by L. A. Fiore
Luck is not on my side. I meet Daniel at Starbucks and it only takes me a moment to realize that the man is gay. Since I have already caused one man to change his sexual orientation by dating me, I am not up for another go. Keeping the conversation very light, after about half an hour, the date fizzles and Daniel and I part ways. Having most of the rest of the day ahead of me, I go shopping. When I pass the hair salon, I decide it’s time to tend to my locks. Two hours and two hundred bucks later, my hair is several inches shorter, falling just past my shoulders, which makes the curls even wilder, and it’s liberally laced with burgundy highlights. It feels fabulous and I know it looks it too—when I drop off Gwen’s car, not only does Gwen do a double take, but so does Mitch. Knowing how smitten he is with his wife, that’s saying a lot.
In the weeks that follow I keep expecting improvement in the meet and greets, but if I am being completely honest, the date with Daniel was the best of the lot. When I meet Shane and his mother, Josephine, I start to think maybe online dating isn’t for me. Shane’s mother came with him on the date. Yes, it was the three of us because he claimed she wanted to make sure I had the proper birthing hips.
During these same weeks I seem to run into Logan an awful lot: on Main Street, at the grocery store, in the cafe. He still doesn’t speak to me, but he looks different. He’s been to a barber. Though his features are still completely concealed under black fur, the mustache and beard have been trimmed, taking away the shaggy and unkempt look. Those eyes still unsettle my well-being, especially when they shine with such unabashed heat as I find them doing often in my direction. I like to believe I am a fairly insightful person, and it seems clear that Logan is interested in me, so why the continued vow of silence?
The day of the dreaded Swordfish Festival has finally come. I dress in faded jeans and my Sons of Anarchy T-shirt, and tie up my Doc Marten steel-tip black boots. Grabbing my car keys, I head for my car. Twenty minutes pass as I attempt to get the car started. With the last attempt, a terrible sound—like a death cry—comes from the engine. It’s safe to say that the LeBaron is officially toast.
The five-mile hike into town does not brighten my spirits and when I finally arrive at the one festival of the year that I truly detest, I’m almost knocked out by the smell of swordfish: that oily fishy smell clings to everything like cheap perfume.
As I stand on my allotted corner—I can’t decide what I find more comical, the fact that I have an allotted corner or that I am wearing an orange safety belt like the ones we had in grade school—I monitor the flow of pedestrian traffic to ensure that there are no mad dashes to the swordfish funnel cake stand. Yes, you heard me correctly.
The atmosphere of this festival is like that of a funeral. I understand this. Typically our festivals revolve around food—stand after stand of deliciousness based on the star of the day. But when the best offering is the swordfish funnel cake, things look bleak. It seems to me that this festival should be retired, but Chastity is quite adamant about keeping it.
Personally, I think the reason she’s so determined is because she secretly adores the swordfish funnel cake and they’re only available during this festival. Anyway, due to the empty stomachs of the festival visitors, tensions run high. Most of the visitors are older, but there are quite a few teenagers, and if anyone gets rowdy, how exactly am I supposed to bring them to order? By using harsh language?
It’s while I ponder this perplexing dilemma that I notice Logan across the street with Chastity, the most uptight person I have ever met. But as I stand there I watch as she dances around Logan like a schoolgirl with a crush. She is flipping her hair, batting her eyelashes, and, even from my distance, it looks as if she is blushing. And Logan is just sucking it all up: laughing, grinning, and even talking. The fact that he can act so friendly around a woman who is herself usually about as friendly as a rattlesnake brings my inner juvenile to the fore. But it’s the smell of the wretched swordfish funnel cakes—and really, talk about what the fuck—that is to blame for what happens next.
George Ward, creator of the aforementioned swordfish funnel cake, is a fisherman who is forever experimenting with food, but unfortunately most of his creative efforts are based on the fish he catches—swordfish. I know he has lost money, money he probably doesn’t have, trying to turn the armpit of the sea into some kind of fun festival food. And it is this fact that seals my fate.
