Hale Maree

by Misty Provencher

  He stands there a minute, making me sway under the compliments, and his scent, and his closeness. Then he leans over me, brushing up against me as he grabs his clothes.

  “I’m going to grab a shower,” he says. “I’ll try to leave you some hot water.”

  #

  He’s on the phone when I emerge from the bathroom, my teeth chattering. Despite his quick shower, the hot water ran out half way through mine. I throw on a pair of jeans and a long sleeve white tee, and they stick to me, but I thank God again that my father actually threw some of the clothes I like into my bags.

  I don’t sit with him at the table. His conversation never pauses, but his eyes follow me to the chair near the wall of windows. The sun shines in, and the chair is warm as I brush out my hair. I put my back to Oscar, and I can’t help but hear every word of his conversation.

  “You can come up and meet her, sure...You’re bringing Amy? So, you guys are making it work, huh? Yeah, but I don’t know if it’s a good idea...they’re best friends...What do you think she’s going to do? Ok, yeah, ok...we’ll see you then.”

  I hear him click off his phone and set it down on the table. I keep brushing my hair, even as the chair grits across the floor and his footsteps tread toward me. I think he’s going to put his hands on my shoulders, or lean down and try to kiss my neck. As I think of all the things he could do, and how it might feel so shamefully good in the warm sunlight, he walks past me instead.

  “Ready to go?” he asks.

  “Go where?”

  “Town. We need food. Aren’t you hungry?” he asks. I just nod. I feel so stupidly helpless without money, a car, or even a phone. I’ve got no way to take care of myself right now besides trusting him to do it for me. Part of me wants to kick him in the nuts and steal his truck. The other part knows that, even if I had his truck, there’d be nowhere for me to really go. So,I get on my shoes, even though I feel as though I’m moving like a tin man.

  Outside, the air really hits me. It’s colder than I expect and it smells cleaner than I’m used to. I can hear the water rippling up to the shore as we get into the truck, and it seems like I should be happy instead of still so tense. Oscar must see it too, because he starts talking.

  “My friend, Landon, is coming up on Friday,” he says. Two days from now. Then, with a little less enthusiasm, “He’s bringing Amy, his new girlfriend too.”

  “Isn’t it going to be create a total train wreck that I’m here?” I say, as Oscar puts his arm over the back of my seat to back up the truck. Something about it feels intimate, like I’m in his arms, even though I’m really only at his fingertips. I press my back to the edge of the seat. “Sophia doesn’t even know about me yet, does she?”

  “No. But Landon won’t bat an eye. He’s the closest friend I’ve got, and he never liked Sophia much anyway. But he’s also with Amy. That could be more of a problem.”

  “Didn’t you say on the phone that Sophia and Amy are best friends?”

  “I did,” he says, removing his arm from the back of my seat. He puts the truck in drive and steers us down the winding dirt drive back to the paved, main road. The Marees seem to have a thing for long, obscured driveways, and this one is beautiful. The trees stretch up along the sides and nearly touch overhead, like a cathedral ceiling. “I’ll have to call Sophia today and tell her I’m leaving her for you.”

  “Great,” I grumble. “I get to be the bitch that took you away from your girlfriend.”

  “No,” he corrects me softly. “What I’ll tell her is that you are the girl I couldn’t resist. You are the girl that I met by chance, because our fathers were doing business together, and I fell in love with you at first sight. I was the one that pursued you, even though I had a girlfriend at the time. I couldn’t help myself. I’ll tell her you were never the other woman, Hale, because you are the one.”

  When he stops talking, I realize I’m leaning a little off my seat with my mouth open. The way he looks at me is so intense, even just the fleeting glance he takes from the road to give to me, throws me off-guard and it takes me a moment to remember that this whole thing is just a cover up. But, if he can say it again the way he just did, making me forget that he’s not really in love with me, than I’m sure his friends won’t have any trouble believing the lie either.

  “Yeah, stick with that,” I say, settling back against the seat. “It sounds real.”

  “It should,” he says, but he keeps his eyes on the road and his jaw seems to harden a little. “We need to be on the same page.”

  “Your page has a wedding certificate on it though.”

  “So should yours.”

  “No,” I wiggle in the seat. “Mine has more of a note on it.”

  That gets me a glance with a cocked eyebrow attached to it.

  “A note?” he asks.

  “Like a would you like to date me note.”

  “Oh,” he says and closes his mouth with a thoughtful hmm. It takes a second before he continues, “I’ll tell you what. Let’s consider this a date. We’re going to be at the beach house for a while, so let’s think of this as one long, uninterrupted date.”

  “But dating doesn’t mean we’ll end up together.”

  “I think we both realize that this date has to end exactly like that,” he says solidly. “But we don’t have to make anything official overnight either. I don’t have any problem with you taking some time to get comfortable with me.”

  It’s as much breathing space as I’m going to get out of him, I think.

  “And you can get comfortable with me too,” I say.

  “No need,” he says. “I was comfortable with you from the first moment I met you.” His glance jumps from the road, and washes over me in static waves that make my heart blink a beat before he looks away.

