. I’m not loaded with tapes or worrying about scripts I have to write or how we’re going to do in sweeps, or anything. My mind is free and clear, and I like it. Ella may not understand, but there are some great benefits to being a clerk at an art supply store. As I walk on the path back to my little cabin in the foothills, I form all my arguments about why I won’t be calling the guy from the independent station, why I don’t want to work in television, why I’m happy with my re-imagined life. My mind is swirled up in the hurricane fury of my thoughts when I emerge into the clearing, and it takes me a moment before I realize there’s music playing. I look up and see lights on in Will’s cabin, and my heart skips. I sneak up on the porch and peek in the front window. Will is in an apron, cooking over his stove, dancing and singing to the Jackson 5’s “I Want You Back,” and he’s awful. Off the beat, off-key, and I’ve never seen anything more adorable in my life. I sneak back off the porch and go to my place, where there’s a note tacked to my door that just simply says, Call me when you get home.
I grab my cell phone from my bag and dial. After a ring or two, the music lowers and I hear Will’s voice on the other end.
“You’re back,” I say.
“I’m back. Where are you?”
“On my porch.”
He pokes his head out his front door and we look at each other for a moment.
“Nice apron,” I say.
He smiles. I can see it even from my porch and it makes my insides get all zingy. “So, you coming over or what?”
“Give me five minutes.”
We each hang up and go back inside our cabins. I rush through the cabin, brushing my teeth and my hair at the same time, then jumping into a fresh pair of jeans and my only nice sweater, a creamy cable knit. I do a light mascara/lip gloss touch up and rush out the door, then turn back to grab my purse, in which I have two just-in-case condoms. It’s still very early and I doubt we’ll use them, but knowing they’re present and ready makes me feel all tingly, and I like it.
I’ve barely knocked on his door when it opens. He’s lost the apron, his hair is still in a thousand directions but cutely so, and he looks really good in his dark blue long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.” I’m trying to put a damper on my smile because my face is starting to ache, but I can’t help it. He touches my shoulder lightly to guide me inside and then swipes his hands on his thighs as he heads toward the kitchenette.
“Um, I’m not a great cook, but I thought maybe I’d try to whip up something. It’s just spaghetti. Probably inedible.”
“It smells great,” I say, but to be honest, I haven’t noticed. Instead, I find myself watching him move with that tall, lanky grace and I accept that I am so far gone in this crush that I’m probably never coming back.
He grabs a bottle of wine off the counter. “Can I pour you some wine?”
“Yes. Please.”
He pours two glasses, puts the sauce on simmer and we settle on the couch.
“So, did you have a good weekend?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Ella stopped by.”
“Ella? Really?”
“She had a fight with Greg, so she came down here and we made up and actually had a pretty nice time.”
“She had a fight with Greg?” Will says. “Everything okay there?”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, it’s fine. He didn’t even know she left him.”
Will’s eyes widen in surprise. “She left him? I thought you said they just had a fight.”
“No. They did. It’s a long story. It’s just… Ella.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
The comment makes me feel a little tense, and I can see by his face that my internal reaction is obvious. He puts his wineglass on the coffee table. “I mean, she used to get upset with me and I would never know. She never said anything. It was crazy.”
There’s an awkward silence. I sip my wine. Will sighs.
“Is it going to be weird, that Ella and I used to date? Maybe we should talk about it.”
“No,” I say, “I think it’s okay. It just takes some getting used to. It was a long time ago, and she’s fine with it, so really, I think it’s okay.”
A small smile spreads over Will’s face. “You told her about us?”
I can feel my face heating up. Crap. “Well. Kinda. I, uh… have this painting I bought of yours and she noticed it so I kinda mentioned…” I giggle like an idiot, beg myself internally to shut up, and yet keep going. “Not that there’s anything to tell, really, yet, but you two dated so… you know. It’s a little weird. But not very. She’s fine with it. I’m fine with it.” I meet his eye. “Are you fine with it?”
Will smiles and leans a little closer, looking into my eyes as he speaks. “Yeah. I’m fine with it. You seem a little nervous, though.”
“Oh,” I say. “I thought I was hiding it so well.”
He reaches up and touches my chin, turning my face toward him a bit.
“If it helps, I’m a little nervous, too.”
“It helps.” I smile up into his eyes. “Nervousness loves company, right?”
He watches me for a moment. “I think maybe there’s something we need to get out of the way so we can relax.”
“Yeah, what’s that?” I ask as he leans toward me. His lips whisper over mine and the kiss is sweet and light, but I still feel dizzy when he pulls away, a light smile on his face as his eyes catch mine.
“Is that better?” he asks.
“Mmmm,” I say, nodding.
He puts one hand on the couch behind me and lightly grazes his fingers over my hair and then there’s another kiss, this one longer and even more dizzy-making. I’ve been kissed a fair amount of times in my life, but I’ve never been made dizzy before. I didn’t know it was possible. When he pulls away, I emit a small, inadvertent whine.
