Chapter 7
[Saint]
Purchasing an emerald-green dildo that looked more like a giant pickle than a penis was worth the crimson shade of Lumi’s face.
After we exit The Perfect Package, I hand her the distinct bag.
“For that special someone in my life,” I jest, my sarcasm playful. “My roommate.”
However, while I’d intended the purchase as a joke, now I’m plagued with thoughts of Lumi using it. Would she moan softly or cry out loud? Would her head fall back, her mouth open, her body beg for more? Something real and long and—
“Well played.” Lumi snags the pretty bag from my hand, tucking it unceremoniously beneath her arm and sticking her hands back into her pockets. “Now the whole town will be talking about us.”
Securing my place as her houseguest, insinuating she’s sexually frustrated, and purchasing a pleasure toy for her, certainly will give the town something to talk about.
I’m not evil by nature, but that sure was fun, and I haven’t had enough of these moments in my life.
I’m surrounded by jolly folks and well-wishers, but outright silliness that’s just for me is rare.
“Dinner?” I ask, in an effort to make up for my bad behavior.
Lumi ducks her head. With her hat on, I can’t see all that lush red-wine-colored hair that hangs long and loose, at least first thing in the morning.
When we met, it was tucked into her knit hat.
When she left for work, it was pulled back into a tight knot at the base of her neck, which I suspect is the current style beneath another knit cap.
I’d like to see all that hair, dark and richly red, spread out on a bed pillow.
“Oh.” She hesitates. “I was just going to stop by The Chowder House Rules and take something home.” She glances upward but away from me, possibly still embarrassed by how things turned out in The Perfect Package.
“Didn’t you eat there last night?”
She shrugs. “Yeah, well, it’s tough to cook for one.” Her eyes meet mine only briefly before she glances away again, and I see what I saw last night. She misses her son.
His absence brings guilt because I shouldn’t be in this town. I’m a son who has a huge responsibility this time of year. I need to be in North. I promised I’d be there by December first, and I’ve missed the date. I could blame the snowstorm and the accident, but I’d already been running behind.
As I’ve quickly learned, cell service is spotty around here. I haven’t had the chance to connect with home, other than a hasty message about the accident and my unexpected delay. Since sending the initial message off, I’ve been avoiding any responses.
And what better way to continue to ignore my family than to take this single mom to dinner.
“Chowder House Rules,” I state. “My treat. A thank you for letting me stay at your place last night.” I’d love to reach out and wrap my arm around her. Pull her into my side, like it’s a date, but Lumi has this air about her. A wall thicker than a snow barricade.
Is it because she’s the oldest? Because she’s a single mom? Because she’s alone?
I know all about loneliness and the burden of bearing it. The sense that you must continue to do everything on your own, in silence. It’s a strenuous, heavy sensation, and just for the night, I’d like to remove the pressure from her shoulders.
I knock my elbow into hers, forcing her to turn around as I’d noticed the chowder place on Harbor Road, appropriately located near the local harbor, which is at the opposite end of Main Street.
“The Chowder House Rules,” she agrees, her blue eyes still sad and her smile weak. But I intend to change both those things.
As we walk along Main Street heading in the direction of the restaurant, I admire the devotion this town has to Christmas.
Garland-wrapped lamp posts and holiday lights highlight almost every store window.
One thing I noticed earlier on my stroll was an easel in front of a local business with a giant calendar number on it.
“Explain the calendar to me,” I nod in the direction of the wooden easel still outside a boutique.
“Each day, a business can request or volunteer to host the traveling calendar for the day. A business owner or someone of their choosing rips off the large calendar date.” Lumi waves her arm in the air, dramatically imitating the removal of a date.
“It’s a photo opportunity. Helps advertise the businesses and counts down until Christmas. ”
Lumi smiles at the town tradition.
“Creative,” I state, noting once again how much this town loves the holiday season as we continue our stroll to the famous chowder spot.
Once seated in the cozy restaurant, with blue paneling that resembles waves above darker wood, like the bottom of a ship, we each order a cup of their famous corn chowder, plus a meal. After last night’s drink-a-thon, Lumi declines an alcoholic beverage, but I opt for a beer.
“So, tell me more about these three sisters,” I ask, making them sound mysterious.
Lumi laughs, the sound lighter than soft Christmas bells tinkling. Her smile is more genuine than it had been outside The Perfect Package.