  #

  “What do you like to eat?” he asks as we pull up in front of a grocery store. ‘Town’ is a strip of individual buildings that house all the necessary stores: a grocery, a gas station, a hardware and a rickety brown building with a hand-painted sign that says:

  COME IN ITALIANS FOOD

  “Not Italians. I don’t eat them,” I say pointing to the sign, and he laughs.

  While we walk through the aisles of the grocery store, I try to decipher things about Oscar by what he puts in the cart. He likes pickles- two jars of kosher spears- and he buys expensive coffee. He gets eggs, milk and bread (snore) and fruit, chicken, steak, hamburger with buns and lunchmeat (snore more). He throws in peanut butter and a few bagged salads, bottled water, champagne, beer, dressing and carrots...the list keeps going and the cart is piled like we’ll never see civilization again.

  I’m not a detective after all. The only thing that the grocery cart says about Oscar is that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, because he’s buying way too much of everything. It would probably cost him less to have the entire store relocated onto the front lawn of the cabin.

  He pays the bill, while I hold a teetering cake in place, so it doesn’t plop out onto the floor.

  “You really think we’re going to eat all of this?” I ask, as he grabs the cart handle and pushes our mammoth pile slowly enough that I can still hold onto the cake and manage the three bags of chips that want to slide off the top of Mt. Grocery.

  “I was waiting for you to say what you liked,” he says. “You didn’t, so I got a little of everything. I’m starving...you like bagels?”

  I nod. We heave everything into the truck, stacking and smashing it all, so we can make it fit. Oscar hands me the cake and a carton of eggs.

  “You go ahead and get in. I’ve got the rest of this,” he says. When he finally gets in the truck, he’s got two cinnamon bagels with cream cheese on them, and a plastic knife hanging out of his mouth. He flashes me a grin around the knife and hands one of the bagels to me.

  With the cake and eggs stacked on my lap for the ride back, I nibble on the bagel and realize that the one thing I’ve learned about Oscar Maree is that he’s trying a lot harder t
han I am. And I might want to change that.

  #

  “I’m still hungry, are you?” Oscar says when we’ve dragged the carload of groceries inside.

  “Yes,” I say, and the way he smiles makes me feel warm inside. He takes the eggs from the fridge and pulls a skillet from a cupboard.

  “Eggs sound good? I can make them however you want, as long as you want them scrambled.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Growing up, my mom always poached them, but I’ve never been able to do it.”

  I step up beside him and take the skillet.

  “It’s just boiling salty water, there’s nothing to poaching an egg.”

  “Unless you’re me,” he says, stepping aside. I fill the skillet with water, dump in some salt from a shaker on the back of the stove, and set the pan on the oven with a thunk.

  “Wait, a minute,” I say. “You just want to see if I can cook.”

  “Maybe I don’t want you to see how bad I am at it.”

  I roll my eyes at him.

  “Whatever,” I say. “You’ve got a mother that made poached eggs for you?”

  “I had a mother that made eggs. My mom died of breast cancer six years ago.”

  “Sorry,” I tell him, and I mean it. I hear how his voice dips, and I see how he looks away across the floor and out the windows toward the beach. “Is your dad remarried?”

  “No,” he says. “It’s just him and me.”

  “No brothers or sisters either?”

  “Nope. What about you? Siblings?”

  I shake my head, watching the tiny bubbles beginning to form in the bottom of the skillet.

  “Just me and my dad. My mom’s in Texas somewhere, with her new husband and new kids,” I say. Oscar winces.

  “How long has she been gone?”

  “Forever.” I shrug, as the skillet bubbles jump up to the top and burst, one after another. I crack an egg into the water. I don’t know why I say it, but I tell him, “That’s what got my dad drinking.”

  Oscar steps a little closer, peering into the skillet. I flick water over the eggs so the tops cook too.

  “So that’s how you do that,” he murmurs as if the egg is really interesting. He watches me lift his egg out, drain off the water and slip it into a coffee mug. I hold out the cup to him, but without looking up at me, Oscar adds, “Your dad’s been drinking a while then, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  Oscar makes a low rumble in his throat. “I don’t drink. You?”

  “Yeah right.”

  “You’re a good girl, Hale.”

  I shoot him a sour glare. “I’m a woman, Oscar.”

  But the glare doesn’t do what I expect. Instead of pushing him away, Oscar moves closer so the eggcup only separates our bodies at waist level.

  “Are you now?” Oscar’s voice is deep and sultry. I think of a dozen comebacks, but every single one makes me sound like a little kid. With Oscar staring down at me, and the steam of the egg rising up, the room suddenly feels too warm. But I won’t let him scare me. I won’t look away. Instead, I want to call his bluff and let him know I’m not some little kid he can boss around.

  “Kiss me,” I say. A smile teases over his lips. He tips his head to one side and squints at me.

  “That’s what you want now?” he asks. His stare is so intense; I catch my bottom lip in my teeth without even thinking about it. When his eyes flick to my lips, I realize what I’m doing and let go. Oscar smiles. “Why now?”

