Wallflower In Bloom

by Claire Cook

  I wandered down to the lake, midnight blue under a big Texas moon and a sky full of stars. I stepped out onto a softly lit dock edged with kayaks and hydrocycles. How much fun would it be to come back here one day and stay for a week, maybe two. Tai chi in the morning, then breakfast and a hike up into hill country, and then maybe a paddle around the lake. After that, a perfectly prepared spa lunch, followed by some water aerobics and a massage.

  Maybe I’d come here solo, all self-sufficient and serene. Or I’d finally call the old friends I never got around to calling anymore and plan a girlfriend getaway. Or, wonder of wonders, maybe I’d even come here with a guy someday. We’d burn off the calories from our spa meals by making mad, passionate love. We’d pool-hop our way around the resort, taking leisurely swims in each one before dripping our way to the next. We’d curl up side by side on lounge chairs, sharing the shade of a big thatched umbrella, and read for hours on end. When we needed a break, we’d head up to the spa in our matching white robes for a Swedish couple’s massage.

  A text message triple-beeped as it landed, interrupting my little fantasy. I fished my cell out of my purse.

  Hey, where r u?

  “Aaahhh!” I yelled. I dialed down my personal volume to what my mother would have called my inside voice. “You are driving me crazy.”

  “Already?” a voice said behind me.

  I jumped, then whipped my head around. The sole of one of my sandals caught in the space between two deck planks, and I pitched forward.

  Steve Moretti caught my shoulders just before I went over the edge and splashed into the lake. It didn’t come off as a particularly romantic gesture, like catching me in his arms or anything. It was more the way you might use a dolly to tilt a refrigerator until it was upright again.

  “Thank you,” I said. I pulled in my stomach as if that might retroactively make the body he’d just lifted a few pounds lighter.

  “You’re welcome.”

  I adjusted my pashmina, which had managed to slide through my fingers until it stretched out behind me like a jump rope. Several boatloads of people were drifting in the center of the lake, listening to the music. A couple in a canoe waved. Steve and I waved back at the same time, as if we were the official Lake Austin greeters.

  The sax player launched into a solo.

  “Great music,” I said.

  “Who’s driving you crazy?” Steve said at the exact same time.

  Neither of us said anything.

  “Nothing like the sax,” Steve said.

  “My brother,” I said at the same time.

  “You first,” we both said.

  We laughed.

  The deck started to rock, maybe from the wake of a passing boat, maybe from our hilarity. Steve touched my elbow. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go check out some gardens.”

  We followed a path up a hill and peeked in the windows of a building that looked like a little book-filled parlor. Huge sunflower faces nodded at us as we walked by. Birdhouse gourds, just like the ones we used to grow as kids every summer, dangled from a white arbor that was mostly hidden by a canopy of foliage. Prickly pear cactuses flanked the path like spiked sentries.

  “Wow,” I said as I looked around, trying to take it all in.

  “Nineteen acres. Over a thousand species of Texas plants, vegetables, herbs, spices, and wildflowers.” Steve bent down to get a closer look at something. “Including much of the food for the resort and spa restaurants as well as the ingredients for the spa treatments. It’s a terrific example of organic, sustainable gardening.”

  I could imagine him lecturing to an auditorium full of plant people, or pitching his design to a university committee as he clicked away at a PowerPoint presentation. He didn’t have Tag’s It thing, but he had an earnest enthusiasm that seemed like a quieter kind of magic. I found myself wanting to feel that kind of energy. About something. Anything.

  We followed a path into the herb and vegetable garden, each variety marked by a rectangular metal sign stuck into the ground.

  Steve whistled a long woo-hoo. “Will you look at those eggplants.”

  I started to laugh, but then I turned to follow his gaze. Rows of sexy, curvy eggplants peeked out from under lush green leaves. “Wow. Who knew eggplants could be so gorgeous.”

  Steve checked the label in front of a purple-and-cream-striped eggplant. “Pinstripe. Hmm, if I were an eggplant, I think I’d be Pinstripe.”