“How much for the entire lot, George?”
His eyes widen at that. “You hate swordfish, Saffron.”
“I know, but I have a plan to get this party started.”
He snorts at that. “I can’t imagine what you can do to make this fun.”
“Trust me.”
After filling George in on my plan and paying him for half of his inventory, I grab a handful of funnel cakes and start toward the center of the festival activity. As I move through the crowd, I hand funnel cakes to those I know and tell them to wait for the signal.
When I reach my desired location, I, Miss Crowd Control, inhale and scream the words that will bring some life to this dying party. “Food Fight!”
And then I let one sail right out of my hand. Chastity doesn’t seem to understand what is happening, since she makes not a single move to prevent the funnel cake from landing smack in the middle of her face. Logan laughs out loud, but his laugh is cut short by the next airborne funnel cake. When those green eyes find mine, I gulp, and I turn tail and run, losing myself in the very merry, and messy, ruckus I have started.
Who could have known how very hard it would be to clean up smashed swordfish funnel cake? The cake, when exposed to the elements, turned a consistency very similar to cement. I shiver at the thought of eating one. Maybe George should try selling his creations to the local stonemason to use as an organic alternative to mortar.
The silver lining: the festival was a raging success. The downside: the sheriff was called and, though I wasn’t arrested for disturbing the peace, I was given community service, hence the washing down of Main Street. It’s going to take me two or three years to clean this mess up, but it was worth it, most especially for Logan’s expression when that funnel cake nailed him right on the side of his face. He never did find me in the crowd. When I saw the pieces of swordfish stuck in his beard, I couldn’t help howling with laughter. Good times.
“I can’t believe what a mess you created, Saffron. What were you thinking?”
Chastity is probably the only person who didn’t find my antics funny. Hell, even Sheriff Dwight, while he was reprimanding me, was trying desperately to keep from laughing.
“The festival was dragging, Chastity. It needed something to kick-start it.”
“And a food fight seemed to you to be an appropriate response?”
“Well, yeah. George needed to sell his cakes and the festival needed an infusion of fun. It was the perfect solution.”
“Needless to say, you won’t be asked to be in charge of crowd control again, or anything else for that matter,” Chastity says with distaste as she walks away from me.
“So I guess you aren’t going to help me clean this up?”
No answer. I’m not surprised, but I can’t help my smile—I am now officially blackballed from all future festival responsibilities. The rewards just keep coming.
In the second hour of cleaning, reinforcements arrive. Gwen, Mitch, Josh, Derek, and Tommy come with buckets, mops, and sponges.
“Want some help?” Gwen asks as she settles next to me and starts scouring the bakery’s front window.
“Thanks, guys. I really thought I was going to die of old age right here in the middle of decaying swordfish.”
Mitch starts on the hardware store, dipping his mop into the sudsy water before pulling it across the brick front of the building. “The mess aside, it was a hell of a lot of fun.”
I grin at Mitch, who winks before he continues wiping down the building.
“What did our esteemed Chastity have to say?” Josh asks as he and Derek clean the
sidewalk in front of the grocery.
“I have been banned from all future festival activities.”
“You lucky son of a bitch.” Derek hates the guilt of neglecting his festival responsibilities almost as much as me.
“Maybe you should burn the Fourth of July float, Derek—that should get you banned as well.” Tommy offers this as a joke, but when Derek seems to be taking the suggestion under advisement, we all start to laugh.
“Is there room for one more?”
Turning at the question, I’m greeted by the sight of Logan standing over me. There’s a smile on his face, but I have the sense that retribution’s burning in those green eyes. His T-shirt shows off the sinewy muscles of his arms. The visual shimmers to life of him practically naked on the beach. He can’t possibly know what I am thinking, but I look away anyway, just in case he can read minds.
“Please, there’s enough dead swordfish to go around,” I say.
