I elbow her in the side, grinding my arm into her ribs through her yoga tank.
She looks at me from under her outstretched arm. “Just said a few words about where he can hang his dress pants from now on. And, inhale… Come on up to rabbit.”
She raises her arms up above her head, and I scramble up from my face plant to do the same. Guppy sits down between us, looking from one to the other and back again. “You can tell me. I won’t be mad.”
A laugh bubbles out through her straw and makes the Coke fizz. She sets her glass down on the corner of her mat. “Mmmm, no. Best if I don’t divulge. Annnnnnd child’s pose again.”
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale once more.
“Cross your legs, come into lotus…You really like him, don’t you?” Maisie says as we sit back to back, bottom to bottom. I feel the reassuring movement of her breathing, that dancer’s confidence—that perfect calm.
“I really do.”
“Annnnd, leg up and bring your elbow to your knee, into seated twist.” I look back over my shoulder as I do it, and she does the same. It’s like we’re sitting on a courting sofa. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. That’s part of the best friend contract.”
“I know.” We switch knees and arms and face each other on the other side. “But he’s the bag of potato chips, Maisie. He’s the grocery store birthday cake. I’m powerless. Only I haven’t heard from him all day. Not a peep. I told you to go easy on him.”
Her inhale and exhale makes her shoulders lift and lower against mine. I watch her gaze land on the area rug, and she sucks her top lip into her mouth, letting it go with a pop.
“Maisie.”
She flexes her toes and then points them. “It’s possible I came on a little strong. Possibly.” She repositions her elbow, and I hear her spine make a few pops. “I was in full bear mama mode.”
“Oh, God.”
“Seated warrior, let your hips relax…”
“Maisie!”
She tucks her feet under her body, and so do I. “I mean, I didn’t make any actual threats. Not like the time I made that accountant cry.” She snorts. “All I said that if he was going to bullshit you, he should leave you alone. That was the theme. Basically. And I broke his bag. Accidentally. Annnnnd up into the sun salutation… Feel your body opening up…”
Let me feel you. Right now.
He is in every pose and movement. Every ache in my body is his. Every remaining tingle and jitter-like aftershock. I don’t know if the earthquake called Russ is a good thing or a bad one. But as we go back down into downward dog, I get a look at the chaise out on my patio, and I wish so very much that he was laying right there, right now.
35
Russ
In my shopping cart, I’ve got assorted gifts: a box of wine, like I saw in her fridge; every kind of salt-and-vinegar potato chips they sell; a box of Dots; some Kama Sutra warming massage oil because I couldn’t fucking resist.
And that just leaves one more thing.
I put my basket down by a display of cupcakes and clear my throat. “I need to get something written on a cake.”
The baker turns around. She pulls her hairnet off her head and says, “I’m leaving for the night, sir. I can take your order, but it’ll have to be for tomorrow.”
This part can’t wait. Penny needs to know I’m not sleeping on this. She needs to know I listened to every single thing she said—every last detail, every last word.
I lean forward, putting my hands on the curved glass case. I glance at the baker’s nametag and then look her in the tired, baggy eyes. “Jacquie. It’s urgent. I fucked up, and I need to apologize.”
“The bait shop has some nice carnations. Usually.”
“Already tried that. Didn’t take.”
She gives me a stern stare, like if the blue carnations didn’t do it, I must really be in the shit.
“Jacquie. Please.”
She inhales long and hard, pursing her lips tight. “I’ve got my bowling group in twenty minutes.” She points backward toward the freezers, and I see a turquoise bowling shirt hanging on the back of a door. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t have time.” She starts undoing her apron, which is a smudgy, colorful explosion of frostings. “Like I said, come back tomorrow. I’ll be glad to do whatever you’d like then.”
I pull out my wallet and open the billfold. “I’ll pay your overtime. I’ll pay your lane fees. I’ll buy you a new goddamned pair of bowling shoes. Whatever you want.” I put a fifty on the counter, next to the crumbly remains of some free cookies. “I just need a cake, tonight, with a message written on it.”