“Sorry.” He gives a self-conscious laugh. I adore it. “I was planning on feeding you before we got to this, I swear.”
“It’s okay,” I say, although I’m not sure if I’m audible over the crazy pounding in my chest. All I want is for him to touch me again. I don’t care where. The elbow’s fine. But he’s got a look on his face like he doesn’t want me to think he’s just out for sex and I don’t want him to think I’m a slut and yet we’re sitting with our faces inches apart and neither one of us is moving away.
“Maybe we should talk for a while,” I say helpfully.
He nods, leans back a bit. “Sure. Talk. Good idea.”
I sit up, smooth out my sweater, and reach for my wine.
“So, maybe tell me about your family?” I say, and at the same time Will says, “What painting?”
I star
e at him for a moment, then realize what he’s asking. “Oh. Yeah. Um, I got it the day I got here. The one with the girl with her hands over her face and you can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying?” I giggle nervously. Good God. I sound more like a fifteen-year-old than ever. “Ella saw it and recognized your style. She said it was of me, but that’s crazy, right? Because we didn’t even know each other when—”
I catch the expression on his face and stop talking.
“Oh. Wow.” I take a sip of wine, then turn back to face him. “It’s me?”
“Um. Well.” He gives an awkward laugh. “Yeah. I went down to the Café to get it after you moved to town and it was gone, so I just figured I’d dodged the bullet, you know?” He stares at me for a minute, his expression wary. “You think I’m gonna put you in a pit and lower lotion down to you in a basket, don’t you?”
“Not until you said that,” I say, laughing. “It’s… you know, sure. A little weird, but—”
He pivots on the couch to face me.
“Look, I paint things that catch my imagination. That day, at the wedding, you were…” He watches me for a moment, and I can see the internal debate playing in his eyes before he finally talks again. “You were so strong and in charge and yet there was this part of you that just seemed… I don’t know. Vulnerable. And after that I couldn’t get you out of my head, so I painted you.”
“And then I was out of your head?”
He laughs. “Until you showed up in my bed, yeah. Since then…” He sighs and trails off. “Are you freaked out?”
I smile. “Only by my apparent narcissism.”
“Good.” He smiles back. “And, just so you know, your narcissism is kinda freaking me out, too.”
“So, what happened in New York?” I say suddenly, and just as suddenly regret it. His face goes tight, and he leans away from me a bit.
“Ella told you about New York?”
“Well, a little,” I say, suddenly very unsure of myself. “I mean, she said something about Granny Smith apples and Andy Warhol.”
He is quiet for a while, just staring into his wineglass. Then he shakes his head. “Yeah. Well, it was a dumb thing to do.”
“Why?”
He takes a breath to say something, then stops himself and shakes his head, saying nothing. I turn my body sideways to face him.
“Is that why you don’t really paint much anymore? Because things didn’t work out in New York?”
He shrugs, and his voice takes on a hint of defensiveness. “I paint. I just… you know, I had to make a living. You can’t spend all your life chasing down some stupid dream that’s never gonna pan out. There comes a point where you have to grow up.”
I put my hand on his arm. “It’s not stupid. You’re an amazing artist.”
He lets out a derisive snort. “Well. That’s all a matter of opinion, isn’t it?” He stares into his wineglass for a moment more, and then a cringe takes over his face. “I’m acting like such an asshole. I’m sorry.” He raises his eyes to mine. “I guess it’s still a bit of a sore spot.”
“No, I totally understand,” I say. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” he says, lifting up my fingers and putting them to his lips for a quick kiss, “but it’s nice of you to say. And, to answer your question, what happened is this: I had a showing in Tucson, and a moderately successful Broadway actress saw it and loved it. A week later, I got a call from New York from someone she knew, and they asked me to do a showing at a gallery in SoHo.” He takes a sip of his wine, his eyes still on my fingers which rest lazily in his hand. “Which is not the real Big big-time, but it was a hell of a lot bigger than Tucson. So, like an idiot I packed up everything I could fit in a suitcase, sold everything else, and went out there like a big, dumb dog. In about three weeks, I ran out of money and the gallery showed my stuff and I sold exactly one painting, and got exactly one horrible review in a very small but exceedingly nasty weekly paper. And that was my big New York debut.”
He lets out a self-deprecatory laugh and turns to look at me. I smile and entwine my fingers in his.
“The people of New York obviously have no taste,” I say.
He laughs, a real one this time, and stares at me with this amazed look on his face. We hold the gaze for a while, each of our smiles widening as the moment passes. It’s a good moment, and I think we’re about to kiss again when his eyes suddenly widen and he snaps his fingers at me.
“I almost forgot. I got you something in Ottawa.”
He hops up off the couch like a kid on Christmas and I follow him toward his bed, where he grabs a white box out of a paper bag and hands it to me. “I would have wrapped it up nicely, but I didn’t have a whole lot of time.”
