Down on Love

by Jayne Denker

  “What part of what I said is not true?” she shot back as she flung the grocery bags onto the counter. Then she gasped and scrambled as a can of beans rolled out of one of the bags. She made a valiant grab for it, but she never was good at fielding. She bobbled the can, and it went even farther than it would have on its own—straight into the worst possible spot for a metal can to hit a man.

  George froze in horror as the accidental missile landed with an unholy thud. A mighty, muffled “Whuffff!” came from inside the cabinet, and the legs curled up and to the side, the can rolling away lazily into a puddle of water. A strangled voice squeaked, “Mother—”

  “Baby nearby!” Sera snapped.

  “—Russia!”

  George started to rush to the man she feared she’d just castrated, but stopped short to mouth Mother Russia? at Sera. Her sister shrugged. George crouched down by the fetally positioned plumber. “Are you all right?”

  Groan.

  “What am I saying? Of course you’re not all right.”

  Whimper.

  “Can you move? Can you get up?”

  “Gimme a minute,” he whispered, every syllable tight with pain.

  George looked up at Sera. “Ice pack?”

  Her sister reached into the freezer and tossed George a bag of frozen peas.

  “I just bought these two days ago!” George protested.

  “I think he needs them more than we do right about now!”

  George held them out. “Uh . . . should I . . . ?”

  “Put them in his hand!”

  “His hand is otherwise occupied,” she hissed.

  George held the bag of peas above the area in peril as she nervously turned it one way, then another, trying to figure out what to do with it. Then he moved his hand out from between his legs, and George grabbed the opportunity to push the bag onto the spot at the base of his zipper.

  “Not—” Sera started to shout, but it was too late. His legs convulsed again.

  “Stop . . . helping,” he choked out.

  “Good grief, George, just step back!” Sera cried.

  “Fine!” George jumped up and raked rigid fingers through her hair at her temples. “I’m sorry! I—”

  Jaz appeared in the doorway with Amelia. “What is going on?” she demanded, as Sera relieved her of the newly calmed, but shirtless baby.

  The plumber held up his free hand abruptly—George was grateful to see he wasn’t wielding a wrench or other object that could be used as a weapon—stopping everything in the room. The women waited, silently shooting each other accusing glares.

  After a minute or two, there were signs of life. The plumber inched out of the cabinet, then got to his feet—gingerly, stiffly, and with his back still a bit hunched. He peered up at George with a feeble smile. “Nice way to say hi, Goose.”

  George could feel the blood drain from her face. “Ho-ly s—”

  Sera cleared her throat loudly.

  “—Swiss cheese.”

  Chapter 7

  It was Casey. Casey Bowen. In her house. Well, her old house. Whatever—not the point. He was here. Just like when they’d been in high school together, and he’d been part of Sera’s circle of friends. And he looked . . . the same, unfortunately. Unfortunately because the way he looked—from his dense, nearly black hair (still sticking up, as always, as if it had never made the acquaintance of a brush) to his bottle-green eyes to his height and slight-but-muscular breadth that had made him ideal for both the basketball and the soccer teams—always undid her.

  And he had hardly changed one iota, except . . . there was more. More of him, but not in an “Oh wow, he really let himself go” way. No, just the opposite: more muscles, more eye twinkles, more . . . presence. Just more of everything that had made him irresistible to her years ago. It was as if he was magnified into someone even more . . . Casey-ish. And that made her forget how to speak. Just like back in high school.

  Sera filled the sudden silence. “George, you remember Casey, right?”

  George fought to take a breath while she nodded at her sister. Sera had never known. George had made sure of that. Because if Sera had ever found out George had a thing for the one and only Casey Bowen, she never would have heard the end of it. Not only had Casey been untouchable in the general sense, being a high school god and all, he’d been a junior when George had been a measly little freshman. Unthinkable.

  Back then, George had kept her distance, pined quietly, blushed whenever he called her “Goose”—because of her last name, he’d said. G for George, goose for Down. She’d been grateful a high school guy’s vocabulary fell just short of eiderdown, because that would have been a different kind of hell. As it was, his nickname for her had made her sister start calling her Birdbrain until Mom and Dad threatened her with bodily harm and a frozen allowance unless she stopped.

