All You Need Is Love (19 page)

“Are you still thinking about calling her?” Arabella shoves the last of her clothing into her shoulder bag and zips it closed. I nod. “When my grandpa died I remember that Angus actually went to the phone a whole bunch of times — he’d read an article in the Sunday papers and just felt the need to share it. But of course he couldn’t.”

“I’m narrating in my head to her like she can hear me,” I say. “And don’t add something cheesy like — well, Love, she can hear you in spirit.”

“I won’t get sappy on you — but I do believe she is with us.”

Dad knocks at the door and sticks his head into the room. “You better get going if you’re going to make the bus — South Station is bound to be busy for the long weekend.”

“Good advice, thanks, Dad,” I say and when he closes the door I tell Arabella, “It was obvious advice but I’m trying to placate him with
good suggestion
and
great idea
so that he thinks I’m doing as I’m told and doesn’t watch my every move. He used to be so much more mellow. A couple years ago I felt like there were hardly any rules.”

“Maybe that’s because you didn’t need them,” Arabella says.

I help her with her bag and we flip flop down the spiral staircase and through the kitchen to the porch where Dad and Louisa are lounging outside. Dad’s been spending only half-days on campus and then working from home, taking calls in his study, writing his graduation introductions in the living room while I write in my journal. There are only a couple more pages left until it’s totally full with all my words for the past two years. Note to self: buy new one prior to going to Martha’s Vineyard.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” I say to my father.

He flops the section of newpaper he’s reading down so it rests on his chest and says, “Have a good trip down — and call when you get there, okay? I gave Doug and Ula your arrival time so one of them will be there to meet the ferry. Look for the coffee car.”

“Sorrry — what?” I ask him.

Dad swallows and shakes his head, “The coffee car — it’s one of those smart cars, those little fuel-efficient things…”

“Let me guess — it’s brown and it’s supposed to look like a little roasted coffee bean?” I ask and can’t help but smile when I give in to the mental image of swishing around town in a car that looks like it belongs in someone’s toy chest.

Dad smiles and looks all poignant. “That’s exactly what Mable pictured and that’s how she told me to describe it to the place that customized it. When you decide on a name, it’ll go on the side — one of those magnetized signs.”

Arabella lifts her bags again, signaling me that we should go. “Sounds good. Be back soon.”

“We can talk more when you get back, okay?” Dad holds his gaze on me a little longer than he normally does, telling me in that silent but stern parental way that we’re due for a chat (chat=serious discussion).

“See you later,” Louisa adds. She’s been very quiet since the funeral, really staying in the background. I guess this is smart on her part — she probably is wary of stepping on our grieving toes. But part of me — the slightly paranoid way over-analytic part thinks this is the prelude to “the talk” — that Dad keeps mentioning. I’m sure he expects me to fall apart when they tell me they’re moving in together. The truth is, she’s here a lot anyway — and I’ve only got one more year before college and damned if I’m going to get in the way of my dad having a love life. That said, it feels a little bizarre to think of her moving her stuff in — and I know I’m ahead of myself here, but lately I’ve pictured trying to do the father-daughter stuff that we’ve always done and I feel sad that the team is breaking up.

I tell an abbreviated version of this to Arabella in the car as we attempt to get on the highway to the bus station. “Maybe you’re not really losing the twosome,” she says with her window rolled down and luxurious chestnut hair billowing in the breeze, “Maybe it’s more like increasing your team. You know, like when a band gets a second guitarist or something.”

I think for a minute and feel my nerves tense as the traffic slows to a full stop. “Bands always break up after they change like that, though.” After we sit for fifteen minutes going nowhere, I decide to turn around.

“I should’ve taken the T,” Arabella says. “Sorry.”

“No — I don’t care about the traffic, I just want you to get to the ferry.” I make a plan and hand my cell phone to Arabella so I won’t be diagnosed with the Talk n’ Drive disease that plagues our nation. “I’m driving you to Wood’s Hole. That way, we can hang out and sing and stop for French fries at Sam’s and rush you to the boat in style.”

Arabella takes her flip flops off, slides her car seat back as far as it will go and puts her bare feet on the glove compartment. “Bliss,” she says and rolls her window down all the way as I take the next exit, reverse directions on the highway and start heading south. “What should I do with the phone?”

