by J. J. Murray
Hope Warren was in intense ah-go-nee as Dylan Healy jingled all of her bells.
During one furious moment, their eyes locked.
Dylan smiled.
Hope laughed.
With one final thrust, they closed their eyes . . . and they sang.
In the afterglow hours later, after they had christened every room and even the closet, after they had labeled, stuffed, and packed hundreds of envelopes and boxes, they lay facing each other under the covers with only their fingers touching as a single candle flickered on the dresser.
“I wish I could fit your beach house under the tree,” Dylan said.
“I wish I could fit Art for Kids’ Sake under there, too,” Hope said. “Maybe this time next year.”
Dylan nodded. “So what have we decided to do this year? I think we should stay small.”
“You sure?” Hope asked.
“Yeah,” Dylan said. “Little things can still mean a lot. They’re easier to wrap, and we’ll need less wrapping paper. They’re also easier to fit under the tree, and I’d like to give you a bunch of small presents. The more presents you have under the tree, the longer Christmas lasts.”
“I like that idea,” Hope said. “Are you still taking tomorrow off to go shopping?”
“Yes,” Dylan said, “and I want you to come with me.”
“Thank you.”
“We’ll make a day of it.”
Hope sighed and looked at Dylan’s Mickey Mouse watch, which somehow had stayed on his wrist despite their manic lovemaking. “This is just a minor critique, Dylan, but it’s really strange to see Mickey Mouse smiling and waving at me while I’m having orgasmes. I’ve never asked, but why do you wear a Mickey Mouse watch? Is it for the children?”
He wiggled his wrist until he could see the watch face. “Despite its humble appearance, this watch is important to me. It’s the only present my mother ever gave me for Christmas that wasn’t socks, T-shirts, underwear, or a toy I’d break in a day. To tell the truth, I don’t know if she bought it or stole it, but she gave it to me, and it let me know she really cared about me for at least the time it took her to get it. She was thinking only about me. This watch is Dylan’s and no one else’s. Only Dylan will wear this watch. So it’s more than a watch. It’s a memory of the best Christmas I had as a kid. I may even wear it if it stops working.”
I can’t get him a new watch now. I can get him a watchband that will keep that watch from ever falling off, a watchband that will protect his memories. “Won’t it be strange to be shopping for each other when we’re with each other?”
“So we’ll just go window-shopping.”
That’s so romantic. Window-shopping is romance while you walk.
“And we’ll get out of the city, too,” Dylan said.
Get out of Brooklyn? When’s the last time I was out of Brooklyn? “How?”
“I’ve already rented a car from an auto repair shop a few blocks down from here,” Dylan said. “The car won’t be pretty, but it will get us there.”
“You already rented it. When?”
“When I left you alone a few hours ago, I made the call.” He pulled her to him. “I promise not to leave you alone again. I was so lonely.”
“Me, too.” She kissed his chin. “Where will we go?”
“Wherever we end up.”
“Nous irons où que la route nous prenne,” Hope said. “We will go wherever the road takes us. Normally I’d say that’s too random, but I’m beginning to like random.” She grazed his chest with her nails, sliding them lower and lower. “Let’s go for another ride. I like you in my back seat. I like watching you in that big rearview mir ror.”
Dylan smiled. “I like that, too.”
“And the only directions you can give me are ‘Go’ and ‘Faster.’ ” She crawled out of the bed and rested her elbows on the dresser. “Ready to start my engine?”
He joined her.
Hope felt his readiness immediately. “Damn, Mr. Healy,” Hope whispered. “I really like your stick shift. Feel free to use overdrive. Full . . . speed . . . ahead . . .”
I hope we don’t break this nice dresser!
Oh, yes! I am all better now!
Love has found me, and I intend to ride this ecstasy long into the night.
NOVEMBER 20
Only 34 more shopping days until Christmas...
Chapter 21
Hope and Dylan enjoyed precisely two hours and four minutes of sleep before Dylan’s red, white, and green Christmas alarm clock, its hands moving around Santa’s face, played “Here Comes Santa Claus” at six AM.
Hope was not amused.
“Why so air-lee?” Hope whined from the bed as she looked into the big mirror over the dresser to watch Dylan shave in the washroom.