“As I told you, I’m the oldest.”
I don’t dare ask her how old she is, although I’d guess around forty, give or take a few years.
“Which means I’ve inherited responsibility for Rusty’s Wrecks.”
“I totally understand.” She has no idea how much responsibility I shoulder as the oldest son as well.
“Then comes Neve, two years younger than me. She’s the mechanic in the family and runs Rusty’s. I don’t know anything about cars.”
I nod. I checked in on mine earlier today, informing said sister about the parts I’m certain I will be needing for my damaged green baby.
“Then we have twin sisters, who are three years younger than Neve. Isolde and Icelyn.”
“More snow references.” I arch a brow.
“Yes.” Her face brightens, like she can’t believe I recognize the names, but I’m familiar with tons of names.
It’s why hearing her name yesterday evening struck me.
Lumi is rather unusual in the States, not to mention, I haven’t ever heard it used on someone her age.
The name seems like a modern identity. Still, it’s lovely and fits her, although I can’t put my finger on why I think that.
Lumi Snowe. I run the name silently over my tongue while she explains what her twin sisters do.
“Isolde is a local teacher. Icelyn doesn’t live around here.” She glances out at the cold harbor view through the window at her side, like the second twin is a difficult topic.
“Any special someone for each of them?” I tease, not missing how often Lumi asked me the same question while in the adult shop.
She shakes her head, smiling down at the table. “Haven’t we all had that certain someone at least once in our lives?”
No. But I don’t answer her. Instead, I offer a warm smile like I understand when I don’t. I haven’t been able to have someone exclusive because of my position. My experience is unusual to say the least, and it’s a large commitment, one I’ve never asked someone to share with me.
“Sounds like a story,” I admit, leaning forward like she’s about to reveal all her secrets to me, which would be a preposterous assumption. I only met her two nights ago.
“No story.” Lumi sighs and stretches back in her seat. “It’s your typical girl comes home for a funeral and sleeps with the wrong guy. A flatlandah.”
“What?” I sit up straighter, staring at her as she lowers her lids, embarrassed either by her explanation or my outburst. I have so many questions.
“I was in college when my mother died.” She leans forward, slipping her hands beneath her thighs, and glances toward the wintery harbor again. Her expression is melancholy, like a deep well of emptiness still lingers after all these years.
Swallowing thickly, I don’t want to imagine the day I’ll lose my parents.
“I’m so sorry,” I offer while my fingers itch to touch her somehow, comfort her some way.
When she turns back toward me, her eyes are a little darker than normal. “I let someone who wasn’t intending to stay in this town into my heart.” She shrugs again and lowers her gaze to the table. “It happens.”
Does it? Is it that easy? And then, that easy to dismiss? I don’t like that someone hurt her, took advantage of her, and the desire to wrap her up in comfort strikes again.
After a silent minute, in which I sense she doesn’t want to further discuss the passing away of her mother or the wrong guy she slept with, I ask, “What’s a flatlandah?” I repeat the word how she said it.
“Someone who doesn’t live in Maine.” She gives me a look because I’m a flatlander.
My beer is delivered to the table along with our cups of chowder before I can ask for more details about this flatlander and what happened with him. What he did to her.
“So, tell me about your siblings?” She points her spoon at me before digging into the piping hot, thick soup and swirling it around as if the motion will settle the steam rising above the cup.
“One brother. Nick is a few years younger than me. He didn’t want any part of the family business, so he’s a firefighter in Chicago.”
Lumi stares at me across the table, brows pinching like she understands. Again, that responsibility thing.
“And Kaye . . . she wanted to take on a different division of the company.”
“Adult toys,” Lumi clarifies. She blows on the steamy mug in front of her. There is no reason that move should look sexual, and yet it does. The perfect, tight O of her lips. The rosy color of that delicate skin. Her soft exhale.
Jack Frost, I need to get it together around this woman. I’d nearly busted my personal pipe this morning in her kitchen, watching her suffer through a hangover in that loosely-closed robe and cute lobster shirt. Not to mention, being near enough to rub her temples.
Temples, Saint? Honestly? Like I’ve seen her ancient petticoat when I’d give anything to know if she wears a thong or boy briefs or nothing at all.
Nope. Bad Saint. Very bad.
“You seem to know a bit about the packaging,” she adds.