“Oh — when we’re past the halfway point, like around the Bourne Bridge, call my dad and tell him what we’re doing.”

“Why then?” she asks and starts to rummage around for music.

“So that he can’t tell me to turn back — if we’re more than halfway there, he’ll feel compelled to let me keep going — it wouldn’t make sense by then to turn around.”

“Smart, Grasshopper, very smart.”

“If I knew the sound grasshoppers made, I would do it right now,” I say and smile.

“Creek creek?”

I shrug. “That’s a cricket noise — now put in a disc and let’s go.”

A while later, I drive over the Bourne Bridge, admiring the view of the water and wishing I were going over with Arabella. “I’m just totally claustro,” I say and sound whiny enough that I apologize out loud.

“You’re allowed to whinge and moan,” Arabella says, “But it’s not going to do any good. All you have to do is get through the next ten days and then — boom — summer will officially begin and we’ll be all set.”

“I know, you’re right — and seeing as I am such the non-sequitor queen right now — are you sure you’re okay with my sleeping bag?”

“I’ve been camping before, Love — in the actual wilderness. Living in an unfurnished apartment should be fine.” She pauses. “At least until you get down there.”

“If worse comes to worse you can always sleep on a couch in the café. Actually, that probably isn’t the best idea. I’ll get all the linens and pots and pans together and bring them next week, don’t worry.”

“Pots and pans? Who’s planning on doing any cooking?” Arabella asks and isn’t entirely joking. Maybe we’ve got different visions of the summer — this thought hits me suddenly and makes me worry.

“Um, it’s called food and we’ll need some sustenance if we’re going to fuction.”

“Can’t we eat the café food?” Arabella asks.

I make a face that causes her to look at me like I’m a big bitch. “I think having the occaisional scone is fine — but we can’t exactly live off the baked goods. The place does have to make a profit.”

Arabella looks out the window. “I know you’re having a rough time — but once we’re down there, I really hope you’ll be able to relax.”

“What’s that’s supposed to mean?” I ask and swing into the parking lot by the ferry terminal. Kids with popsicles wander around, cars wait in line to drive onto the boat, and preppy people and their Labradoodles sit on the benches waiting for their long weekend to begin.

“It means that sometimes you take everything way too seriously. Live a little. What does Chris always say? Chill. Just be chill.”

“I hate when people tell me to chill. I’m not wine. Whine, maybe.”

Arabella gets her bags from the trunk and we hug goodbye. “I’m going to run in and get my ticket — you better get back to your dad.”

“Have fun and let me know what else to bring — and keep me posted about the coffee creeps.” After Doug and Ula brought a stack of overdue bills by the house and didn’t even acknowledge her presence, Arabella started calling them the coffee creeps — or the CCs. She figures this is good code since I told her CC usually stands for Cape Cod around here.

“I’ll be sure to give you a full report. And I’ll keep my eye out for your SF.”

I pull back and look at her. “What’s that? Abbreviations I don’t know? How ghastly.”

“SF. Summer Fling.”

I raise one eyebrow at her. “As long as you’re sure the F is for fling.”

She shrugs. “Depends what you’re looking for — friend, flirt…”

“You can stop right there,” I say. The ferry sounds its deep loud horn and I wait with her bags while Arabella runs in to buy her ticket.

“Thanks for the ride, Jeeves!” she shouts from way up on the top deck. Seagulls careen and dive, looking for bread and fish, and I wave exaggeratedly from the shore from my post on the hood of the Saab.

I’m about to get back in the car, deal with traffic and turmoil by rushing back for my “chat” at home but I consider what Arabella said. No one likes to be told they’re uptight, and being fairly self-aware, I can own up to being further down the stressy spectrum than I’d like. Mable always told me to mellow, and I seem to cultivate friends like Chris and Arabella who have a knack for leisure. Maybe this is my psyche’s way of saying I need to find some of that, too.

So I sit on my car’s hood, staring out at the ocean, and give myself a full ten minutes of Atlantic Zen before hunting for change so I can grab a snack from the vending machine. The snacks are held hostage for quarters, dimes, and nickels in one of those antique contraptions where you drop your money in, hope it registers, and pull a knob out and plead for your candy or chips to actually come out. I debate the merits of a Sugar Daddy — those overly sweet caramel pops that are desirable in part because of their suggestive name — and a bag of Fritos, possibly the saltiest corn product known to consumers. I decide to go for the Fritos and drop in my money, pull the sticky knob (note to self: find hand-sanitizer back in the car), and the vending machine coughs up neither the chips I requested nor the candy I almost did.