  And she’d let him treat her like a little sister. Until . . . well. No way she’d let any of that history surface now. She’d buried it years ago, and dammit, it was going to stay buried even if she had to pummel it with a shovel until it sank back into the ground like a beaten zombie.

  George dragged herself back to the present and tried to answer her sister. She had a couple of false starts, her lips moving, but nothing coming out, before she rasped, “Sure. Yeah. Of course I remember. How . . . how are you?”

  “You mean the surprise sterilization? Not bad. I can cross the vasectomy off a future ‘to do’ list, so thanks for that.”

  Ah, snark. Snark she could deal with. “If I’d known it was you instead of Steverino the Wonder Plumber, I wouldn’t have tried to stop the can.”

  Casey smiled at her, and the sight of that familiar dimple in his right cheek sent George hurtling backward in time until she was teetering perilously on the precipice of fourteen again. “I don’t know, Goose. I never figured you for a ball buster.”

  George felt her blush renew itself, and she wished there was an “off ” button for it. She didn’t blush prettily—instead of a nice, delicate pink flush over her cheekbones, her blush started just above her chest and crept up her white neck to her pale, freckled face. In ugly red blotches.

  She didn’t have to worry about how she looked, though. Casey wasn’t watching her; he’d turned to Sera. “Oh. Is ‘ball buster’ out of bounds around Amelia too?”

  Sera cocked an eyebrow at him. “Uh, yeah.”

  “Sorry.”

  Jaz shook her head in amazement. “She doesn’t know what it means, Sera. Lighten up.”

  “Oh sure. Lighten up now, and the next thing you know, she’s repeating it.”

  “She’s seven months old. She blows raspberries. I wouldn’t worry about it just yet.”

  Casey interrupted cautiously. “You, uh . . . you need a part. For the sink. I’ll just go get one. Be back in a few minutes.”

  When the screen door slammed behind him, George sank into a chair at the kitchen table, buried her head in her hands, and groaned. “Oh God.”

  “Smooth,” Sera growled.

  “Oh God.”

  Casey took a minute to rest his forehead on the steering wheel of his truck. Smooth, Bowen. Real smooth. The first time he’d seen Georgiana Down in years, and he ended up teasing her—teasing her, for the love of Pete, just like he’d always done—about what was clearly an accident.

  And he’d called her Goose. Oh God. Real mature. But it had just popped out—an old habit resurfacing, without his even thinking about it. He’d given her the nickname years ago, a cute name for a cute kid—Sera’s little sister. The older and prettier she’d gotten, the more frequently he’d used it—to create a barrier, keep her at a distance.

  But calling her Goose now? Mortifying. He felt like a complete tool.

  He couldn’t get out of there fast enough, before he dug the hole deeper. Well, now he could take a long time getting the part for the sink. Whatever the part was. He had no idea what he needed to fix the sink—he’d been looking at it one minute, and the next he’d nearly blac
ked out from his nether regions being crushed by flying canned goods. Oh hell, he’d buy an entirely new faucet. And new pipes. And connectors. And three thousand different sizes of washers. He didn’t care. He just needed some time away from the house to regroup.

  He rolled his head in a circle to loosen up his suddenly tight neck muscles, squared his shoulders, and started his truck. Just as he was putting it into gear, George came out of the house with Amelia, now in dry clothes, on her hip. She marched up to his passenger side door and knocked on the window.

  When he lowered it, she reached in, some money in her fist. “Sera says to take this for whatever you need at the hardware store.”

  Casey shook his head. “It’s okay. It’s covered.”

  “What are you talking about? You buy my sister plumbing supplies now?”

