“Twenty-six. There’s no way you’re older than me.”
“You’re right, I’m not. Matthew.”
He grimaced, and I laughed. By now we were in the kitchen, and as he surveyed the counter covered in food, I announced, “This is where we’re fishing.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the fishermen out on the pier use any of this stuff.”
“Yeah, but they catch literal fish,” I explained. “We’re going after figurative fish.”
“Okay . . .” he drawled, looking interested.
“You know the old saying about giving a man a fish and he eats for a day?”
“But teach a man to fish and he eats for a lifetime?” He sighed. “I’m making my own lunch today, aren’t I?”
“Yep. This way you can fend for yourself when Derek leaves you for one of the perky blondes you’ve rejected.”
“I had no idea he was such a schemer,” Matt said, amused.
“Oh, he’s not,” I reassured him. “He’s just going to seize his moment and one of your leftover blondes one of these days.”
“Is that antiblonde bitterness I detect?”
“Totally. I resent the fact that I can’t pull it off myself.”
He lightly brushed one of my curls with his fingertip and then self-consciously pulled back his hand. “Dark is good,” he said.
“Yeah, that’s the Barrett girl motto—Come over to the Dark Side,” I joked, trying to smooth over the little flutter that his touch had provoked. It was a curl, for pity’s sake. No reason to flutter.
Matt didn’t notice that I was all atwitter. He walked to the counter and looked over the supplies. “I had no idea this many cheeses came presliced,” he said.
“Find the deli counter of your local grocery store, and then learn it, know it, love it,” I said. I watched as he fingered a pile of fresh basil.
“What’s this?” he asked.
I tore off a leaf and gave it to him. “Taste it,” I ordered.
He chewed it willingly and that impressed me. Plenty of guys would have made a big production over trying something new. “What do you think?” I asked.
“It’s good. Kind of tangy, I guess. What are we using it for?”
“Grilled cheese sandwiches.”
That brought the first skeptical eyebrow of the afternoon to a peak. “I’m pretty sure I’ve never had this on a grilled cheese sandwich.”
I pointed to the fresh loaf of sourdough bread and a red onion. “You’ve probably never had those on one either,” I said. “But that’s because you’ve never had my ultimate grilled cheese sandwich.”
He eyed all the other ingredients laid out and waiting. “I know I’m a kitchen rookie, but I don’t think all of this fits in one sandwich.”
“It doesn’t,” I agreed. “I’m making a salad while you work on the sandwiches.”
“Oh,” he said with a touch of relief. “That would explain the pecans and strawberries.”
“They’re not so good on the grilled cheese part,” I reassured him. “You ready to get this lunch started?”
“Let’s do this.”
By the time he had slathered the bakery bread with cream cheese and layered it with cheddar, pepper jack, onion, and basil, I knew he’d never go back to Kraft singles on white.
While he added each new ingredient to the sandwiches, I chopped spinach and sliced strawberries for a tangy summer salad. He announced that he was ready for the skillet, and once I determined that his two sloppily compiled sandwiches were on their way to a golden crust, I had him start measuring out the ingredients for my mom’s killer poppy seed dressing recipe.
“I can’t believe you make your own salad dressing from scratch,” he said. “I should introduce you to my friends Wishbone and Paul Newman.”
“It’s not the same,” I said firmly. “You’ll see.”
He shrugged but gamely added each ingredient I asked for and shook the container vigorously when ordered.
By the time he had flipped his sandwiches, the salad was ready, and I waved him into a seat at the table. “You did the cooking,” I said, “so I’ll do the serving.”
“You did way more work,” he protested. “Let me help.”
“Just consider it my warm-up for work tonight.”
I watched Matt as I chewed my own little bite of bliss, enjoying the mellow way that the basil combined with the melted cheeses and played over my taste buds. Matt took a hearty first bite and chewed a few times before stopping as a strange look crossed over his face. Then he chewed with renewed vigor, his eyes half closing. When he finished, he looked at me with respect. “I had no idea what I was missing. I think I’m breaking up with Wonder Bread.”