“Tootsie rolls?” I say out loud in my amazed stupor. Some kid next to me stands waiting for his turn. “Do you want Tootsie Rolls?”

“I want Fritos,” he says.

“Well, so did I but apparently you don’t get to choose.” I pat the machine like it’s a burly dog. “Vendy here gets to pick for you — just so you know. Don’t get your hopes up…”

I sit on the bench next to the machine and ponder my new found sweets. Maybe they’re an omen of some kind. Then a bag of Fritos is thrust in front of my downwards face.

“Oh, you don’t have to give me yours,” I say, expecting to find the kid there but instead I’m squinting into the afternoon sunlight at:

“Charlie,” he says like he’s meeting me for the first time. “I notice you don’t have any liquid products with you this time — glad to be out of the face of danger.”

But it’s not the first time I’ve seen his incredible visage — handsome in just a little bit stubbled — he’s already tan — no doubt from fishing and working outside all the time. There’s something so appealing about him — he’s rugged where Asher was polished. Not that I’m doing a point by point comparison, but Charlie’s physique lends itself to description — the way his mouth curls up on one side, his lips full, the way he seems so comfortable, not that awkward stance so many guys have that makes it seem like they don’t know where to put their hands or where to look next. Charlie looks right at me, then lets his eyes study my mouth.

I stand up so I won’t be making that pinched eyebrows wrinkly nose face at him. “No frappes this time.” I stick out my hand to shake his. “Love Bukowski — just in case you’ve forgotten. It’s been a long time.” I wonder if this gets across my pissy feelings at being stood up while not totally being so rude that he writes me off.

“It has,” he says. “This is my little cousin, Drake.”

“As In Nick Drake?” I ask and immediately think of Jacob and his love for said musician — guilt makes me blush. Though why I feel guilty I don’t completely understand.

“I doubt it — though he is a great singer. Hey — Drake — want some Toosie Rolls?” Drake shrugs and chucks her Sugar Daddy over and I manage to catch it with my right hand (a small feat being left-handed as I am) and seem vaguely together. “Drake’s visiting for a few weeks.”

“Visiting…”

“My family. On the island.” Charlie pauses for a second. “Are you heading down?”

I shake my head and think about unwrapping the Sugar Daddy so I can eat it. Then I think maybe it’ll look too porn — like I’m being overtly sexual by licking the lollypop so I refrain from snacking. “I was dropping off a friend,” I say and like that I didn’t clarify what kind of friend — let him think it was a boyfriend. I don’t care.

“Oh,” he says. “I was on stand-by but the truck didn’t get on.” He points to his pick-up off in the huddle of SUVs and cars. “We’ll make it on the next one.”

I check my watch and my internal clock tells me I am way overdue in getting on the road. “Well, I’ll see you around.” Then I remember something. “What were you doing at Bartley’s Burgers, anyway?”

Charlie grins, “Same thing as you — getting food.”

“I meant…” I start but then stop. It’s not really my business to know what he was doing in Cambridge.

“I know what you meant — I was just giving you a hard time,” he says and gives me his look again, where he stares a fraction of a second too long and makes me shiver even though it’s warm outside.

“You like doing that, I think,” I say. Hello, Flirty.

“You might be right,” he says. “I was up taking care of some loose ends.” I look at him, wishing he’d be more specific, but he interprets my look as disbelief. “I am allowed to go off Martha’s Vineyard.”

I laugh to hide my embarrassment. “I know that — of course you are. But…I don’t know — it was weird seeing you there.” I instantly think of having lunch there with Mable. “It’s a place I sort of associate with my aunt.” I stop talking and hope he’ll finish the goodbye or change the subject.

“How is she, by the way?” Charlie asks then looks behind me at his cousin. “Drake — don’t even think about getting something else — we’re having a family dinner when we get there.” I remember that Charlie said he wasn’t close to his family, but maybe that’s changed — or maybe he just meant the typical not always seeing eye-to-eye stuff that always slides in and out the familial window.