  He considered her a minute. It was so odd; she was the same old Goose, but at the same time, nothing like her. Like a different person, semitransparent, was overlaid on top of the Georgiana Down he used to know. When he’d first focused on her in the kitchen, he saw a new, self-assured, mature woman he didn’t know. And then, when he least expected it, the young girl came through, and she was as familiar as ever. Like right then, when she brushed her reddish-blond hair back from her forehead with her wrist. She always used to do that when she was frustrated or confused. Or just overly warm, on a hot summer day, like today was turning out to be.

  Before he even knew he was speaking, he heard himself say, “Get in. Come with me.” What? A minute ago he’d wanted nothing more than to get as far away from George as possible, but who was he kidding? He didn’t want distance. After so many years without her around, he felt the need to be near her. More than anything.

  George stopped short, startled, almost alarmed. “I—why?”

  Casey scrambled for a reason. “I’m going to buy a new faucet. I need you to help me pick one out.”

  “Seriously?”

  Wait—had he just sounded sexist? Craaap. “No, I mean . . . I just . . .” Oh, Bowen the Blithering Idiot was back. Fantastic. He took a breath to collect himself. “Sera can be pretty . . . particular. I figured you’d be able to help me get one she wouldn’t throw at my head.”

  George smirked. “You actually expect me to pick out plumbing fixtures.”

  Yeah, that sounded pretty obnoxious. “No, not just . . . It’s . . . it’s good to see you. It’s been a long time. It’d be good to, you know, catch up.”

  “Without my lobbing canned goods into your privates.”

  “It does sort of limit conversation.” He turned on what he hoped was a winning smile, not a manic leer. “So, what, you have someplace else to be?”

  “I should be mopping up the water in the kitchen.”

  “It can wait, Cinderella.”

  She studied him for a second. Then, “You don’t have a car seat for Amelia.”

  His stomach flipped. That was as good as a “yes.”

  “I have one in my car. I can drive—”

  “No!” he yelped, as the memory of her nearly flattening him and his friends in the road sent a flare of alarm through him. “I mean,” he rushed to amend, seeing her frown at him in confusion, “it’s a nice day. Let’s walk. I’ll grab the stroller.”

  “So . . . Jaz was working for you when she got hurt?”

  “Yep,” Casey said tersely. “There’s a lot that needs doing on the farm lately. She said she was up for it . . .” He drifted off with a sigh.

  George focused on navigating the stroller over an uneven seam in the sidewalk. For most of their walk to Main Street, she’d kept looking straight ahead while Casey explained the events of the past month that led up to the development of his becoming the Down-Montgomerys’ occasional handyman. He’d offered to push the stroller, but George had turned him down—so she’d have something to do, somewhere to put her hands, something to focus on. It had been a good call. It was ridiculous, but there was no denying George felt more rational and levelheaded when she wasn’t looking directly at him. She’d never have thought Casey could possibly have become better looking with age, but he had. Damn.

  It was the regret in his voice that finally turned her head. His lips were tight as he squinted down the leafy lane. A feeling of compassion washed over her, warming her insides and making her think impure thoughts about comforting him.

  Now was a good time to check on the baby. Yeah. She peeked through the peephole in the canopy. Amelia had nodded off, making up for the nap she couldn’t be bothered to finish earlier.

  “I know what you’re thinking. But it’s not your fault,” she said softly. “It was just an accident.”

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s what Sera and Jaz said. That’s what they keep saying. But I can’t convince myself. I figured the least I could do was to help them with day-to-day stuff: mow the lawn, take out the trash. Today it just so happened I was around to fix the plumbing.”

  “Even though you have a farm to run.”

  “Sometimes you’ve gotta make time for other things.”

  George wanted to ask how that worked, but they turned onto Main Street, and they had to navigate around people on the sidewalk. George utilized her usual keep-your-head-down-and-plow-through technique, which was essential in order to get anywhere on foot in Boston. But she was reminded, in short order, that that behavior wasn’t going to fly here. No, sir.

  “Oh my goodness. Little George Down?”

  Oh crap. George looked up quickly to find Missy Preston, owner of the consignment shop Missy’s Hits for Misses, rolling a sale rack onto the sidewalk.