Guys have proposed marriage on the strength of my ultimate grilled cheese sandwich. Matt was so low-key that I guessed his decision to abandon Wonder Bread grilled cheese equaled high praise for him.
“That’s not the only thing I’m about to ruin for you. You haven’t tried the dressing yet. Eat some salad,” I urged him.
“No way. I’m not putting this sandwich down until it’s done.”
When he finally took a bite of his salad, he shook his head again. “Yeah, it’s going to be hard to hang out in Hidden Valley after this,” he said.
“Thanks?” I said, unsure how to respond to his not-quite compliment.
“No. Thank you. Best lunch ever.”
“Oh. You’re welcome.”
His salad disappeared with impressive speed, and I jumped up to clear the table, but Matt stood and intercepted me en route to the sink.
“Uh-uh,” he said. “That’s my contribution. I’ll do the dishes. Take it easy, Ashley,” and he nodded toward my empty seat.
“I feel stupid sitting here watching you clean up after me,” I objected.
“Then you can entertain me while I work,” he said. “Tell me more about you.”
“Like what? You want my GPA? My deepest, darkest secret? What kind of entertainment are you looking for?” I joked, uncomfortable with the idea of blabbing about myself.
“How about you start with why you’re in HB this summer?”
“That’s easy. I’m learning to surf.”
“Okay. Why?”
I hesitated. I learned a long time ago that most guys have an odd reaction to The List. Some viewed it at as a red-flag challenge. Others branded me as a raging feminist for my anti–early marriage stance. The rest of them just thought it was weird. I didn’t really know where Matt would fall but none of the options suited me, so I gave a truthful—if slightly incomplete—answer instead.
“I’m starting grad school in the fall, and I thought I better squeeze in some adventures before things get too crazy,” I said.
“Grad school?” he asked. “In what?”
“Art history.”
“Any particular era?”
“Uh, twentieth-century European stuff,” I said, feeling awkward. Most people didn’t ask that follow-up question, and the answer left me with my nerd slip showing beneath my cool-girl façade. I tried a change of subject. “So what got you into surfing?”
“Wait, I want to know more about grad school,” he said.
“I could give you the oral summary of my senior project,” I joked.
“That might be kind of interesting,” he said, “but I meant more like, where are you going to school? And what do you do with a degree in something like that? Are you going to be a college professor?”
I shrugged. “I’m at BYU. And I was thinking more of being a museum curator.” Yeah, my nerd slip was hanging all the way out.
“That would be kind of cool, except only if things really came alive at night like in the movie,” he said.
I stared at him blankly, wondering if I needed to adjust my gauge of his intelligence. Then I caught his sly grin as he turned back from the sink.
“Good one,” I said.
“Admit it, that would be pretty cool.”
“Except I’d have to
be the night guard to see any of it, and I wouldn’t need a master’s for that.”
“Yeah, waste of time if you only want to hang out with the stuff at night. Maybe you have time to back out. When does school start?”
“The first week of September.”
“So cancel the tuition check and start applying for night jobs at the museums around here.”
“Good idea, except the exhibits don’t tip and that’s what pays the bills right now,” I said.
“Yeah, that could be a problem.”
“Only if I want to eat.”
“Speaking of which, I’m taking care of dessert. You ready to go?” He stuck his hand in his shorts pocket to give his keys a quick jingle.
“Sure. Where?”
“I thought we’d go downtown to Jamba Juice, then maybe watch the surfers from the pier. I could point out some more techniques.”
I didn’t hear anything after “Jamba.” I smiled. “Fruit smoothies make me happy.”
“Let’s go, then.”
We shoved the lunch fixings back into the fridge, and I followed him out to his car. It was a late-model FJ Cruiser with shiny black paint, silver trim, and the ubiquitous HB surf rack sitting on the white painted top. His surf shop must be doing all right, indeed.