She looks at the money and then back at me.
“Jacquie. We’re talking about…” What the hell are we talking about? Chemistry? Sparks? That feeling in my gut that I’ve never felt before? Happiness? No, it’s more than that, and there’s only one word for it. “Love, Jacquie. We’re talking about love.”
Holy fuck. As soon as I say it, I know it’s true. Just a few days with Penny and I’m saying the word I’ve never said before—the one I never thought I’d ever say at all.
She lowers her nose, crumpling her chin into her throat. “Love?”
“Love. Like love-at-first-sight, different-planet, just-like-that love.”
She sighs hard, considering the cash. And then finally she untangles her hairnet from her palm, slipping it over her crunchy curls. “Five minutes. Pick out your cake. I’ve only got time for writing, though. No extra flowers. No balloons. No decoration. No sprinkles. We’re clear?”
“Jacquie, you’re a life saver,” I say, and pull a small round cake, decorated with pink roses, from the display shelf below. I slide it across the bakery case as she reties her apron. Then she takes a pad of paper and hands me a pen.
“Print what you want. Nice and clear. No cursive. I’m not letting one of my cakes become a hashtag bakery fail, all right?” She puts on a pair of plastic food service gloves and pops the lid off the cake. She sets it on a pedestal to the left of the register.
I pick up the pen and look at the blank pad, thinking about what I want to say and how.
It isn’t Shakespeare. It’s the truth. Six words does the job. When I’m finished, I put the pad on the other side of the case. “There.”
Her gloves crinkle as she reads it, and then she recoils a little. She gives me a shame on you shake of her head. “Sir, this is a family establishment. I can’t write that on a cake.”
I pull another fifty out of my wallet. “How about now?”
36
Penny
Our yoga form spiraled into chaos in direct proportion to the number of mostly-rum and Cokes Maisie made, and so by the end of happy hour yoga, we were lying flat on our backs on our yoga mats, singing aloud at the top of our lungs to “Rolling in the Deep” while Guppy humped his bed in his usual pre-dinner ritual.
And I still don’t feel better.
Alone in my kitchen, I listen to popcorn kernels explode in the pan and I count the seconds between them. I sense the beginning stages of a hangover, and I think I gave myself a charley horse during camel pose. But in spite of all of it, I’m still thinking about him. I glance at the part of the kitchen counter where he hoisted me up. I’ll never be able to look at that spot again without my tummy going all tumbly.
I am, as my grandpa would say, in a state.
The kernel explosions slow to one every few seconds. Guppy walks into the kitchen and drops his armadillo on the floor, standing beside me and staring at the stove. He’s panting a little, from his nightly private affair with his bed, but the siren’s song of the popcorn was too much to ignore.
“Hot. Careful,” I tell him, and he moves his nose away from the stove, sitting back on his haunches. Together we watch the pot, me patting his head, him drooling all over my foot.
Pop-pop. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Pop.
With an oven mitt on each hand, I give the pan a final shake and then take it off the heat. I dump the hot
kernels into a bowl, and I’m about to drizzle half-a-stick of melted butter over the top…
When the doorbell rings.
“Norm! Leave it!”
Which is answered by a startling, serious knock.
Guppy takes off barking, sending the kitchen rug flying into a heap behind him. I shake off my oven mitts and put a handful of the buttery deliciousness into my mouth. From the cookie jar, I grab a dog treat and toss it into the laundry room, where I stash Guppy, and then head for the door. But when I open it, there’s nobody—not even a newbie UPS man who doesn’t know the drill. Instead, sitting on my front mat, there’s a small, round cake, in its plastic bakery box, with the tag peeled off part of the way to get rid of the price. I crouch down and take off the lid. In pink frosting it says:
* * *
PENNY –
I’M SO TUCKING SORRY
RUSS
* * *
My heart jumps up into my throat. If he’d had a pilot write it in the sky, it wouldn’t have been sweeter. I read the words over and over and blink back a wave of happy tears.
