Sweet Love (20 page)

“Do yourself a favor, don’t think about it. If I did, I’d go nuts.”

He’s referring, of course, to his mother, who turned her bedroom into the big top, come one, come all. Fortysomething years old and I still haven’t learned to think before I speak. “Look . . . I didn’t mean.”

“Forget it.” He waves me off and goes to the window to pop out the screen. “By the way, when I told my mom you’d planned on coming today, a miracle occurred.”

I rip open the box with my mother’s nail scissors. “Yeah?”

“She looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Julie Mueller. I remember her. The pudgy little fat girl.’ ”

“What?” I wasn’t
that
fat, was I? Then I see a reflection of him grinning in my mother’s vanity mirror. “She did not.”

“Oh yes, she did.” He bends down and tosses out two blocks of Styrofoam. “Pudgy little fat girl with her pretend playmate, Alice.”

Now I definitely know he’s teasing. “That’s an Alzheimer’s joke. Could you be any more politically incorrect?”

“I got plenty more where those came from,” he says, lifting out the air conditioner and, grunting, shoving it into the window. “Six years’ worth of digs to get back at you.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be. I spent many nights falling asleep planning my revenge. ” Steadying the heavy unit with one of his legs, carefully he lowers the sash. “Do you know how much I hate installing air conditioners? If I didn’t love your mom more than my own, I’d be throwing a fit.”

I tell him to quit whining and get to work. “So, six years, huh? How about before that?”

“Before that, it was other memories of you that kept me away. One memory of a certain August night in particular.” He gives me a naughty smile and then revs up his power screwdriver.

Whoa, I think, standing back as he fastens the unit. He hasn’t forgotten and here I hoped he might have. Not that I did anything out of the ordinary for my age, not really. Except he was twenty-one, an experienced man with an active sex life back in college, and I was a high school virgin with an overly developed imagination and a secret, passionate longing who’d read way too many romance novels.

I was so sure the reason he didn’t pay any attention to me was because he still thought of me as a girl, not a woman. As Paul’s little sister. But if I could show him I had breasts and legs and everything his gorgeous girlfriends had, then he would see me in a new light. He would fall in love.

Which was why I dragged him into the woods, where I foolishly . . . oh, I can’t even think about it. Anyway, all I remember is him gently pulling my shirt closed and kissing me on the cheeks, softly.
Brotherly
. Then he said something about how he would always respect me and how I’d always have a special place in his heart but that I was kind of young.

Damn.

“What’re you thinking about?” he asks, sealing the rest of the window.

“That shower,” I say. “I really need one.” Preferably, cold. Like ice.

It’s pitch-black by the time we’ve finished installing, screwing in, and sealing all the units and the house is buzzing and clicking with the delicious sound of our rooms cooling. I insist on going down to Corner Beverage to buy him a six-pack in gratitude, but Michael will have nothing of it.

“How about a glass of wine, then?”

“No thanks.” He’s washing his hands at the sink and drying them on the towel, getting ready to go.

“Look, I have to repay you some way. You spent a Saturday night putting in three air conditioners, for heaven sakes, not to mention driving all the way out to Lexington to pick me up.”

“Tell you what.” He drops the towel, leaving it in a lump. Bachelor brain. “Why don’t you take that shower and afterward we can discuss dinner.”

We’re still on for dinner? At this late hour? “It’s nine-thirty. Nothing around here’s open.”
And, after the day I’ve had, I really don’t want to drive someplace.

“You know, that’s another one of your problems. You always insist on micromanaging everything. How about kicking back and trusting a guy for a change?”

“Last time I trusted a guy a pink plus sign showed up on the little white stick.”

“Ah, right. Well, that wasn’t my fault, was it?”

“No. That was Donald’s. Too bad he got to me before you could.”

Michael shakes his head. “It’s only dinner, Julie. I’m not trying to get you into bed.”

“I didn’t think you were.”
Snort.
Spinning around, I practically run down the hall. I cannot get into that shower fast enough.
Too bad he got to me before you could.
It must be the heat or the stress of the day because my mouth is going off on its own.