As usual, the Huntington Beach pier boasted a summer swell of crowds. Locals fished and jogged along its concrete length, and tourists lined the rails with cameras aimed toward Catalina Island, a distant blur of land on the horizon. Concrete benches dotted the sides of the pier, and Matt gestured toward one that an elderly couple had just vacated. We were halfway between the shore and the fifties-themed diner that sat at the pier’s end. Below us surfers sat on their boards and scanned the horizon, waiting for the right wave to come in.
“This is a good spot to check out when and why these guys are taking their waves,” he explained. “Watch for what they catch, what they let pass, and when they try standing.”
I nodded and sipped on my raspberry and peach calorie bomb, finding the rhythmic crash of the waves and warm sun hypnotic. We watched one guy catch a wave and ride it all the way in, maintaining a classic surfer stance with slightly bent knees, arms held ready to help balance himself.
When the wave faded into white water near the beach, he stepped off his board, then scooped it up and tucked it beneath his arm and jogged off toward Main Street. We stayed for another twenty minutes or so, Matt pointing out technique or lack thereof when he saw something teachable.
I tried to listen, I really did. The rise and fall of his words seemed to keep time with the waves, the rich tones lulling me into a daydream more than once. I gave myself a mental shake each time, sure if Matt caught me I would look like a zoned-out space cadet, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Or I thought he didn’t until I startled to find him waving a hand in front of my face, smiling when I focused on him.
I blushed. I never blush. But I felt almost as stupid as if I’d fallen asleep on his shoulder and then drooled. Almost.
“I can see you find this fascinating,” he teased me.
“I do, I promise. I think I’m just so relaxed that my brain is trying to go on break too.”
“That’s kind of why I like surfing,” he said. “I feel completely focused and totally relaxed at the same time.”
“Yeah, I seem to do one or the other. What’s the trick to doing both at once?”
“Practice.”
“I was hoping for something where there would be less work involved, more along the lines of a magic wetsuit.”
“You don’t need it. If you can take the relaxation you feel right now and transfer it to when you’re out on the board, you’ll do better. You’ll be able to feel the waves more, I guess is how to explain it.”
I gave him a nod and a cheesy thumbs up, which, along with my fake smile, tipped him off that I didn’t get it all.
“You’re an interesting girl, Ashley,” he said.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
He shrugged. I thought my generation tried to communicate entirely too many things through shrugs, so I kept my gaze on him until he shifted and felt obligated to answer.
“You’re unexpected,” he said. “You look all remote and serious, but you’re pretty . . .” He trailed off, searching for a word.
“Pretty what?” I prompted him. “Pretty goofy?”
“Just pretty.”
“Coward,” I said, giving him a light poke in the side.
“Didn’t anyone teach you to accept a compliment?”
“Fine. Thanks for saying I’m pretty and not finishing the thought.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re pretty . . . too,” I said.
“Pretty what?”
“Just pretty,” I teased.
“I’ll have to work on that. Maybe lose my comb or something.” He reached up and tried to muss his hair. It just came out looking more beach tousled than messy.
“I don’t think it would help,” I mumbled beneath my breath.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said, a little louder.
He leaned down until he was eye level with me and grinned. “I heard you. Thanks.”
I refused to flinch. “You’re welcome.”
I’m not sure how long I would have stayed there, drinking in the warm brown pools of his eyes, but a shriek several yards down the pier broke the spell. Matt’s head whipped around, and I could sense him tensing for action. A sunburned woman held a floppy straw hat to her head with one hand while the other hand held a camera and waved excitedly out to the water. He relaxed. I could barely make out her cry of, “Dolphins, y’all!” but it was enough to perk me right up. I looked at Matt hopefully.
“Would you like to go check them out?” he asked.
