Chapter 18 #2
“Well, thank you for including me. I hear the striped bass just jumped right out of the ocean.”
“Practically,” my dad says and laughs. “Dolly’s got it prepared, should be delicious.”
Christopher, in pants, rises from the front steps and makes his way to us.
“Hey, buddy, you remember Stewart.”
“He took you on a boat,” he says.
“He’s staying for dinner, Dad’s making striped bass.”
“Gross,” Christopher says.
“You can make a sandwich after dinner if you hate it,” I say.
“Our mom used to say that,” he says to Stewart.
“Stewart brought herbs from his garden.” I hold up the precious bouquet. My dad leans in and smells it, eyes closed.
“The thyme,” he says. “Let’s use the thyme.”
“Okay,” I say. “He’s also brought enough wine to get us through the summer.”
Stewart holds up his bag. “A bit of indecision, actually.”
“Thank you,” my dad says.
“Come inside and we’ll get it in the fridge.
” Stewart follows me up the front steps and into the kitchen.
I see it through his eyes. A photo of all of us on the wall, before the accident.
The round table with five spindled chairs.
The original porcelain sink and wooden countertops.
The yellow wildflowers I picked yesterday and placed in a Cookie Monster coffee mug.
The chipped platter in his family’s ivy pattern on its special stand.
“We have that too,” he says, gesturing to the platter. “My mother uses the tea set all the time.”
“And the dinner plates around St. Patrick’s Day,” I say. “It was in the paper; my mom was all over it.”
My back is to the kitchen sink, and he takes a step toward me. “I like those curtains,” he says, to the window behind me. They’re white, with red poppies embroidered along the bottom.
“I made them,” I say. “Out of an old dress of my grandmother’s, actually.” I take the bottles of wine from his bag and put them in the refrigerator. I empty the big piece of crockery we keep spatulas in and fill it with ice.
“Maud?” he asks.
“Yes. I’ll show you where I sew.” So much easier to say than I’ll show you where I dream about kissing you.
I lead him to the sleeping porch. He looks around and smiles.
“This is paradise,” he says.
I smile, because I know he means it, and I totally agree. “This is Maud’s sewing machine. It’s old-school obviously, pedal operated. But it makes the most perfect stitches, slightly irregular, like they’re by hand.”
“You made those curtains here?”
“Yes. She used to wear this dress all the time in the summer. She died when I was ten and I missed seeing her in it, the way the little red poppies swished around her ankles when she walked. So when I got a little older and mastered that machine, I made curtains out of it. When the wind blows, it’s that same happy effect. ”
He steps toward me and my whole body tells me that he’s about to touch me.
He’s going to put a hand on my waist and pull me toward him.
The fizzy feeling I’ve had all day is at a boiling point.
It’s a mix of two energies—wanting something and knowing it’s a bad idea—and it’s causing a reaction inside me, just under my heart.
He crosses his arms instead, taking them out of play, and asks, “What else did you make?”
I turn around and gesture to my bed. The place where I lie all night, replaying a scenario where I leaned in at the exact second he did.
I look up at Stewart to see if he saw that thought cross my face.
He’s looking at me like he did. “This is all new,” I say to the bed, trying to hide the red in my cheeks.
“I made the duvet cover and the pillowcases, to replace what burned. I wanted it to be a lightweight pale blue fabric.” Like that shirt of yours, I don’t say.
“There was nothing like that at Target.”
“It’s beautiful,” he says, and picks up a pillow to inspect it.
“You know what I think you should do with the ten thousand dollars?” I shake my head.
I never thought I’d see the day Stewart Whitfield would be spending my money.
“Rebuild this so that you can replace the screens with windows in the winter.”
“And a fireplace,” I say.
“Yes. Just there. Maybe river stones.” His expression is almost boyish. He’s excited about this project.
“It would be beautiful,” I say. I would never spend money on something like that, but it’s fun to talk about in this waking dream where Stewart is here with me in my personal space.
“Let me get you some wine,” I say.
When we’re seated on the porch, Stewart across from me with his back to the Newtons’, my dad says, “We don’t see that much of you out here. I see Oscar and Busy all the time in the summer.”
“I haven’t been for the whole summer since high school. But this summer a lot of my office is working remotely, so I’m here.”
“Do you work in your grandfather’s office up top?” my dad asks. “With all the windows?”
“How do you know about that?” I ask.
“Saw it in a newspaper article when he passed. The whole thing looks like a lighthouse, three hundred sixty degrees of windows.”
Stewart nods. “Yes, we call it the crow’s nest. My dad’s been working out of his study, so it’s my office now. Though I have to admit it makes me dizzy if I’m up there too long. I can see too far in every direction, and I get a little overwhelmed.”
“It’s a lot of responsibility doing what you do, big shoes to fill.”
“They’re not quite mine to fill yet. I’ve got to beat out my cousin,” Stewart says. “But yes, it’s a lot of pressure. Like anything.” He catches my eye, and we meet in that place where I know just how much pressure it is. This happens to be the same place where I climbed into his lap.