“It’s not early,” Dylan said, “and I don’t always say ‘air-lee,’ cailín. I only say ‘air-lee’ when I’m flirting.” He ran water over his razor, tapping it against the sink. “I actually got to sleep in an hour later than usual. Come get in the shower. I’ll join you in a minute.”
“I need to brush my teeth first,” Hope said, “and what am I going to wear?”
“There’s a new toothbrush in your stocking already,” he said, “and I thought you were going to steal my clothes.”
Hope laughed. “You already got me a toothbrush.”
He nodded, checking his chin in the washroom mirror. “I even wrapped it.”
Hope grabbed the first hoodie hanging in Dylan’s closet, wiggled into it, and wandered to the fireplace. She peeked into Dylan’s stocking. Empty. I am supposed to fill this. Why’d he buy such big stockings? I have lots of shopping to do. She peeked into Whack’s stocking and saw an unwrapped stuffed mouse, a ball, and some cat treats. Funny. He buys presents for a cat that isn’t his. She opened her stocking and found the wrapped toothbrush and the unmistakable shape of DreadHead Dread Butta among an assortment of small packages. That has to be gum, and that’s a candy bar of some kind, and that looks like lip balm, and that looks . . . I have no idea what that is. Nail clippers? She unwrapped her toothbrush and went into the washroom to find Dylan already in the shower.
“I was hoping you would wash me,” she said, furiously brushing her teeth. I still taste the garlic and the wine from last night.
Dylan stepped out, the shower still running, a towel already wrapped around his waist. “I sometimes run out of hot water here, so hurry it up.” He kissed her cheek. “Good morning. I’m going to get breakfast started.”
Hope pouted. “What are we having?”
“A surprise,” Dylan said, and he left the washroom.
Hope stood in the shower and let the water roll off her body. She had no strength to do anything more than hold the bar of soap in the stream and hope it did the trick. She eventually used a washcloth to soap herself, borrowing Dylan’s razor to shave her legs, sneaking it back into his medicine cabinet when she was through.
After wrapping herself in several towels, she went to Dylan’s closet, put on a blue-and-black flannel shirt over some seriously overwashed light-blue jeans that nearly fit her hips, and then the hoodie she had borrowed before. She raided his top drawer for a pair of long tube socks before realizing she had no boots, only flats.
I will just have to be a fashion misfit today. What is that heavenly smell?
She followed the aroma to the kitchen, where Dylan stood over his skinny stove fixing pancakes.
“A pair of your pants almost fits me,” Hope said, turning side to side. “Isn’t that amazing?”
“Turn around,” he said.
Hope turned.
“I still have those?” he said. “I haven’t worn them in fifteen years.”
She sat on a stool in front of a raised counter. “This counter reminds me of work. You don’t have much of a kitchen.”
“I don’t need much,” he said, turning and setting a plate before her.
Hope looked down at a three-pancake “snowman” complete with chocolate chip
eyes and mouth. “Where’s his hat?”
He slid a bottle of maple syrup to her. “The wind took it. Eat up. It’s going to be a long day.”
Hope doused her pancakes in syrup and started eating. “Where are we really going?”
Dylan shrugged and brought over his plate, circling his pancakes with syrup. “Away,” he said, and he wolfed down the snowman’s head whole.
“You just ate Frosty’s head in one bite,” Hope said.
“Well, you’re nibbling on his derriere,” Dylan said.
Such a pleasant thought. “Are we in a hurry or something? This is a day off for me. I want to enjoy it.”
“I want to get out of Brooklyn as soon as possible,” he said. “I really don’t want to get caught up in any traffic.”
“Do you think we’ll be doing a lot of walking?” Hope asked. “I only have my flats.”
Dylan stuck the last hunk of pancake into his mouth. “Just a sec.” He left the kitchen, returning a minute later with a present. “I hope you like them.”
Hope stared at the box. “You already bought me boots?”
Dylan frowned. “How did you know?”
Hope bit her lip. “It was on the list you made.”
Dylan nodded. “Open them, put them on, and let’s go.”
