Chapter 18
The next morning I wake up to a Bad Teachers’ conversation already in progress.
Kim: I’m so tired I cannot deal with Fern today. Layla can you go
Layla: I’ll go. Tell her why you’re so tired
Kim: I met someone. A guy and I like him
Layla: She more than likes him, she blushes when she says his name, which is Greg
Kim: It’s true
Me: This is the best news, though I hate that I’ve been out of the loop. How does he stack up against Custodian Hank?
Kim: Not as tall, but he’s funny. I have a feeling Custodian Hank isn’t funny
Layla: He’s not
Me: I am so happy to hear this, can’t wait to meet him. And seriously thanks for dealing with Fern, she’s fine, right?
Kim: She’s living her best life
Stewart’s calling. I want to tell them about him, they are a collective vault, but I’ve signed a contract, and I can’t keep blabbing and passing out NDAs to my friends who clearly don’t read Page Six.
“Is this too early?” he asks. It’s seven thirty.
“I’m up,” I say, and get back under the covers.
“You sound like you’re in bed.”
“I am. Are you calling on official business or is this a random bed check?”
“I check on all my employees every morning,” he says.
It lands hot in my ear; it’s as if my brain is now programmed to change everything he says into something suggestive.
If I was failing at keeping my lusty thoughts at bay in the grotto, the herb garden did me in.
I fell asleep replaying a version of last night where he kissed me.
“So no outings this week?” I ask, hopeful I’m wrong.
“Nothing formal. It’s a perfect morning. I just went for a swim and I was thinking about you out there on the sleeping porch.”
Again, this hits me in parts of my body that are not for hearing. I’m imagining him toweling off, imagining me sleeping.
My dad’s already up and drinking coffee when I get to the kitchen.
I preheat the oven. I am not surprised to see that I forgot to take butter out of the fridge to soften last night.
I must have floated right to bed on my rosemary-scented cloud.
Christopher will be up in an hour, and I promised him poppyseed muffins, but I can pivot to blueberry because Maud’s recipe calls for melted butter, not soft.
Dad holds up his Red Sox mug to me. “Morning. How was dinner at the manse?”
“It was really something,” I say, putting on the teakettle. “I sipped rosé and Sancerre and ate the most delicious coq au vin and didn’t rinse a single dish.”
“Too good to be true,” he says. “Were they nice?”
“Busy and Lilly are great. Henry’s kind of intense. Victoria is polite but suspicious, and I don’t blame her. If some random woman broke up Gus’s engagement, I’d be watching her like a hawk.” I pull out Maud’s mixing bowl and measure the sugar.
“She’s a good woman,” he says. “Does a lot for the community and still works shifts at the ER when they need her. And now that she’s giving us the Starlight Gala, she should be sainted.”
“Yes, well, she’s a little standoffish.”
“Standoffish or not, it’s all a miracle. We’re getting a new roof. We never would have been able to fix it without their help. We would have been out on the street.”
Sometimes when you’ve known someone forever, simple conversations can unexpectedly veer off into emotional land mines. It starts as nothing: Sancerre, the roof. Then it arrives at my dad’s maddening inability to see any way for us to thrive. Frustration bubbles quietly in my chest.
“Dad, there are a million ways we could make more money.”
He shoots me a look over his coffee. “Don’t think so.”
I laugh a hard laugh to ease the tension building behind my eyes. “It wouldn’t kill us to take a risk and expand on our already thriving business.”
“Almost did once, Doll. I won’t play a fool’s game twice.” This is the preface to his sermon called “My Grandfather Started a Little Fish Shop and That’s All I Need.”
“I’m not talking about a second location. We could expand where we are, on Main Street. We could use the extra money from the Starlight Gala to get started. Plus my ten grand.”
He waves a hand at me, as if to clear the chalkboard of my approach to the family legacy.
“Again, it’s all down to the Whitfields bailing us out.
This charade of yours is completely insane, but since you’re doing this, I’d like to thank him properly.
Let’s have him for dinner tonight. I’m getting a bunch of striped bass this morning, and we can barbecue it. ”
“Here?” I ask.
“Yes, here. We can eat on the west veranda to watch the sun set over the Newtons’ underwear.” He motions with his coffee to the front porch. He’s changed the subject and made a joke. We have reached this discussion’s end.
When the muffins are in the oven, I take my coffee to the front porch and call Naomi. “Why am I so uncomfortable inviting Stewart here for dinner? I told him about Niles, he’s seen me in a bikini. It’s not like he’s going to be shocked that the rest of my life is a wreck.”
