17. Maria
Maria
It’s been a strange day. Certainly not the day I’d expected to have.
I’d enjoyed making the cupcakes, and enjoyed the reactions of the four men even more when they tasted them.
I’d made twelve, thinking they’d last a few days at the very least, but they were all eaten within minutes.
The last one had even been auctioned by Papa, with both Grant and Regan bidding washing up and lunch duties for it, until I intervened, telling them not to be so stupid.
I broke it in half and gave them a piece each.
I was made to promise solemnly on my word of honor to make some more, and so vanilla extract and confectioner’s sugar were duly added to our ever-growing shopping list. Cupcake tins and paper cases were probably going to have to wait a little longer, until someone needed to take a trip into Charleston.
Meantime we had the muffin tins to see us through.
After the cupcakes… well after the first cupcakes that I’d shared just with Grant whilst the others were out, had come something completely unexpected.
I’m fairly sure it was as big a surprise to him as it was to me.
Sure, I’d always thought Grant was attractive…
but there are thousands of attractive men in the world.
Why, I met a dozen or so every day, just walking down the street, when I lived in Brooklyn.
Some less attractive ones too, I smile to myself.
So just merely being attractive wasn’t it. And Regan was already my lover, so I can’t pretend it’s to do with some kind of physical need—an outlet for sexual frustration, or anything like that.
Was that what it had been for Grant?
But no. It couldn’t have been. Regan had told me how the three of them used to regularly visit the bar down in Coyote Creek Falls and how they had all gotten to know one or two of the local women, with whom they’d occasionally spend a night.
A kind of letting off of steam and sharing of intimacy of at least some level for all concerned.
No one got hurt, but equally no one wanted to take things any further, all parties quite content to let things continue as they are.
So, what had made Grant decide to sleep with me remains as much a mystery to me as my own feelings about it.
It’s certainly true that whilst Regan is playful, fun and energetic as a lover, Grant is far more intense, more nurturing.
Somehow, the act seems different with Grant.
Not any more or less important or enjoyable, just… different. I shrug.
It’s not like me to want to be with two guys in such a short space of time. I’ve never done it before. Never felt the need. And yet I don’t feel any remorse. It’s not that I don’t have morals. I do. It’s just that… well… it simply doesn’t feel wrong.
Lying in bed, afterwards, holding Grant’s hand, after we’d eventually woken up, I’d told him about Regan and me. It felt like the right thing to do so. Not telling him would have cheapened both my relationship with Grant and my relationship with Regan.
I’d told him that if he was looking for an exclusive relationship with me, I may not be able to give him that, and he’d nodded. Understood. I still feel just as attracted to Regan as I’d always done, though I felt equally as attracted to Grant, too.
I guess… I guess they just fulfil different needs within me.
Am I being selfish, thinking this way?
Honestly, I don’t know. Grant says I’m not, but perhaps he’s just trying to please me and say what he thinks I want to hear.
That’s the problem with people, isn’t it?
They’re complicated, and they don’t always mean what they say.
On the face of it, that’s real dumb—not saying what you mean, I mean—but of course in reality it provides us with protection.
Protection for our souls. Protection for our sanity.
Not everyone in this world is a good person.
Sometimes it’s wise to play your cards close to your chest. Papa told me that, sitting on his knees, one day many years ago now.
I don’t know yet how I’ll play things with Regan. I guess I’ll have to tell him too, at some stage. It hardly seems fair not to.
Will he be hurt? Angry? Or (most likely, knowing him) just amused? Or will he simply not care one way or the other?
We’d enjoyed each other’s company—the lovemaking, the affection, the shared intimacy not just of the physical act, but of time spent together talking, joking, sharing some of those little remembrances that are such an important part of who we are.
Yet we’d never gotten around to discussing the future.
I realize now that I have no idea at all what any of Regan’s plans or aspirations are for his life, beyond sticking around with his two best friends to make a go of their repair and tow service.
And indeed, that seems to be going extremely well.
In fact, all in all, Regan strikes me as being a fairly happy, settled person.
He seems to me to be living with people he loves, doing a job he enjoys, in a part of the world he likes.
Of course, things always look different from the inside than from the outside.
Who knows what dark secrets he might have that I don’t know about?
But yet somehow that seems far-fetched. Abe, maybe.
But not Regan. Regan wears his heart on his sleeve—one of my papa’s favorite expressions that I’ve picked up from hearing him use it over the years.
Speaking of Abe… Abe seems to have had a successful trip to his friend’s sawmill, though he remains quite quiet about it, almost distant…
as if something had happened that he doesn’t want to share with the rest of us.
But perhaps that’s just how he is. He’s hardly the world’s greatest talker.
In any case, it was certainly successful from the perspective of getting the timber that he and Papa had spec’d out for their raised beds project.
As soon as dinner’s over, he and Papa head out to unload Regan’s truck, and with nothing better to do, the rest of us join in too.