There’s a lot of banging and clanging going on outside my cooling bedroom as I towel off and change into a white cotton sundress. Pots, it sounds like, and I bet he’s cooking dinner. That is so sweet. First he picks me up in Lexington, then he installs the air conditioners‚ and now this. He must really feel guilty for screwing up with Kirk. Brushing my hair back into a ponytail, I add a shimmer of pink gloss simply because my lips are dry. No other reason, I swear.

The banging stops and I wait a minute to make sure I’m not going to ruin his surprise. Then I tiptoe out, excited to see what he’s been up to, only to find him staring at a white bag in the middle of the kitchen floor.

“I can’t do it,” he says, throwing up his arms. “I got the water ready. Salted it. Even found some butter and . . . I just can’t do it.”

The bag moves. On its own.

My goodness. Men are such weenies. “Lobsters?”

“Two five-pounders.”

Holy mackerel! “Where did they come from?”

“My car.” Seeing my alarm, he adds, “Don’t worry. I had them on ice. This nurse who takes care of my mother gave them to me this morning as thanks for the help I gave her in a dispute with city hall. Her husband’s a lobsterman in Hingham.”

Ahh. “Nice friend to have.”

“I’ll say. And I love lobster. It’s my favorite food in the world. But no matter what”—he puts his hands on his hips, as if in defeat—“I can’t bring myself to kill the damn things.”

I pretend that for me, she who is experienced in the ways of murdering crustaceans, executing a lobster hit is no big deal.

“How about you go in the next room, turn on some loud music, and I’ll call you when the worst is over. Okay, big boy?”

“Better yet, on the way up the stairs, I noticed the front railing’s loose. I’ll go see if I can fix it so your mother won’t lean on that one day and fall right over.”

“That sounds good. And very macho.”

“It’s a safety issue, Julie. Nothing more.”

“And all the way out there, you’ll never hear the lobsters scream.”

“They scr—?” He stops and grins. “Got me back for the fat girl remark, didn’t you?”

“No. They really do scream. So high-pitched only dogs can hear them.”

“Right.” And with one last look of regret, he goes.

Regarding the lobsters in their bag, I psych myself up by reminding myself they are huge mutant arthropods descended from the same ancestor that brought us such enjoyable creatures as the poisonous scorpion. And that, contrary to erroneous reports, they do not mate for life. The male, in fact, mates as many females as he can.

On second thought, boiling’s too good for them.

But first, a trick taught to me by my beloved grandmother. Rub the carapace between their eyes, thereby confusing and stunning them into unconsciousness. Then dunk them headfirst into rapidly boiling water. No pain, guaranteed.

That’s what I’m doing, scratching the lobsters between the eyes, when the swinging door to the kitchen opens a crack.

“You’re petting them?” Michael exclaims, wielding a hammer as if to remind me of his masculinity.

“Not petting. Stunning. You better go.”

“I can take it,” he says.

“Okay.” With a pot holder in one hand, I scoop up the lobster with my left and perform a synchronized lid lifting/lobster dunking/lid returning maneuver that’s so quick I don’t even know what’s happened—and I’m the one doing it.

“There,” I say, my hand firmly on the lid in case he tries to escape. “It’s done.”

“What about him?” He gestures at the remaining lobster still in its foggy state. “ ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well / It were done quickly:’ ”

“
Hamlet
?”

“
Macbeth
.”

“Too bad, Macduff, I have to wait for the water to reach boiling again.”

It’s a gruesome act, killing lobsters. But the reward is so worth it. Moments later, Michael and I are swatting at mosquitoes (despite the citronella candle on the middle of the picnic table—do those things ever work?) and cracking lobster over newspapers under a full moon. Sweet, delicate white meat in melted butter, tomatoes from Mom’s garden with a splash of vinaigrette, and a glass of chilled chardonnay.

Life does not get any better.

“As I recall, the last time you made us dinner was when you stole food from the Star‚” I say, picking at a claw. “Actually, it was more stole from the Star’s Dumpster.”