“Not one thing in your life is a wreck. Besides maybe you, currently pretending you don’t want to jump this guy.”
“Stop.”
“You know and I know, we don’t have to talk about it.
But invite him over. Besides Gus, that house is your life’s great labor of love.
It’s charming. And I guarantee that Audrey woman can’t retile a bathroom.
” This hits me right where she wants it to.
Last year, the week after Christmas, I retiled the downstairs bathroom, and it is a work of art.
Aqua tile buffed to look like sea glass.
It was Gus’s and my Christmas gift to my dad, and we wrapped up a single tile and a trowel.
Gus made me include a roll of toilet paper, which made Christopher laugh so hard that it made the holiday.
I’d like to show Stewart that bathroom, so I text him.
Me: What are you doing tonight?
Stewart: I was going to ask you that earlier, but then I thought it was too much
Me: Total stalker
Stewart: I was thinking about taking the boat out for sunset. Want to come?
Yes, I want to come. I want to get on that boat with him and watch the hell out of that sunset.
Me: My dad has striped bass and he wanted to invite you for dinner tonight. To thank you
Stewart: Really?
Stewart: Ok
Stewart: Yes, I accept
Stewart: Thank you
Stewart: Bringing wine, is that ok? What time?
Me: That’s great and six
Stewart: Ok, great
It’s a coolish, dry evening, and the sky is a deep July blue.
The leaves on the maple in our front yard are huge this year.
The Goldbergs aren’t home, so there’s no polka music, and I’ve set up the picnic table on the front porch so that only two people have a view of the Newtons’ underwear line. I will seat Stewart strategically.
I wander around Goose Lane and clip one flower from every garden—yellow wild indigo, milkweed, a few white daisies, and a bloom of hot-pink hydrangea from the back of Mrs. Goldberg’s prize bush.
I line them up along the center of the table in Maud’s little cream bottles, and it looks beautiful.
I shower and put on my favorite jeans (clean) and a sleeveless white top from Patsy’s stash.
I don’t have time to completely dry my hair, but I do put on mascara and lip gloss.
I make a face at my reflection in the mirror because I’m sure she’s about to tease me for caring so much.
“What’s all this?” Gus asks, dropping his bike in the driveway.
“Striped bass,” I say. “Pop got some fresh this morning, so I thought I’d make a party.”
“Who’s coming?”
“Just us,” I say. “And Stewart.”
“Cool,” he says. He smiles at me and I take him into my arms without even considering the risks. “Okay, that’s enough,” he says.
“It’s a beautiful day in paradise,” Christopher announces just before six.
“Pants!” I reply.
My dad is tending to the coals on the barbecue in the front yard.
I stand on the porch and look out toward town, little glimmers of water between the low buildings.
I have the bass laid out on a platter in the kitchen.
It’s been sitting in olive oil and garlic for twenty minutes, and I wish I had a bit of rosemary to sprinkle over it before serving.
I think to text Stewart but he’s probably already on his way, and asking him for rosemary seems sort of suggestive, like I’m trying to take him back to that romantic moment in the garden.
This restless, buzzy feeling I’m having started then.
I’ve been trying to rationalize it. Maybe he didn’t lean in.
Maybe he does periodic abdominal crunches that cause his torso to dip forward.
But he did; he leaned in with his eyes too.
My heart does this weird dip into my stomach when I think of it.
I’m helping my dad roll the barbecue away from the house when Stewart pulls in to the driveway. My hand flies up to my dahlia necklace like I have pearls to clutch there. He pulls his Marian tote out of the backseat, and we meet in the middle of the driveway.
“I’ve overthought this, I think,” he says. He’s about to explain, but I smile and he smiles back, and we just stand there like a couple of teenagers. “Hi,” he says. The word washes over me like a breeze.
“Hi,” I say back, and tuck my still-damp hair behind my ear. “What did you overthink?”
“Oh, the wine. I wanted to get it right and ended up bringing all of it. Is that going to make me look like a drunk? Be totally honest.”
I laugh. “No, that’s very generous. Thank you.” I peer into the bag and there are five different bottles of wine.
“Like I said.” He reaches deeper into the bag and hands me a small bouquet of herbs—thyme, sage, and rosemary. It’s the thing I worried would be too romantic, but on the receiving end it is the exact right amount romantic.
I lead him over to my dad, who’s adding wood chips to the coals. He puts down his tongs, wipes his hands on his apron, and extends one to Stewart. “Hello,” he says. “So glad you could come.”