  “How debonair,” I said. I scanned the row and chose my favorite, a gleaming magenta.

  I read the label. “Dancer.”

  “A beauty,” Steve said.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  We strolled on to the herbs. “Patchouli,” I read. “My parents will be beside themselves.”

  “Can you believe all these varieties of basil?” Steve pinched off two leaves and held the first one and then the other close to my nose. “Which do you like better, lemon or Thai?”

  “Lemon.”

  I pinched my own leaves and held them up to him. “Cilantro or oregano?”

  Steve laughed. “That one’s coconut thyme.”

  I shrugged. “Okay, so it was a trick question.”

  We followed a path along the water’s edge, passing a smaller dock that looked like it was designed for meditation or even tai chi. Maybe I could dump Tag and get a job here, so I could start and end every day out on that dock. I’d be an all new me in no time.

  “Pizza or sushi?” Steve said.

  “Pizza. Anchovies or not?”

  “Not.”

  I wiped a hand across my forehead. “Whew, that’s a relief.” I turned to look at him. “So, you love your work, huh?”

  “Sometimes the politics get to me. Makes me wish I was still back in my landscaping days. Rake up some leaves, throw in a few azaleas, call it a day. But most days I still feel lucky to do what I do.”

  “Must be nice.”

  We passed a hammock tucked beside the lake, then the path led us to an open expanse that felt almost like a college quad or a New England town common. We stopped when we came to a crossroads in the center. I counted six separate paths in front of us.

  “Sure looks like a metaphor to me,” I said.

  Steve nodded. “I think we’ve got the high road and the low road here. . .”

  I pointed. “That one’s the road less traveled and that’s the path of least resistance. I’ll let you decide—all these choices are making me nervous.”

  Steve made a quarter turn right, and I followed. “So, what about you? Do you actually work for Tag, or does he just like to boss you around?”

  “Ha.” I blew out a puff of air, my lips inadvertently vibrating like a horse angling for a carrot. “That would be both. But yes, I work for him. I’m sort of his glorified personal assistant. A little bit of PR and marketing, but mostly making his tour arrangements, doing his social networking, answering five gazillion e-mails and phone calls a day—most of them from him, I might add. Helping him find his golf pants. Most days I feel like it sucks.”

  “So why do you do it?”

  The long cement slab walkway in front of us circled its way up a hill like a loosely coiled snake. Big stone steps sliced through the center, providing a shortcut to the top of the hill. I stepped up on the first one. “Because every time I quit, he offers me more money?”

  I climbed to the next step. “Because his business owns the house I live in?”

  I jogged up two more steps and noticed a waterfall ahead, which meant the crashing sound I heard only felt like it was coming from inside my head. “Because my family is like a giant soul-sucking octopus, and once they get their tentacles on you, there’s nothing you can do to get away?”

  I trudged through some ground cover, then put my feet together and jumped up to the next step. “Because I’m lazy?” I whispered.

  I sat down hard on the edge of the stone slab. It was still warm from the heat of the day. Steve caught up and sat down beside me.

  “Is t
hat ginger I smell?” I said, mostly to change the subject.

  He pointed at a plant with fuzzy leaves and pretty salmon-colored flowers. “Costus guanaiensis. Spiral ginger.”

  “Gee, what don’t you know?”

  He laughed. “A lot. But I do know that life’s way too short to spend it doing something you’re not that into.”

  I shrugged.

  “Summer or winter?” Steve said.

  “Summer,” I said. “Spring or fall?”

  “Toss-up.”

  “I agree,” I said. “That one was kind of a trick question.”

  When he grinned, the crinkles around his shiny brown eyes got deeper. Our eyes met and held. I started to look away, but then I didn’t.

  He tilted his head. “Ask first or just kiss?”

  He smelled like soap and tasted like dinner, but in a good way. He kept his hands on my shoulders as we kissed, as if I might start to keel over again at any moment and he wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Hey, hey, hey, what’s all this?” my brother’s voice said out of nowhere.

  Change is hard, so people hardly ever change.