Four hours later we’re done. We don’t look so hot and we sure as hell smell awful, but Main Street looks great.
“Thank you for helping me. I would have been at this for days.”
“Well, everyone should have helped. We all participated.” Ah, Gwen, spoken like a true mother.
“I need to get home and shower. I can’t stand the smell of myself.” Josh grabs his bucket, air-kisses me, and starts down the street.
“See you later, Saffron,” Derek calls as he runs to catch up to Josh.
“Yeah, we should go too, since we have to get the kids,” Mitch says, but he’s rubbing the inside of Gwen’s wrist with his thumb, small little circles.
It must be some touch because Gwen starts to respond, “We aren’t picking up the kids . . .” but never finishes her thought because her eyes glaze over. Suddenly in a hurry, she says, “Right, okay, see you later, Saffron.”
Tommy chuckles. “She has no idea how easy she is to read, does she?”
“Nope.”
“I have to get to the bar. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Tommy brushes a kiss on my cheek before turning to Logan and offering his hand. “See you later. Thanks for helping.”
“No problem,” Logan says. Tommy starts down the street.
“Thanks, Logan, it was really cool of you to help.” And with that I gather up my things and start down the street, too. There is no point in standing there staring at him, though I could have, and happily, for many hours.
I don’t get very far when I hear that deep voice speak my name. My feet just stop of their own accord before I slowly turn back around. Logan is right behind me.
For such a large man, he is remarkably quiet when he moves. He’s standing so close our bodies are practically touching, and, as I try to get my head around that, his hands reach up to gently cup my face. Electricity sparks, snapping the air between us, and, as I struggle to keep my legs under me, he brushes his lips over mine. It’s barely a kiss, but the effect is like being hit upside the head with a cast-iron frying pan. He steps back and, without another word, he turns and walks away.
Logan kissed me when I smell like eau de dead swordfish, of all times. I don’t remember walking home, but I have a sense that at least for part of the journey, I actually floated.
I am having dinner with Frank. I had to bum a ride with Tommy since I am now carless. The tale of the “festival incident,” as it is termed, is growing to near-epic proportions as with each retelling, the story is further embellished. Frank is so proud of me that he actually stands up in the middle of dinner and toasts me.
After dinner Frank asks me to go dancing. I didn’t realize how worried I was about Frank this past week until now. My tense shoulders settle with the knowledge that Frank has the energy to go dancing this week. That has to be a good sign. As we make our way down the hall to the room where the dancing is held, he entertains me with stories of the Rat Pack, as he calls them: the seniors he hangs with during the week. Bob’s hip is healing, much to Claire’s joy, and he will be fully operational in a few short weeks. Ernie and Linda, two others in the Rat Pack, are actually talking marriage even though they are both only a decade shy of being a century old. We reach the dance hall and are greeted by the sound of “Begin the Beguine.” For almost an hour, Frank and I dance to a variety of oldies, but it is during one swing number that I notice a change in Frank: he gets distant as if he’s many miles away.
“Frank? Are you okay?”
“I remember this song from my youth. Amazing how fast time flies.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
He covers my hand, which is resting on the arm of his wheelchair. “Thank you, but no. Sometimes memories are not comforting, sometimes keeping the past in the past is for the best.”
This I knew of Frank. As open and loving as he is, he rarely speaks of his time prior to coming to Harrington. I’ve wondered, but I never push since he has a right to his memories.
“I’m tired. Thank you, Saffron, for a lovely . . .”
“Evening.”
My body gets all warm as I recognize that voice. Logan flashes me a smile when I turn to face him. To the best of my knowledge, which is decidedly limited about this man, he doesn’t know anyone here. Why is he here?
“Hello, sir. I’m Logan MacGowan.”
“Frank Dupree. Are you a friend of Saffron’s?”
His gaze settles on me for a hot second before he responds. “I’d like to be.”
“You visiting someone here?”
“Came to see Saffron. Heard she needed a ride home.”