I take the box and open it to find the ugliest ceramic frog I’ve ever seen. It’s a shade of greenish-brown that is not flattering on any animal, and the back is huge and fat and hunched, while the head is disproportionately small.
“Oh. Wow. It’s a hunchback frog.” I turn it over and look at the lettering on the bottom, then raise one eyebrow at him. “Quasitoado? Are you serious?”
Will laughs. “Took me forever to get a shot of that damn thing that made it look good. I’m not sure I ever did.”
I hold Quasitoado up, looking into the tiny face. “Is he smirking at me?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was more an evil-plot-to-take-over-the-world kind of expression.”
I tilt my head to take the frog in from another angle. “Yeah. I think you’re right.” I turn it over in my hands again, fascinated. “What exactly is it?”
“Ah, that’s the best part.” Will lifts the hunchback off to reveal a bowl underneath. “Sugar dish.”
I laugh and take the top from him. My fingers graze over his and our eyes lock for a beat.
Finally, I get the presence of mind to say something. “So, you saw the ugly hunchback frog and thought of me, is that what you’re trying to say?”
His smile fades a touch. “I saw everything and thought of you.”
I let out a half-laugh, half-groan. “Oh, man, that’s a bad line.”
He chuckles. “It sounded better in my head.” He takes a step toward me and runs one hand down my arm. “It’s true, though. I was really looking forward to getting back here to see you.”
“What a coincidence. I was really looking forward to being seen.”
He holds my gaze for a moment longer, then takes in a sharp breath and lowers his hand.
“Hey, I’m pretty sure I’ve burned that sauce. How do you feel about ordering pizza?”
“I feel great,” I say. He heads over to the spaghetti and tosses it in the sink, then keeps his eyes on me as he calls for pizza. I tuck Quasitoado back in his box and set it carefully by my purse where it won’t get stepped on. It’s positively the ugliest gift I’ve ever received, but already I love it with all my heart.
***
“Oh, my god,” Janesse says the next day, leaning over the counter of Art’s Desire and looking Quasitoado in the face. “That is the fugliest thing I have ever seen.”
Allegra hands Janesse the coffee we’ve just brought over from the Café, then grabs Quasitoado and turns him to face her.
“It’s not that bad,” she says. “It’s kinda gone so far to ugly that it’s circled back to cute.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I think he’s cute.”
Janesse raises an eyebrow at me. “Would you eat sugar out of that thing?”
“Um…” I stare dubiously at the frog. “Probably not. But it doesn’t have to be a sugar dish. It could be a paper clip holder or something.”
Allegra hops up on the counter. “Forget the damn frog. How was Will? You know, in the purely sexual sense.”
Janesse doesn’t encourage Allegra, but she does raise one eyebrow indicating that she wouldn’t be averse to hearing the details. I scoff.
“Oh, please,” I say. “I don’t know.”
“So, what?” Janesse says. “You just ate pizza and t
alked?”
“Well, no,” I say. “Not just. But mostly, yeah. It was nice.”
“Oh, man,” Allegra says. “What are you waiting for? You need to hit that.”
I stare at her. “Hit that? Are you kidding?”
“Beta males, I’m telling you. They’ll make you scream.”
I put one hand gently on her face. “Allegra, I love you. I do. But you have to stop. You are the same age as my little baby sister, and when you talk like that, it skeeves me out.”
One side of Janesse’s mouth quirks up in a smirk. “Don’t be skeeved. She’s just a virgin who reads too many trashy magazines and likes to talk out her ass.”
I laugh, then notice that neither Allegra nor Janesse are laughing with me. I look at Allegra. “You’re a virgin?”
Allegra raises one eyebrow at me. “I’m a seventeen-year-old girl who was home-schooled in Bilby, Arizona. Not exactly the land of opportunity.” She motions toward Janesse with her coffee cup. “Hell, the best-looking man in town is a woman.”
Janesse’s face is stony for a moment as she decides how she feels about that comment, then breaks out in a smile. “Thanks.”
Allegra grins at her. “No problem, sugar.”
“But…” I stammer. “The way you talk…”
“I was raised by two gay men who taught me to not be afraid of my sexuality, and I’m not. I’m also not going to be pressured out of my virginity by a culture so obsessed with sex that no one cares if it’s any good or not. These knickers are staying in place until I’m sure I’ve found a man who’ll knock my socks off on his first at bat.”
I blink. Wow. That was good. I decide that I definitely want Allegra and Five to hang out.
Allegra stands up straighter, obviously proud of herself. “And, for the record, I never said I wasn’t a virgin.”
“You never said you were,” I counter lamely.
“I never said I was a Pisces, either. That doesn’t make me not a Pisces.”
“You knew about this?” I say to Janesse, who shrugs and takes a sip of her coffee, then sputters. “What the hell is this?”
“Orange coconut cappuccino,” Allegra says. “What do you think?”
The Fortune Quilt Page 15