The sawn-to-size timbers are handed down, one-by-one, and we stack them neatly at the far end of the space that Papa and Abe have carefully marked out and levelled to make a perfectly flat surface upon which the raised beds will sit.
After that, it’s only a matter of moments to lay the timbers roughly in place, then adjust them to fit snugly against each other at the four corners of each bed.
Levels are checked using a long, aluminum spirit level, and where necessary, a side is tapped down a little with the mallet, or raised a little with sand placed underneath, until the two would-be-gardeners are finally satisfied.
Then Abe produces a cordless power drill and another power tool that looks just the same as a drill to me, but which he explains is called an ‘impact driver’. This he hands to Papa, together with a cardboard box containing about twenty or so long, sturdy-looking, stainless steel screws.
He first uses the drill to bore holes right through the shorter timbers and on into the longer timbers that abut them.
Then Papa follows behind with the impact driver, which he uses to drive the black-painted steel screws right through the shorter timbers and on into the longer ones, tying them neatly and strongly together.
All four sides of each of the three beds are soon complete, and we all stand back to admire the three identical rectangular frames in their fully-assembled state as Regan hands around bottles of beer and proposes a toast “To the most productive vegetable garden in West Virginia.”
The final job is to fill the three beds with a mixture of soil, compost and fertilizer.
But that’s a longer task, involving much hard work with shovels, wheelbarrows, and the steaming heap of rather strongly-smelling manure that a neighboring horse breeder had kindly donated to the cause a few days ago.
We all agree that this bigger job is one that can wait for the weekend.
“Still,” says Papa as he gazes down at the as-yet empty vegetable beds, his eyes sparkling with pride and pleasure.
“We’ve made a really good start.” He takes a long drink from his bottle, then he turns to me with his usual sunny smile.
“You’ll soon be swimming in a sea of fresh garlic, onions, eggplants and green beans, my dear. Just you wait and see.”
The others all nod and smile, laughing and joking about growing amusing-shaped carrots, and other such comments. Once again, though, Abe doesn’t join in. He stands a little aside from the rest of us, looking slightly awkward, as if unsure what to say or do.
I walk over to him.
“Hey, Abe.”
“Hey, Maria.”
“All okay?”
“I guess, so.” He looks down at his boots. Not actually rude… not as such. But not what you’d call warm and engaging, either.
“You pleased with your raised bed, Abe?”
“Ain’t finished them yet.”
“True, but I mean… are you pleased with progress so far?”
“I guess.”
“Is…” I hesitate, looking at his face. “Is everything okay? I mean… between us.”
He glances at me, glances away again.
“Yeah. It’s all fine.”
“You sure? Because if I’ve done anything to offend?—”
“You ain’t.” He interrupts me. He shifts on his feet. Uncomfortable. “There’s no problem.”
“Well,” I put on as bright a smile as I can manage. “That’s good to know.”
“I gotta go… things to do.”
“Sure.”
The moment is slightly awkward, neither of us knowing quite how best to end the conversation. Finally, he turns and walks off towards the workshop.
I follow him with my eyes as he opens the side door and heads inside, shutting it with a slight clang behind him.
He said everything was fine. That there’s no problem. But his eyes told a different story.
As for me. Lying in my own bed in my little bedroom in the cabin, I listen to the softly sighing wind in the high cedars outside.
I hear the call of a pair of ducks, flapping lazily home to their nest after a day’s fishing on the nearby lake.
The moon casts a pale, silvery light against the wall opposite my open window, the curtain drawn wide to let in the fresh night air.
Just a few short weeks ago, I would have been lying in bed in our little apartment in Bushwick, Brooklyn instead of up in the mountains of West Virginia.
If our lives had not been torn upside down by Sal and Tony and their ridiculous plot to combine Moretti and Contarini bloodlines to create a new heir to their damned mafia family…
Well, what?
Papa and I would never have left Brooklyn.
We’d be there now, no doubt about it. We’d never have met Regan, Grant and Abe.
I’d never have started working for Shane at his accounting firm, and Papa would still be on the Negronis.
No vegetable garden. No cabin repairs. Just too many drinks and not enough hope.
He and I had talked, the other night, sitting out on a bench, watching the stars.
He’d told me how much his life had changed.
Told me how in those last few years in Brooklyn he’d been struggling hard with everything.
How he knew he’d been drinking too heavily, how he’d started relying on the alcohol too much, and things had just spiraled.
But now, out here, with our debts settled and fresh mountain air by the lungful, and with regular, decent food and no liquor store within walking distance, it had been like a second chance for him.
A chance he’d taken with both hands. He told me he feels fitter, stronger, more mentally alert…
just all-round better than he’s felt for decades.
In fact, he’s finally enjoying life again.
Taking all things into consideration, it seems to me we’ve rather fallen on our feet. The question seems not so much to be whether or not we’ve taken to our new lives, Papa and me.
No.
The real question seems to be…
Will it last?