  We were lined up on the long curved cement walkway, facing each other like opposing teams about to play Red Rover. Cindy/Kimmy and Stacy/Tracy stood on either side of Tag, giggling. Tag and I were glaring at each other. I wasn’t sure what Steve was doing, because I was afraid to look. In my mind’s eye, I could picture him backing away slowly until he could safely turn and run.

  “Get a life,” I said.

  “You get a life,” Tag said. “Keep your hands off my friends.”

  “What?” I said. “Are you freakin’ kidding me? How old are you?”

  “Hey, buddy,” Steve said. “Come on.”

  “You stay out of it,” Tag said.

  “What. Is. Your. Problem?” I said.

  “You know the rules,” Tag said.

  “Unbelievable,” I said. “Okay, I’ll tell you what your problem is, besides a bad case of arrested development. You actually believe your own press clippings.” I hiked up my pashmina. “You’re not my guru, Tag, so get over yourself.”

  The Tambourine Twins stopped giggling.

  Blood was pounding in my ears, and oddly I could really smell the ginger now. “Just because you run the rest of the family doesn’t mean you can tell me who the hell I can and cannot freakin’ kiss.” I could feel resentment bubbling up and up inside of me like heartburn. I fought to find the right words. “You’re not the boss of me,” I yelled.

  Tag smiled. “Uh, technically I am.”

  I wanted to wipe that stupid smile right off his face. I wanted to punch his lights out.

  “Not anymore,” I said. “I quit. I quit. I quit. And just in case you missed it, I. Freakin’. Quit.”

  We glared at each other.

  “I hate you,” I said.

  “I hate you more,” he said.

  I turned to the Tambourine Twins. “He doesn’t actually remember either of you. And just so you know, cowboy boots look really stupid with sundresses.” I took a wobbly breath. “Even when you’re blond and skinny.”

  Tag turned to Steve. “And here I thought you wanted to talk business with me. So, what, were you thinking it might pay better if you hit on my sister first?”

  “Stop,” I said, but it came out almost like a sob. I tried to breathe, but I couldn’t seem to remember how. I put a hand on my forehead to shield my face as I looked around for an escape route. I could continue up the hill, but I didn’t know where I’d end up. To go back the way we’d come, I’d have to push past my brother and his groupies.

  Steve reached for my arm.

  I shook him off and turned to take the high road.

  “Wait,” he said. “This is ridiculous.”

  Maybe I’d take the low road after all. I turned around and pushed past him. “And just so you know, I have better underwear. Much better underwear. Which you will never see.”

  Running in strappy sandals with hot tears streaming down your face and a pashmina flowing out behind you like a sad twist on a superhero cape isn’t easy, but I did the best I could. I saw a group of women in white bathrobes heading in my direction, so I jumped off the path before they could ask me what was wrong.

  Tag was an idiot, but I was an idiot, too. What was I thinking? Of course Steve Moretti only wanted to use me to get to Tag. Maybe he’d developed some new kind of plant and he wanted Tag to endorse it. They’d plaster Tag’s face all over the label, just like that stupid Jesus Toaster. Maybe it was even named after him. Ha. It was probably an eggplant. An eggplant named Tag. It would be shiny and perfect.

  By dodging the bathrobe-clad women, I’d stumbled on a shortcut back to the reception area. And in the first stroke of luck I’d had since birth, a black town car was just dropping off a guest. I asked the driver if he had time to take me back to the hotel.

  He held the door to the backseat open, and I climbed in.

  I handed him my brother’s credit card.

  The good news was that I had only nine more first kisses left.

  What goes unsaid in some families could fill the deep blue sea.

  Unfortunately that has never been the case in ours.

  When we were growing up, my friends’ mothers had watched enough episodes of Bewitched to know that at the end of the day you put on some lipstick and change into something sexy, but not too. You kiss your husband at the door and take his briefcase with one hand while mixing an aluminum shaker of martinis with the other.