“Do you think you’ll win?” asks Gus. “I mean, are you better at your job than him?”
Stewart leans back in his chair and considers the question. “I’m not really sure, actually. I’m more interested in what we’re doing than how much money we’re making. So I guess it’s up to the company to decide what they want.”
“They probably want money,” Gus says.
Stewart laughs. “Probably.” He takes a bite of his bass. “This is so good. Do you guys eat fish every night?”
Christopher says, “Gross.”
“We eat a lot of it,” my dad says. “Except for when Dolly treats us to chicken.” My dad winks at Christopher, opening the floodgates.
When Christopher laughs, it is infectious.
It comes from deep inside him, and he lets it go on as long as it needs to.
He doesn’t have that That’s enough, I’m done shutoff valve the rest of us have.
So we laugh with him, always such a gift to tap into his joy.
Stewart is laughing too, though he doesn’t even know what’s funny.
“Tell,” Christopher says.
“It’s barely a story,” I say. “Though they never stop bringing it up. When I was thirteen, I was temporarily burned out on fish, so I decided to roast a chicken.”
“She bought it, found a recipe and everything,” my dad says, grinning.
“Nowhere in that recipe did it say to take it out of the plastic before cooking it,” I say.
Christopher is laughing again and this gets Gus going.
“It smelled so bad.” My dad wipes his eyes. “For days.”
Stewart says, “When I was little I brought a skunk into the front hall because I thought it was a kitten. Trust me, we’re still talking about that.” He raises his wineglass to me, and Christopher starts laughing all over again.
“At Eight Oaks?” Gus asks.
“ ’Fraid so,” says Stewart. “He sprayed, and for a week people were coating the carpet on the front stairs with tomato sauce. We made a game of sliding down the banister to avoid it, and Oscar broke his arm. It was a whole thing. We eventually replaced the carpet, but we never stop bringing it up.”
When we’ve finished dinner Gus takes the plates into the kitchen and returns with the chocolate cake. “Too soon?” he asks with his most impish smile.
“No, perfect,” I say.
“You made this?” Stewart asks.
“She made it this morning and wouldn’t let us have any,” says Christopher.
“Oh please,” I say, passing plates around. “You had three blueberry muffins for breakfast.”
Stewart takes a bite. “Wow,” he says. “This is amazing.” I have been baking for years, but watching Stewart’s eyes as he eats this cake turns baking into something erotic for the first time. His mouth on the tines of the fork, the way his eyes dip closed. It’s too much.
The next words that come out of the mouth I’m staring at are: “Would you want to go to a Red Sox game this summer?” Stewart is speaking to Gus, who immediately stops eating.
“Are you serious? Of course.” He turns to me. “Could we?”
“Sure,” I say, as if I’m the generous one.
“We could all go,” Stewart says. “Which game would you like to see?”
“Any game,” Gus says.
Stewart looks at me and then back at Gus. “They can’t all be the same to you. Pick one you’d really like to see.”
Gus looks to me for guidance. I’m sure he’s waiting for me to tell him to figure out which one the cheapest game is, or he’s thinking he should go with a game that’s at the most convenient time for everyone else.
I have been making decisions along these lines for my entire life.
I can’t even say I prefer tea over coffee.
I don’t know why I think not asking for things is a virtue.
I don’t know why I think I’ll get extra points on my deathbed for going without.
I want Gus to say what he wants, to know it’s okay to want everything he can imagine.
“He said any game,” I say. “Who would you like to see?”
“Well, the Yankees, obviously,” he says. My dad makes a yikes face and Stewart laughs.
“I’ve been dreading that one, but let’s do it. Three weeks from Saturday, I think.”
“Seriously?” The smile on Gus’s face.
“Freddie? Christopher? Are you guys in?”
Christopher shakes his head. “Too loud.”
“We’ll stay here and see if we can see you on TV,” my dad says.
“Invite Clay if you want,” Stewart says.
Gus is furiously texting Clay, Stewart takes another bite of cake, and I am melting from the inside out.
Stewart: Thanks again for tonight
Me: Thanks for coming, it was fun
Stewart: I have a bunch of work to do tonight, but I was thinking about doing that sunset cruise tomorrow. Something to look forward to. Can you do that?
Me: Yes
My heart is racing, and if I type any more words, they will have exclamation points after them.
Stewart: Sun sets at 8:41 tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at 7
Me: Great, thank you
Stewart: Good night Dolly
He texted my name. He could have just said good night. I text Naomi: Not only did he eat my cake like he was making out with it, he texted “Good night Dolly.” That’s more than just good night, right? Feels different?
Naomi: HE LIKES YOU!!! The absolutely unnecessary excursions, the effort with Gus, the totally pornographic hand-holding. Come on
Me: There’s something between us and it terrifies me
Naomi: Because he’s so hot his body may burn you into a pile of ashes?
Me: Ha ha. You know what I mean. A person could fall for a guy like this
Naomi: A person could do a lot worse. Maybe it’s time to let go of your tragically low expectations
Me: We’re going on his boat tomorrow night. Sunset
Naomi: STOPPPPPPPP!!!!!