Authors: Nancy Thayer
EIGHTEEN
Clare was in the kitchen, deeply involved in a complicated recipe for seafood pasta. She was chopping and boiling and peeling and stirring, each move a kind of ballet maneuver because Ralph bumbled around her feet, hoping for something to drop.
“Dad?” she yelled. “Dad? Could you take Ralph for her walk?”
No answer. She moved the saucepan off the burner, wiped her hands on her apron, and went into the den. Her father sat in his pajamas, staring at an old newspaper.
“Dad. Earth to Dad?”
Her father looked up, his gaze clouded with memories.
“Dad, I’m fixing dinner and Jesse should be here soon, and I’d love it if you’d take Ralph for a walk.”
Her father nodded. “Well.” He put the newspapers on the table next to him and pushed up with his hands from his chair. “Well, all right. How far should I take her?”
Clare sighed. So far the adoption of the dog had not morphed into the dream-come-true happy ending she’d hoped for. Her father seemed to like the dog, but in a passive way. He hadn’t yet come to think of the animal as a creature with certain needs. Clare had encouraged her father to give the dog a name, and her father had stared at the amiable mutt who sat wagging her tail, ready for anything, and said, “Ralph.”
“She’s a female, Dad.”
“Oh. Well, Ralphie? Or you can name her.”
He wasn’t connecting. “Oh, Ralph’s a fine name, Dad. Kind of sounds like how dogs sound when they bark. Ralph! Ralph!” She’d thought she was pretty funny, and she did get a slender smile from her father. And he did bend to pet the dog, who shivered all over with pleasure.
Now Clare moved out to the hall, mentally tugging her father after her. “How about just around the block? Look, just put your raincoat on over your pajamas, no one will know. And here’s her leash.” Lifting it from the hook, she snapped it onto Ralph’s collar, then took a plastic bag from the drawer. “And here’s the bag in case she takes a dump. You remember the routine? Put it over your hand like a mitten, pick up the poop, then bring the top of the bag down like this and tie it, and voilà!”
Her father slipped his arms into his raincoat and dutifully accepted the paraphernalia. Together man and dog toddled out into the spring evening. It was almost eight o’clock, late for dinner, but Jesse was working at Lexi’s and said he’d be home late, and her father didn’t care when he ate or if he ate, for that matter. Clare stood at the door, enjoying the fresh air on her face and smiling. Okay, so it hadn’t been love at first sight, her father hadn’t leaped off the sofa and danced around the room with the dog in his arms, but he was out there walking, patiently waiting for Ralph to sniff messages off leaves and fences. It was more than he’d done for months.
Her father was moving very slowly. If he went at this pace around the entire block, they’d be eating dinner at midnight.
Really, she was tired. She’d been rising early the past few days, dressing and hurrying without breakfast or even a cup of coffee out to the wharf and into her shop. Marlene came in at nine and worked steadily alongside her, but always had to leave at five to fix dinner for her own family. Clare didn’t have to come home and fix a proper meal. Jesse and her father were always perfectly happy with a pizza, but she wanted—subtly, even subconsciously—to reward Jesse for helping Lexi. It meant he worked extra hours in an already long day, plus he missed part of the televised Red Sox ball games. But it would only be for a few days; it was just a small job. She didn’t understand why Jesse was being so sullen about it.
Back in the kitchen, she saw that the water had almost boiled out of the pasta pot. She refilled it and turned the heat to simmer. She poured herself a glass of red wine and carried it out to the back porch, sank onto a step, and leaned against the porch railing.
A winding slate path led from the house to the garage that had been transformed into her mother’s studio. Now the building was dark. After her mother’s death, Clare and her father had donated all her mother’s art supplies—easels, pastels, oils, turps, and work tables—to the community school. So the room with its expanse of windows along the north and its glossy hardwood floor was bare. Perhaps they should turn it into a little apartment. The money from a rental would be helpful, especially now that her father had retired. Or perhaps, once she and Jesse were married and had a child or two, her father could live there. Not that she wanted to kick him out of his own house, but her parents had always told Clare they wanted to give her the house when she was older. Every now and then, during her twenties, she had rented her own little apartment in another part of town. A place of her own. She had loved the freedom to make each room look just the way she wanted it. But when her mother became ill, she’d moved back into the house to help, and since her mother’s death it had seemed necessary for her to remain in the house to help her father. It wasn’t such an odd situation she was in, living in her childhood home as an adult. Many of her friends were also doing it. Few people her age could afford to buy their own house on the island. Still, Clare felt like a snail grown too big for her shell. She wanted to move out, move on. Or stay, but make changes to reflect her own tastes and desires. Everything had gotten so drab and dusty in the house, but she couldn’t yet broach the subject of changing a single thing, not with her father still in mourning for her mother.