She tore through the penguins on the wrapping paper and read the end of the box. “Kenetrek Women’s Hiker, size 7.0.” “These are my boots—I mean, these are the boots I wear. How did you know?”
“I snoop,” Dylan said. “Whenever you were sleeping at your apartment and I couldn’t, I wrote down sizes and brands. Try them on.”
She opened the shoebox and tried on the right boot. “Perfect.” As she put on the left, she said, “Does this mean that you’re giving me everything on the list you made?”
“No,” Dylan said. He smiled. “Not all of it.”
“You’ve already been shopping for me,” she said.
“Right.”
Hope stood. “When did you buy these?”
“About a month ago,” he said. “The Internet has been kind. Are we ready?”
What else is already here? “So if I wanted to wear a sweater today . . .”
Dylan looked away. “We need to be leaving.”
He already got it for me, and it’s somewhere in this apartment, and if he snooped around my wardrobe, he bought me . . . “It’s a Pollen Sweater, isn’t it?”
Dylan shook his head. “I shouldn’t have read you that list. Would you like to wear it today, Hope? Or can you wait until Christmas morning?”
Is he kidding? “What color did you get me?”
“Merlot,” he said.
Ooh. Sexy. I love that shade of red. “What size? My other Pollen Sweater hung on me.”
Dylan sighed and looked at the ceiling. “I’ll get it for you. Wait here. I don’t want you to see what else I got you.”
I’m getting another Pollen Sweater! They are so nice. They’re all wool, but it’s itch-less wool you can actually wash in a washing machine.
Dylan returned with a plastic bag. “I hadn’t wrapped it yet.” He tossed it to her. “Merry November Christmas, Hope.”
Hope checked the label. He got me a small! Oh, this is going to hug my body so tightly! “Excuse me while I change.”
She ran to Dylan’s bedroom, threw off his hoodie, ripped open the plastic, and put on the sweater. All right. Look at that curvy thing. She looks good in merlot. I almost don’t want to cover this femme sexy with a hoodie. Maybe he got me a new coat. Was a coat on his list? I know he has seen my brown coat countless times. Oh my goodness! He may have gotten me another alpaca coat! “Oh, Dylan . . .”
Twenty minutes later, Hope left Dylan’s apartment grinning and wearing her new Hilary Radley alpaca coat, the putty color providing a nice contrast to her merlot sweater, dark-blue Hudson Beth Baby jeans, and dark-brown Kenetrek hiking boots. It might only have taken five minutes for her to change, but Hope had to thank the man responsible for her new outfit by kissing him repeatedly on his face, neck, and lips for the next fifteen minutes.
She fiercely held Dylan’s hand as they walked toward a tan 1987 Cadillac Deville parked at Saratoga Auto Repair.
“That is a beautiful car,” Dylan said. “Isn’t it?”
Okay, it’s a Cadillac, and it’s huge. It has wire wheels and mostly leather seats. The antenna is a pretzel, and most of the chrome is gone from the bumpers. The headliner is sagging a bit in the back seat, and bird droppings cover the roof like a Jackson Pollock painting.
It’s there.
It’s in front of me.
It is car-like.
It scares me.
“It’s nice,” Hope said. “Sure looks roomy.”
Dylan started it up, a bilious blue cloud filling the air. “Look,” he said. “The speedometer only goes up to eighty-five.”
They soon found out why.
The Cadillac stuttered east on Atlantic Avenue and south on Pennsylvania Avenue. It lurched through light traffic east on the Belt Parkway. By the time the car warmed up on the Southern State Parkway east of North Merrick, it shook at any speed over forty, and it finally hit on seven of eight cylinders just past Belmont Lake.
“At least it has good brakes,” Dylan said.
Please stop hitting them! You’re slowing its momentum! Hope cracked her window several inches. I hope we get there soon so I can stop breathing fumes. “Are we almost there?”
“Almost,” Dylan said. “Another half hour or so.” He winked.
“You know where we’re going, don’t you?’ Hope asked.
Dylan nodded. “I’m not as random as I appear to be.” He rubbed her shoulder. “I’ve never asked this, but how’s your family?”
“I’ve known you all this time, and this is the first time you’ve asked about them,” Hope said. “Why do you want to know about my family now?”