“Where are you?” I ask, but get no answer. I hear an engine start, and somewhere out of view, the crunchy noise of gravel under wheels. Poking out from under the cake, I notice a business envelope. I slide it out and open it up. The front sheet is written in his handwriting, strong, masculine and laser straight.
* * *
Penny –
You need to know who I really am, so I decided to tell you in the only way I know how. If I’d come inside to see you, I’d never have been able to explain it all. There is no universe in which I walk into that house and don’t take you straight to bed and fuck you until your legs go out from under you. Again.
* * *
I groan into my clenched hand and scoop up a fingerful of frosting from the edge of the cake.
* * *
Read the attached. Every word of it is true. A lot of it are things I’ve never told another living soul. If you want me as I am, meet me tomorrow night at the Shorefront Grill. 7:30. Wear that dress I bought you. I know we don’t have long together, but I need you to be sure. I already am.
Russ
* * *
I slide the letter to the back of the tri-folded pages. On top of the second sheet is his company logo, with the words:
* * *
CONFIDENTIAL BACKGROUND DOSSIER
TARGET: RUSSELL THOMAS MACKLIN
* * *
Walking down the beach with Guppy, I think it all over. Every word, every bullet point, ever parenthetic explanation. Every single aspect of his life was there. It was a brutally honest, almost heartbreaking summary of a military career, of valor, of business. Every fact about him, every part of his life was summarized in clean, orderly detail. And I even learned that his scar, that sexy one that runs across his eyebrow, wasn’t from a valiant knife fight at all, but a swipe from his aunt’s cat when he was four years old. It was all there. Heroic, upstanding, and accidental.
I toss Guppy’s tennis ball into the incoming tide and realize that what struck me most of all was how very empty it all seemed. No long-time girlfriends, no children. No pets. He’s got his work and his practical, sensible decisions. He’s most definitely not the sort of man to live in a beach house in constant danger of being swept away by hurricanes. He’s not the type of man to adopt an inconveniently enormous, wonderfully complicated dog. And he’s definitely not the kind of man who I’d have ever thought would fit into my life at all.
Not for a week, not for a day, not even for a minute.
Guppy returns his ball to me, along with a mouthful of seaweed. I look back at my house and down the shore toward Port Flamingo. I imagine our footprints from earlier, now washed away. I don’t know how he fits into my life, but I’d never forgive myself if I never gave myself the chance to find out.
* * *
I let myself onto Maisie’s lanai, where I find her sound asleep on her deck chaise. When she’s awake, she’s incredibly elegant. Swan-like even. But she sleeps like a retired truck driver in a La-Z-Boy, with her mouth open, snoring, arms sprawled out on each side of her.
“Maisie.” I give her a shake.
No response, aside from a huge gasping snore. She’d kill me for even thinking this, but there are some very definite Guppy-like traits.
I pick up her leg and drop it. Nada.
I don’t want to be rude about this. She is, after all, the world’s best and most aggressively protective friend. She’s sacred, that’s all there is to it. And because of that I don’t want to, say, dump some ice water on her head or spray her with the hose, but I need her help. Right now. Before she goes into REM sleep and I have no hope of getting her up until 10:30 tomorrow.
Her purse is sitting on the kitchen cabinet, and I dig through it. It’s full of stuff like Vegan Whole Wellness Soy Gelcaps and tinctures in unlabeled brown bottles with dropper lids. Her credit cards, cash, and all her spare change gathers at the bottom, organized purely by gravity. And I thought my purse was a vortex. Intermixed with the change are a bunch of loose almonds and some raisins.
But then, there at the bottom, I find it.
The cucumber water. Exactly like mine.