Michael puts down his beer with indignation. “I did not. That’s another one of your lies.”

“Yes, you did. This was during your Americans-waste-so-much phase. You came over with a huge spread of lettuce and a whole assortment of salad vegetables, even a package of ground beef, and rolls, and you grilled burgers for us on the backyard barbecue. It wasn’t until we were done that you announced you’d picked everything from a Dumpster outside a grocery store.”

He nods, remembering. “That’s right. I did. And, unless I’m mistaken, no one got sick, did they?”

“As long as I didn’t think about what you’d done, I was fine.”

“But at least I made you think, right?”

“You always made me think. That’s your most attractive body part, Michael. Your brain,” I say, grinning to myself.
Take that, Frank Zappa
. Tossing the claw into the bowl, I settle down to debate what to attack next. The tail? That’s kind of like the big bang of fireworks in lobster cuisine. When that’s gone, what’s left?

“Why didn’t we ever get together?”

The question uppercuts me, right when I’m struggling with the tail. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, even when you were a bratty kid you were kind of cute.”

“With my joyful singing and dancing?” Or when I was throwing myself at you in the woods?

“There was that. But then one day when I was home from college, you walked into the room and I was stunned. I thought, what happened to Paul’s sister? Who replaced the dorky, giggly schoolgirl with this beautiful woman?”

“That’s a total crock.” Though I’m sucking it up, praying he’ll keep laying it on. “You’re just angling for the rest of my lobster.”

“I’m telling you, it’s true.” He leans over and breaks off the tail I’ve been wrestling, pushing the meat through like a pro.

“Thanks.”

“If so, then why did you slam me when I made a pass at you?”

“Oh, that.” He fiddles with a claw shell, twirling it on his plate. “That was a very dicey situation. I’m not sure I can adequately explain it.”

“Please. If this is going to be some philosophical lecture, I don’t want to hear it. It’s late enough as it is and I’d hate to fall asleep out here,” I say, licking butter off my fingers.

“Okay, smarty-pants, I’ll tell you why.” He holds up his thumb. “First, you were seventeen and I was twenty-one. Though not a huge age difference, kind of an important one from a legal perspective.”

Lame. “You were such a nerd. What other healthy, red-blooded American, twenty-one-year-old male would push off a seventeen-year-old girl in short-shorts who was willing to do anything?”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“See, I didn’t know about the anything.” He wags his claw. “Had I known, I might have reevaluated my position.”

“Too late now, buster. You missed out. What’s the second reason?”

“Your brother and my relationship with him. Namely, the one time he caught me checking you out, he threatened—in far more colorful language than I’m about to use—that should I ever feel inclined to make a move on you, he would have to knock my lights out.”

Note to self: Murder brother.

The portable phone rings. It’s Em to say the McVeighs are back and she’ll be sleeping over there since Chris doesn’t want to drive all the way to Watertown. Like a slutty high school cheerleader who’s just learned her parents are going away for the weekend, I think,
Yes!

Mom and Dad are out. Em’s gone. I have the place to myself.

“That was Em,” I say, clicking off and daintily wiping my lips. “She’s not coming home tonight.”

“Hmm.” Michael takes another swig and gives me an interesting look. “So you’re all alone, little girl.”

“I am. And I’m not so little.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Watch it.”

He leans forward suggestively. “And I’m not twenty-one anymore.”

“And I’m not seventeen.”

“You’re better than when you were seventeen. You’ve gotten better with age.”

Pushing away my plate, I say, “That’s not what you said six years ago. What were your exact words? That’s right. You called me a ratings-grubbing ice queen with no heart or soul or principles. A picture-perfect sellout.”

“Did I say that? I’m sure I must have been referring to someone else.”

“No. I was standing right there.”

“The good news,” he says, crumpling his napkin, “is that we’re even. You screwed me over, I screwed you over. We can start anew.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Come on, Julie. Don’t play this game. You always had a crush on me, admit it.”

I will admit nothing. “Perhaps I did have a crush on you once upon a time.”

“And I always had a soft spot for you, too.”