  My friends would magically disappear during this interlude, perhaps locked in the basement playroom with their siblings. If they were lucky, the bar was located in the playroom and every once in a while they’d have their own happy hour. They’d take turns mixing a splash of gin with a splash of rum with a splash of crème de cacao, keeping the quantities tiny enough that their parents wouldn’t miss them at the next party, and backfilling with water when necessary. Eventually the playroom door would open and the whole family would sit down boozily at the dining room table to some crisp potatoes and an unidentifiable roast cooked to shoe-leather consistency.

  I loved eating over at my friends’ houses.

  My parents were politically opposed to martinis. Instead, they tucked a few marijuana plants in between the beefsteak tomatoes in our garden. On weekends after the harvest, when they thought we were all sleeping, they brought out their bong. It was an enormous red Lucite thing, at least three feet high. They stored it in the attic, next to the Christmas decorations, and told us it was a telescope. When the bong came out, the Grateful Dead sang nonstop from speakers the size of small continents and the sweet smell of pot wafted its way under the closed family room doors and up to us. We used to tiptoe out of our bedrooms and halfway down the stairs and just sit there, breathing it in.

  The bong was the only thing we never talked about. Maybe my parents just couldn’t connect the dots between their own need to take another walk on the wild side and their desire for us to stay out of trouble.

  But everything else we discussed at family meetings. By the time my father walked through the front door after a hard day’s work in the Sears appliance center, my mother had her fifth graders’ papers corrected for the next day and a tuna-noodle casserole baking in the oven, whole wheat breadcrumbs sprinkled on top instead of the Ritz crackers dotted with butter my friends would get. My father would take off his suit and tie and slip into a flannel shirt and his old dungarees with the peace sign embroidered on one back pocket.

  My sister Colleen would set the table while my sister Joanie poured milk into a pitcher, since we weren’t allowed to put containers on the table. I’d set out the bread and the margarine dish, the salt and pepper shakers. Tag would waltz in when dinner was ready.

  “Why doesn’t Tag ever have to do anything?” one of us girls would say.

  “I washed the car last weekend,” Tag would say.

  His words would be muffled, since nine times out of ten he’d be speaki
ng through the cut-off leg of a discarded pair of panty hose. Long, straight hair was the rage back then, and we’d all been born with thick wavy locks. So the girls took turns ironing one another’s hair, or dousing it in Dippity-do and rolling it around empty orange juice cans. Tag stuck his head under the kitchen faucet to wet down his hair twice a day and pulled a stocking over his head to flatten it into submission until he had to go out in public again. He looked like a wannabe bank robber.

  My mother drew the line at cutting a hole in the part of the stocking covering Tag’s mouth so he could eat, which meant he had to remove the contraption at dinnertime. Which in our family was a synonym for meeting time.

  “Change is hard, so people hardly ever change,” my father might say by way of grace.

  “Oh, Timmy,” my mother would say as she spooned a big gob of casserole onto a dinner plate and passed it to him. “How about something a bit more optimistic?”

  “You spend nine hours hawking refrigerators at Sears, Eileen, and see how optimistic you are,” my father would say. My father dreamed of owning his own surf shop one day. When I struck it rich, the first thing I was going to do was buy him one, right across the street from the beach. The storefront would be fluorescent green with hot pink trim and daisies in the window boxes, and it might also rent bicycles built for two.

  My mother passed a plate to Tag.

  Colleen sighed dreamily. “All you need is love, and love is all you need.”

  Tag pounded the end of his fork on the scarred wooden table. He looked like a judge about to proclaim, “Order in the court.”

  “Keep your mitts off Bruce O’Dell,” he said instead.

  “Mind your own beeswax.” Colleen glared at him and blushed at the same time.

  “Which one is Bruce O’Dell?” I asked.

  Everybody ignored me. It was pretty much the story of my life. Tag was the oldest, and Colleen was a year younger, the oldest girl. They crashed through boundaries and pushed the limits. I was a year younger than Colleen, never the oldest or youngest anything, just the middle child, which by definition meant not special. By the time it was my turn, the battles had all been won or lost, and I had my marching orders. Then Joanie Baloney, a year younger still, came along and somehow it was all adorable. She danced her way through the same borders that fenced me in, doing exactly what she wanted.