11. Sweater Weather #3
They head out into the Haydensboro night—the fall air is crisp and delicious after all that time in the bar.
Rhode takes S’s hand, then pulls her to him and kisses her, placing his hands on her face, he’s heard women like this, and S groans into his mouth and it ends up becoming a full-on make-out session right there in front of the Alibi.
Rhode thinks how lucky he is that nobody from school came into the bar, though he’s still not quite safe.
What if Coop appears, walking his dog? (Does Coop have a dog? Or is he thinking of the Wullys?)
Rhode is happy when S leads him down the street and around the corner to an enormous Addams Family–style Victorian house.
It has multiple sections with pointy rooflines and a tower jutting up in the middle.
The entire place is covered in scaffolding.
There’s a dumpster in the driveway; parked next to the dumpster is a white Lexus SUV and a vintage Land Rover, which is so cool, Rhode whistles like a typical bro.
“It’s my daughter’s,” S says. “She thinks she’s Karen Blixen.”
Daughter? Rhode thinks. The nice thing about their time at the Alibi was that they skipped the predictable plunge into each other’s backstories.
Instead, they shared their favorite songs from classic rock bands and their favorite scenes from John Hughes movies.
(This revealed that S graduated from high school in 1993, making her a full ten years older than Rhode, but that only served to make her sexier, the Demi Moore to his Ashton Kutcher.) Rhode figured S was divorced and maybe had children, but details haven’t been mentioned until now.
There’s a light on in the upper windows of the far right section of the house, so Rhode assumes that’s where they’re going, but when he steps in that direction, S yanks his arm.
“No,” she says. “My daughter is home.”
“Do you need to check on her?” Rhode asks.
S laughs. “Hell no. Come on.” S leads Rhode around the side of the house—they have to circumnavigate two-by-fours lying about, a pyramid of rubble, stacks of fieldstone—to the backyard, where there’s an enormous muddy hole (a future pool, obviously) and beyond, a small outbuilding.
“My She-Shed,” S says. She pulls open one of the barn-style doors and switches on a light to reveal a room decorated like…
a boudoir in Versailles. A gilded chandelier hangs from the rafters, and bizarrely, the slanted ceiling is hung with paintings.
Some are portraits, some pastoral scenes; they look old, they might be antiques or they might be flea market finds, Rhode would have no way of knowing.
In the center of the room is a canopy bed made up with white and ivory linens, draped with white sheers.
It looks like a fancy dessert. The bed is flanked by ornate console tables, which are covered with white pillar candles; there must be fifty or sixty.
S lowers the dimmer on the chandelier, grabs a box of fireplace matches, and starts setting the room ablaze. She pauses only long enough to fiddle with her phone for a second—and suddenly, Roberta Flack is singing “Killing Me Softly with His Song.”
Rhode’s mouth has gone dry. He craves another drink, or even some water. He can’t help viewing this “She-Shed” the way the Haydensboro Police will the next morning when Rhode’s body is found at the bottom of the muddy pool hole.
Because what the hell is this? When Rhode heard “She-Shed,” he anticipated lounging furniture, a television, perhaps a wine fridge filled with champagne and a table for mah-jongg. But not a bed. Not tables covered with candles.
This is, he thinks, a shed for only one thing: fucking. How many men has S brought back here? Is he the first one? All the candles are new, which is the only detail that provides any comfort.
But then Rhode chastises himself. The night has taken an unusual twist, and Rhode, as an author, should appreciate this. As a man, he should do what’s expected. No: He should exceed expectations.
And he will.
He takes the matches from S’s hand and sets them down, well out of the way of any flame. The room glows romantically, Roberta Flack gives way to Ray LaMontagne, “You Are the Best Thing”—and hasn’t Rhode always wanted to make love to a Ray LaMontagne song? Here’s his chance.
He hasn’t had sex with anyone since he and Lace Ann broke up (they had grudge/pity sex when she came back to the apartment to pick up the last of her things), but he’s filled with confidence nonetheless.
He takes S’s face and kisses her. Things get so heated that she reaches down between his legs to stroke his erection outside his pants.
“Nice,” she murmurs into his mouth.
This is all the encouragement Rhode needs. He hoists S up onto the bed and in one swift movement shucks off her jeans.
Game on, he thinks.
Later, as Rhode and S lie naked, sweaty, and spent across the luxurious linens, S reaches into the drawer of one of the console tables and produces a joint. She lights it off one of the candles, takes a drag, then passes it to Rhode.
Rhode inhales, releasing the smoke in a stream of postcoital ecstasy.
He wants to thank S for an amazing evening, he wants to ask for her number, he wants to do this again—but then he remembers that he’s an attorney in town for only one night.
Ostensibly, he’ll be meeting with his client in the morning (on a Sunday?
Is that believable?), then heading back to wherever it is he lives.
(Did he tell her Rhode Island? He can’t remember.)
He lies in the golden glow of the room for a few moments, reviewing his performance (he thinks he did well, S made all the right noises, though she could have been faking, it’s the albatross of every man to never really be sure), then he says, “I should go.”
This is met with soft snoring.
Rhode is ready to conk as well—but there’s the matter of the daughter and the certainty that this scene will look a lot less appealing in the harsh light of day.
Rhode eases out of bed, pulls on his khakis and polo shirt, and slips into his driving moccasins. (He very nearly wore his Skechers out tonight, but thank god he changed his mind. Men who wear Skechers do not get laid by candlelight in She-Sheds!)
After he double-checks that he has everything—phone, wallet, key card for the dorms (which is on a green lanyard cord)—and blows out every single one of the candles, he bends to kiss S goodbye.
Then he hesitates. It feels slightly jerky to just leave, but also weird and unnecessary to wake S up.
He casts about the room—and sees a guest book and pen on a table by the door.
Rhode opens it up—will he find the names of all the other men S has brought back to her She-Shed, it would be kind of funny if so—but all the pages are empty.
Rhode carefully rips out a page from the back and writes: Thank you for a fantabulous evening!
Xo R. (He nearly crumples the note up: When has he ever used the word “fantabulous”?
It’s a word from a child’s cartoon. But whatever, he’s high and it gets his point across.)
He sets the note in the spot on the bed he recently vacated and hightails it out of there.
As he waits for his Uber, he thinks about how both Simone and Yardley made him feel like a walking, talking red flag.
But they taught him a few things as well.