“Truthfully, I was afraid,” he said, staring straight ahead. “The last Island family I dealt with was a mess.”
“Not all Island families are the same, Dylan,” Hope said.
“Let’s just say that Bermuda will not be on any vacation itinerary in my future,” Dylan said. “Marie’s mother was meddling, obstinate, headstrong, and always had to be right—and that was the first time I ever spoke to her. She only got worse. Marie’s deddy wasn’t her real deddy, so he rarely said a word to me. He made lots of faces, though.”
“How meddling was her mother?” Hope asked.
Dylan sighed. “That vooman made arguments out of nothing, out of t’in air, and she tried to win every one of them no matter how petty. ‘Nice day,’ I’d say, and she’d say, ‘What be nice ’bout it wit’ all de pain in de varld?’ She was so coldhearted she could hold a grudge against herself. That vooman was so evil she could have an argument with herself and then not speak to herself for days.”
Hope laughed. “She sounds . . . colorful.”
He shook his head rapidly. “When you told me you had Island roots, Hope, I decided to not ask about your family.”
“Don’t worry about my family,” Hope said. “We’re not close, and I doubt my mudda would ever argue with you. My mudda was the quiet one. My fadda, not so quiet. He would argue with and fatigue, or ridicule, you. They left me to myself as a child, but only if I continued to worship them. When I stopped bowing down to them, that’s when they tried to control me, but by that time I was already in the States.”
“When’s the last time you spoke to them?” Dylan asked.
Hope turned up the heater, and she felt no difference in the temperature. “Just before I became a citizen, so about five years ago. My fadda tried to talk me out of it. ‘Doh ge’ meh vex, nuh,’ he said. ‘You walkin’ with yuh two han’ swingin’.’ He didn’t think I was making any money, which was true. He called me bubu, dotish, bazodee, and vi-ki-vie. He basically called me stupid and confused, and he said I was a freshwater Yankee full of backchat.”
Dylan seemed to shudder. “You were soundin
g like Marie’s mother just then.”
“I can still turn on that Island accent,” Hope said. “Obviously, I didn’t listen to him.” She sighed. “All that happened right around Christmas, too. Lots of things end during the holidays, don’t they?”
“They can also begin,” Dylan said.
“True,” Hope said.
“Have you tried contacting them recently?” Dylan asked.
“No, and I really haven’t missed them,” Hope said. “I was never really a part of my family because I was born so long after my sister. I get a Christmas card occasionally from her. It’s usually a picture of her and her husband posing in front of some new painting in their condo. Very depressing. What about your family?”
Dylan turned onto the Robert Moses Causeway. “My remaining family is a brother named Conor doing life at Sing Sing. He went into prison on a theft charge, and he killed a man inside within a month over a cigarette.” He sighed. “A single cigarette.”
“Do you ever visit him?” Hope asked.
“Once, but that was a horror show,” Dylan said. “I’ll never go back. Conor and I have nothing in common. He’s about fifteen years older than I am. I do send him Christmas cards every year—and two cartons of cigarettes, just in case he’s feeling murderous.”
Dylan exited and got onto Montauk Highway. “Look out your window. Can you see the water?”
Hope saw snatches of green and blue. “Is that the ocean?”
“That’s the Great South Bay,” Dylan said, “and we are going to take a water taxi from Bay Shore to a little town called Kismet on Fire Island.” He checked his watch. “And if this beast can go a little faster, we’ll catch the next water taxi over.”
“We’re going to the beach?” Hope asked. “In November?” That’s random.
“I want to see the ocean,” Dylan said, smiling. “Don’t you? No crowds. We may be the only visitors. We can explore the scenic town of Kismet in a couple hours.” He winked. “It is our fate to go to Kismet.”
They barely caught a ride on the Fire Island Flyer from the terminal off Maple Avenue in Bay Shore, and despite the chill and Dylan snapping pictures of her hair dancing in the breeze, the ten-minute, occasionally choppy boat ride exhilarated Hope as they sped over shallow green and gray water toward the black-and-white Fire Island Lighthouse. The boat deposited them onto the pier in Kismet, and they walked down Pine Street and took Bay Walk to the Kismet Market.