  I don’t have an answer, because I didn’t expect the question. I thought he’d just give in and kiss me. I didn’t expect that he’d resist, or question the direct request. I glance away and take a step back, but Oscar moves forward and grabs my arms.

  “Is that what you want?” he asks again, but I can’t answer. I don’t know. I just want him to see me as an equal, and not some little girl that he can tell what to do. Not a cow. Not even a wife, but a woman who can make up her own mind, and might even be able to make up his, with the right kiss. But my whole plan kind of blows up in my face, because Oscar’s not following the script I have in my head. Instead, he’s looking at my lips, then drilling into my eyes, and all the womanly wiles I was counting on fail me.

  I gulp and push the coffee mug into his gut.

  “Never mind,” I say. “Here’s your egg.”

  Oscar lets go of my arms, and his hands slide down to take the mug.

  “Thanks,” he says with a smirk, “for cooking for me.”

  #

  He won.

  He told me before he wanted me to cook for him and I walked right into it. As he turns to get a spoon from the silverware drawer, I walk across the room to the door leading out to the beach. My fingers are on the handle when Oscar says, “Stay and talk to me.”

  “About what?” I ask with a sigh.

  “Anything,” he says innocently. “Tell me what you want from me.”

  “I don’t want anything from you.”

  “You’re aiming kind of low, don’t you think?” he asks. “Give me something to shoot for. To impress you with. I could be a pretty impressive husband, if I’m motivated.”

  “Why do we have to keep talking about this stuff? It’s boring.” I say. Oscar just lifts his spoon to his mouth and takes the first bite of his egg. He closes his eyes and hums, mmm.

  “You really know how to cook,” he says. Cooking. That was on his list of what he wanted me to do for him, and it annoys me. So, if he wants something to shoot for, I figure I’ll make it impossible.

  “I want you to worship me,” I say. Oscar’s entire forehead wrinkles up with amusement as he chews.

  “Worship? Seriously?” he asks, his mouth full.

  “Yup.”

  “You mean like bowing when you walk in the room? Making altars? That kind of thing?”

  I roll my eyes. “No. I mean that if I call for you, I want to know that you’ll come running. I want to know that, when I walk into a room, you’ll notice. That if I burn dinner or turn your t-shirts pink or gain five pounds, you’ll still feel lucky to have me. When we talk, I want you to really hear what I’m trying to say. That’s what I want from you.”

  Oscar puts the mug on the counter. I think he’s going to tell me I’m a spoiled brat, or that I don’t know a thing about how relationships work, but he leans on the counter with one hand and gives me a long stare before he says, “Done.”

  I drop my fingertips from the door handle.

  “I would notice you, Hale,” he continues, “if you walked into a room behind a 500 pound lion that was charging straight for me. I would notice you if the room were full of naked women, and I was in deep conversation about my own death. I will always come running, I’ll eat the dinner and wear the shirts and I’ve already thought that if you put on ten more pounds, it’d be a sure bet that I would never let you out of my bed. I’ve been trying to soak up every word you’ve said since the first time we spoke, so I think it’s only fair that you try just as hard to hear me now. I think you are perfect for me, Hale, and I’m just waiting for you to realize that I’m perfect for you too.”

  It’s like the entire room disappears and all I see is Oscar with his level gaze, as he drops his voice to a whisper and says, “Come here.”

  But I stay where I am, with the sun warming my back through the windows, and I shake my head at him.

  “No,” I say. “Come running.”

  He doesn’t hesitate. Oscar crosses the room in four strides, pulling me into his arms. Both of his hands slide up my back, one cupping my head as he brings his mouth down on mine. His lips are softer than I expect. I spin inside his kiss, clinging to him as he pulls my lip between his teeth and gently releases it again. His breath whispers my name across my mouth as he pulls me even closer. With my body crushed against his, and the sunlight from the windows, and his hands sliding down my back, I think I am going to combust.

  As his mouth moves against mine again, and his fingers slide over my hips, his cell phone begins
to ring. He ignores it, but I pull back.

  “Aren’t you going to get that?” I ask. He groans, but reaches into his pocket, then steps back, his eyes still boring into mine, and turns on the phone.

  “Hello?” His tone could not be more agitated. He listens a moment before his eyes move away from me, out the windows. We’re still so close; it feels like an invasion of his privacy to stay there, under his chin, breathing him in, so I back away. His gaze remains far past me.

  “Ok...but they still don’t have any leads, do they? I thought you said they worked together...well, did Sophia have something to do with it or not?”

  He moves then, turning away from me to plant his hand on the edge of the table, his back to me. I follow the arc of his arm, past his broad shoulder, and down to his narrow waist. My skin still tingles where his hands held me steady only a moment ago.

  “But he told you Sophia sent him...that they were together...no, it doesn’t add up, does it...I don’t care what she says. The guy told you he was there because of her, why would he say that if he wasn’t? I’ll talk to her in a couple days. I’m too confused to say anything right now...Yeah, she’s still here with me...I don’t know yet, we’ll see...alright, well, keep me up on what’s going on, okay?...Alright, Dad...yeah, you too...bye.”

  He switches off the phone and lays it on the table.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. He shakes his head, and rubs his eyes with one hand.