He heard I needed a ride home? Matchmaker Tommy. He was supposed to be my ride. Not sure if I should slug him or hug him the next time I see him.
“What happened to your car?” I forgot to tell Frank about the death of the LeBaron.
“It’s in car heaven, well, maybe purgatory, with the amount of times it left me stranded.”
Frank snorts; he actually snorts. “I’m surprised it lasted as long as it did. Duct tape has many applications, but holding a car together isn’t really one of them.”
“It looked pretty, though.” And it did. I used all different colors and designs. I should have sent pictures to the manufacturer.
“I’m off to bed. Thanks for taking Saffron home. Nice to meet you, Logan.”
“You too, sir.”
“Good night, Frank.” I watch him for a moment and feel the ache I always feel thinking about a time when Frank won’t be here. There isn’t a way to mentally prepare myself; his loss will be hard as hell.
“You okay?” The green of Logan’s eyes pops against the black of his sweater and beard. I nod and he says, “Dance with me.” Really more of an order than a question.
“I thought you were here to give me a ride?”
“Can’t we do both?”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
Exactly, why not? Shut up, Saffron, and stop arguing with the man.
His large hands reach down to wrap around my much smaller ones. Lifting and placing them around his neck, his take a slow journey down my arms until he reaches my waist. He encircles me and pulls me up against him. Everywhere he touches burns, and my knees weaken. He’s so much taller than me that my fingers have access to that marvelous inky-black hair brushing his shoulders. His focus never wavers from mine and, though no words are spoken, I’m surprised to realize that I don’t need words because his eyes are speaking volumes. More surprising than that revelation is the simple fact that I want him to kiss me; I want that more than I want to take my next breath. As if he reads my thoughts, his mouth covers mine. Unlike the last kiss, it isn’t a gentle brushing of lips. He kisses me as if his life depends on it and when his tongue brushes along my lower lip, I don’t hesitate to open for him. Cradling my face with his hands, he deepens the kiss and I grip his sweater in my fists and pull him closer. I’m so lost in the feel of his incredible mouth that I don’t realize the music has stopped. Honestly, I’m not aware of very much in my immediate surroundings—I’m totally focus
ed on the man before me.
When he breaks the kiss, I have to consciously bite down on a whine of protest. He runs his thumb over my lower lip, but my gaze keeps returning to his mouth: that very skilled mouth that has the power to bring a woman to her knees. I’m so focused on his sexy lips that I almost miss his softly spoken words.
“Thank you.”
My brain is in mild shock after that kiss. My next words are abrupt, but since it’s the question I most want answered, I’m okay with that. “Are you seriously here to give me a ride?”
“Yes, but I won’t lie, I wanted another kiss. Figured I’d work that in too.”
He wants to kiss me and since I want to kiss him, we are so perfect for each other. And then it hits me that Logan is actually talking to me. “You’re talking to me.”
“Is that okay?”
“Yeah. Why haven’t you before?”
“Words can be overrated. You can learn a great deal about someone just from watching them.”
I had noticed his tendency to silently observe. The idea that he’s been observing me makes me feel all warm inside.
“Makes sense, I guess. So what’s changed? Why the switch from observing to talking?”
“You hit me in the face with a funnel cake.”
“And?”
No answer. I say, “That’s it? I hit you in the face with a funnel cake. So any fried-dough product would have brought this about, or was it specifically fried dough with swordfish?”
“Are you ready to go home?”
“You’re not going to commit to your preference for swordfish funnel cakes over all the other funnel cakes in the land? Your prerogative. Yes, I am ready. And thank you for the ride.”
His hand on the small of my back is setting off little electric bursts under my skin like static shock, but it doesn’t hurt, it feels good, really, really good. He escorts me to the parking lot. A beauty of a motorcycle is sitting just near the door.
“Is that yours?”
“Yeah, you okay with that?”
Oh, the visuals of us on that bike. “Yep.”