  The woman was a little more lined in the face than George remembered, but she still sported that familiar ginormous cloud of orangey-red hair that made her look like she’d backed into a cotton candy machine. The older lady beamed at her and clasped her hands, bracelets jangling.

  “Oh, I just knew it was you. So good to see you, dear. And you, Casey. You look lovely, George. Doesn’t she look lovely, Casey?”

  Casey mumbled something in agreement while George flushed. “Thanks, Mrs. Preston. Good to see you, too.”

  Mrs. Preston beamed, then turned her attention to the stroller. “And there’s my little Amelia,” she sang, bending down to make faces at the baby and in the process showing more than a little wrinkled cleavage above the deep V of her tropical-print wrap dress. When she realized Amelia was out cold, she straightened up and turned her attention back to George. “I’m so glad you came by. I’ve been dying to tell you—I simply adore that blog of yours.”

  George blinked. She glimpsed Casey’s inquisitive expression out of the corner of her eye and wondered how much he knew. To Mrs. Preston, she said, “Oh. You . . . you read my blog?”

  “Well, of course I do! Who doesn’t? It’s so very clever. And saucy sometimes.” Mrs. Preston winked at her.

  George didn’t know what to say. This was new—usually her praise (and criticism) came via e-mail and the comment feature on her blog, making it all pretty impersonal. Face to face? It felt kind of weird.

  Mrs. Preston put a hand on George’s arm. “You must give me some pointers sometime. I’m thinking of starting a blog of my own.”

  “Oh . . . really!” George tried to sound enthusiastic.

  “Mm, yes. My memoirs. It’s so much more . . . current, and modern, to blog about them instead of writing an autobiography. Don’t you think?”

  “Well . . . sure. That’s a great way to look at it.”

  “So may I pick your brain, dear? Once I’m up and running, I’ll link to your blog if you’ll link to mine. And I’ll give you a standing twenty percent discount in the store.”

  “Sounds good, Mrs. P.”

  Then Mrs. Preston turned to Casey, with her lecture face on. As an elder stateswoman of the town, a title automatically bestowed on anyone who’d won the longevity lottery, she possessed the divine right of judgment. “Nice to see you relaxing a bit for once, young man,” she said, then explained to George, “He works too, too hard,
you know. So many plans, such ambition. He hardly ever leaves that farm of his to spend time with any—” Then a rather alarmingly eager light appeared in her eyes. “Ooh, is this a date?”

  George and Casey tripped over one another to reassure the woman that no, in fact they were just taking Amelia for a walk, just going to the hardware store, bum sink, needs repairs, you know . . . but the woman didn’t seem to be listening very closely. Sure enough, Mrs. Preston nodded her head vaguely, as though she hadn’t heard them, but then gave them an exaggerated wink. She’d heard them fine; she just didn’t believe them. “Well, now. Don’t let me interrupt!” And she stepped aside and waved them on.

  “Just walk away,” Casey murmured to a stunned George. “Don’t even try.”

  George snickered and glanced over her shoulder at Mrs. Preston, who was still watching them, even though she was now on her cell phone. “Well, she hasn’t changed a bit.”

  “Is it weird? Being back?”

  “Uh, yeah. Yeah, it is definitely weird being back. Nothing’s changed, and everything’s changed. If that makes any sense.”

  “It makes total sense. I know exactly what you mean.”

  They crossed a side street, and George did a double take at the sight of a picture of a garden spray-painted on a brick wall. She glanced at Casey with a smile. “Banksy crossed the Atlantic when nobody was looking?”

  “What, the street art? Local version. We call him Marsdy.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Nobody knows—haven’t caught anybody in the act yet. And that’s some feat.”

  “Keeping a secret around here? You’re not kidding.” They hurried past a mime on the corner, avoiding catching the person’s eye so they didn’t have to stop and watch the invisible box thing. “When did you move back? Sera didn’t tell me—well, why would she, you know? But I didn’t—I mean . . .”

  “It’ll be two years in October.”

  “She hasn’t mentioned you in two years? Not that we talk very often, but . . .”

  “I’ve been keeping a low profile.”