Returning to battle, I take my position next to the chaise. I’ve learned my lesson, after a rather unfortunate trip we took to visit Grandpa together, when we slept in the same bed. Waking her up is like disturbing a hibernating grizzly bear. I stand back far enough to prevent any half-asleep self-defense maneuver—Fool me twice, watch it!—and get ready to fire. I give her leg one more shake, just to be sure, and then hit her with a spritz.
She shoots straight up with a gasp. “What’s happening? Why am I outside? Who’s eating cucumbers?”
“I need some fashion advice.”
She blinks hard and looks me up and down, same as I’m doing to myself. I managed to get out of the house without Guppy sliming my dress, which was a victory. Other than that, I feel kind of like a little black sausage.
“You look…fantastic,” she says.
“I feel like a bratwurst.” I shimmy the hem down an inch.
She makes a breathy whistle. “Why are you dressed like that? Did I miss a Facebook invite? Is there some sort of something-or-other at the Elks?”
“I need to wear this tomorrow. But all I have to go with it is turquoise nail polish and flip-flops. I need you to help me with a makeover. Starting with heels.”
She winces. “We’ve covered this. My corporate history is my corporate history. Past tense. Dead and buried. I shall never in my life work in a cubicle again, so help me God.” She mimes dusting her hands off, to say that’s that.
Only I know it isn’t. She had a brief but very lucrative stint working in the corporate world—a phase in her life that she talks about with about as much joy as her long battle with forehead acne. But I know her too well to believe it’s all dead and buried. “I know you haven’t parted with your Louboutins. You’re too cheap.”
She glares. “Frugal, Penny. Frugal.”
“You’re too frugal to part with a pair of $500 heels, no matter what you say. So come on, dig up the bodies.”
She shifts her lips side to side as she inspects me, starting at my hair and moving down. I lift my toes when she gets to my bare feet. “Do you even know how to walk in heels?”
“Zero idea whatsoever.” The closest I’ve ever come to heels was a pair of clogs I had to wear at my brief attempt at waitressing. I’ve never worked so hard in my life, and never dropped so many dishes in a four-hour period, and I twisted my ankle. “I’m going to need a primer on that, too.”
She whines and rubs her face with both hands like a toddler. “I just want to sleep. I was in the middle of this fantastic dream where I was having a torrid affair with an alfalfa sprout farmer. He was perfect. I mean perfect. We were talking about mushroom compost, and then he said…”
“Alfalfa will be there later. We’ve got a real man to worry about.” I grip her arm and look her
hard in the bloodshot eyes. “He bought me a cake. An Albertson’s cake. With a special message on it. And a dossier. This matters.”
That, more than the spritz or the leg shakes, really wakes her up. “He came here? Onto your property? Goddamn it. That bastard is going to be so sorry when I come at him with my Diet Coke and Mentos...”
“Shush! Cease and desist. We have more important things to worry about. Like this.” I ruffle up my curls with my fingers. “What do I do with this? I can’t wear this dress with an untamed mane. There’s a time for beachy curls.” I yank on the dress, “But this isn’t it.”
She reaches up and touches my hair, inspecting the ends suspiciously. “Do you even own a curling iron?”
“I know how to finger comb. End of story.”
She picks up her empty rum and Coke, poking at the dry bottom of the glass with her straw. “How are you going to repay me for this, Pen? I can’t work miracles for free.”
“A year’s worth of Captain Morgan. All the vegan wellness capsules your heart desires. All the kale you can eat. Whatever you want.”
37
Russ
I wake up hard for her, and I reach out to pull her body into mine. But she isn’t there, because—I realize as I come up into consciousness—I’m not with her. Instead, I’m on Aunt Sharon’s lumpy hide-a-bed, with my feet hanging off the end and metal rods poking into my body at various crucial points. Kidneys. Ass. Spinal cord. When I open my eyes, I’m met by Janis Joplin staring down at me from the back of the sofa with one strand of upholstery fabric dangling from her claw.
“Morning.”
Just Like That Page 18