I nodded. He stood up and offered me a hand, which I accepted as I shook the last of my sun-induced lethargy off and climbed to my feet. Tempting as it was to hang on to him, I let go as soon as I stood. Hand-holding felt intimate to me at an emotional level. I didn’t like the vulnerability of putting my hand in someone else’s, an opinion that has earned the mockery of more than one college roommate given how freely I’ve been known to kiss unnamed boys in my past. All part of the Ashley Barrett charm, I guess.
We meandered down the pier a little farther near the small crowd gathered to watch the dolphins. I could see about three or four of the sleek animals arching and splashing in the water. According to Dave, surfers see dolphins quite often, but for me it felt like I had prime seats to a live showing of nature. I watched in awe as one of them leaped several feet in the air and then landed and playfully butted one of his companions. I grinned, delighted.
When they finally swam away, I turned to find Matt studying me intently again.
“What?” I asked, still smiling.
“Unexpected. Totally unexpected. You’re not remote at all.”
I dropped his gaze again, bothered that I couldn’t hold it. I felt like I kept losing a dare. “I should get going,” I said. “I need to do some stuff before work tonight.”
“Sure. Let’s get out of here.”
He drove me home, and when he walked me to the front door, I turned and blurted, “I like that you’re quiet.” And then I blushed again. I like that you’re quiet? Where did that come from?
He grinned. “See you, Ashley,” he said, backing down the walkway with his hands in his pockets.
Oh yes, Matt Gibson. You better believe it.
Chapter 7
The rest of the night and most of Saturday passed in a blur of demanding customers and the sound of my mental cash register as I racked up my tips. Even the Saturday lunch shift, usually a server’s purgatory, delivered a nonstop rotation of diners through my section. I welcomed the distraction because it gave me less time to wonder why Matt hadn’t called.
By Sunday, the hectic pace caught up with me, and for once I could appreciate the late start time of the Beachside Ward
. Normally, starting church at one in the afternoon makes the whole day feel like it’s been swallowed up by church, first with waiting for it to start, and then with sitting through it for three hours, not to mention lovely extensions like linger longer. But today, having time to sleep in and time after that to soak in the shower and eat a leisurely bowl of Fruity Pebbles felt like a little Sabbath gift.
I took extra care with my hair, combing through some curl fixer and wielding my diffuser with the skill perfected after years of experience. Satisfied that it had the proper bounce and sway, I turned my attention to my half of Celia’s closet, mulling over what to wear. I studied and dismissed a few blouses and skirts, skipped over a couple of dresses, and then pulled out the perfect solution. My sister Leila had given me a bright green wrap dress when I got home from my mission, part of her effort to ensure that I didn’t stay in what she called my “sister missionary frump fashion.” The dress, in a bright shade of lime that I normally shied away from, totally worked with my deepening tan. I threw on a pair of strappy stilettos and a cool little peridot pendant from the bottom of my jewelry box.
I opted to squish into Dave’s truck with Celia because the top on my Jeep was down and I didn’t want to screw up my hair. We enjoyed the Beach Boys all the way to the chapel, that being Dave’s version of Sunday music. I think his criteria were that it discuss nature and have no swearing. When I pressed him for an example, he cited “Surfin’ Safari” as dealing with the ocean, which was made by Heavenly Father. Props to Dave for his mad rationalization skills.
We made it into the chapel as the opening hymn started and headed for the first open seats we saw on the front row of the overflow. I’m not a big fan of the metal folding chairs; they were the main reason I was almost never late to sacrament meeting. I love me a cushioned pew.
I had three more verses of the song after sitting down to scan the chapel for Matt. I found him seated way up front, waiting to pass the sacrament. While I appreciated the fact that he was willing to serve the ward that way, I also appreciated the good things his white shirt did for his tan. But mostly I thought about the importance of passing the sacrament. Okay, maybe it was fifty-fifty. Or sixty-forty, with his tan in the lead.
The List Page 6