Well, she could at least come out and clean up the flower beds, prune back the privet, and perhaps it wasn’t too early to bring some of the lawn chairs out. She’d love to get over to the Cape to buy some new cushions for the wicker furniture on the back porch. She longed for deep pillowy cushions in pastel colors … she was in such a nesting mood these days. She and Jesse couldn’t get married this summer, they’d both be working straight-out crazy insane hours. But if they married in the fall, she could have a baby next spring …
The front door slammed. She heard voices. Jesse and her dad were home. Back in the kitchen, she turned the heat up under the pasta pot and poured olive oil into the skillet. Ralph clicked into the room and stared at her with shy, hopeful eyes.
“Hi, sweetie.” She bent to nuzzle and stroke the dog.
“I hope you’re going to wash your hands before you touch the food.” Jesse stood in the kitchen door. He had sawdust in his hair. He looked sexy and exhausted and cranky.
Clare made a face. “Hello to you, too, Sunshine. When did you get so frightened of dog germs? Don’t answer that. Sit down. Have some wine.” She washed her hands dutifully, poured him a glass of wine, and handed it to him. “Where’s Dad?”
“I think he went into the den.” Jesse collapsed in a chair and put his booted feet up on another chair. “I’m beat.”
Clare began to stir-fry the veggies and scallops and fresh tuna. “You’ll feel better soon. I’m making a yummy meal.” She glanced over her shoulder. “How are the dressing rooms going?”
“I’ll be through tomorrow night.”
“So it’s not such a big deal.”
Jesse grunted.
Clare put the pasta in to cook, wondering what on earth was bugging Jesse. He was usually the sweetest man, patient, full of jokes and bonhomie. Perhaps it was just exhaustion, overwork, and the kind of psychological pressure every islander felt as the island population geared up to expand from the winter’s nine thousand to twenty, then thirty, then, in August, fifty thousand residents. While the pasta boiled, Clare filled Ralph’s bowl and set it down for her. She had planned to encourage her father to be responsible for the dog’s meals, but it was still early. Her father had taken the dog for a walk; that was enough for today.
“I don’t know why you got that thing,” Jesse remarked, staring at Ralph, whose tail wagged happily as she wolfed down her food.
Surprised by the tone of his voice, Clare turned to look at Jesse. “Why, I told you. I think it will get my father out of his chair and out of the house.”
“Yeah, if you nag him to do it. Be honest, Clare, you’re going to be the one responsible for that animal. Which means you and I are going to be tied down even more than we already are.”
“Tied down?” Clare’s heart made funny jiggling movements.
“Yeah, like how can we travel?”
“Um, I didn’t know we were planning to travel.”
“You know I’ve always wanted to travel.”
“True, but when we do get the chance to travel, well, by then Dad will be capable of caring for the dog.”
“I’m not so sure.”
The buzzer sounded. Clare poured the pasta into the colander to drain. “Jesse,” she said over her shoulder, “what’s up with you?”
Jesse looked away. His face was cloudy. “I just guess I wish you had consulted me before you went and got the dog. I mean, his presence changes my life as much as yours.”
Clare’s jaw dropped. “Oh, Jesse, you’re right. I never really thought about that. I’m sorry, honey.” On the stove, the sizzling oil made a crackling sound. Quickly she poured in the cream and stirred it with a wooden spoon. “Jesse, dinner’s ready. Could you get Dad in here? And let’s talk about the dog thing later, okay? I’m sorry, though, truly, if I seemed thoughtless.”
“I’ll get your father.” Jesse rose and left the room.
Clare prepared a plate with pasta and the creamy seafood sauce. As she carried it to the table, Ralph dashed between her legs so quickly she trod on one of the dog’s feet and tripped, nearly sending the plate of food into the air. But she managed to keep her grip, and when she set the plate down safely on the table, she said to the dog in a very harsh voice, “No! Bad dog, Ralphie! Go lie down!”
Ralphie cringed at the sound of her voice.
Clare felt just completely miserable.
NINETEEN
At six o’clock on a windy spring evening, Jesse was at the back of Lexi’s shop, hammering away. He’d been here for three hours, and so far Lexi had managed to act normal, or at least no more klutzy than usual. She had so much to do, she kept busy, zipping here and there around the shop, forcing her mind to focus on her work even though every cell in her body was tuned toward Jesse’s presence. She turned up the volume on her radio, filling the room with sound so that she and Jesse didn’t seem quite so very much alone here together.
She entered the far cubicle and sat down, trying out the corner bench Jesse had built. It was fine. She would put the first coat of paint on tonight.
“There,” Jesse called over the dividing partition. “Done.”
She stood, still planning. “Jesse, um, do you suppose you could come back tomorrow and do just a few more little bits? I’m so hopeless with a hammer.”
Jesse came around the dividing wall and leaned on the open cubicle entrance. He smelled like new wood and soap and, just a little, of sweat. “What else?”
“I need the pictures hung up, and mirrors, one in each cubicle and a couple out on the walls. And privacy curtains for the cubicles, so curtain rods should go up here and here—” She stretched to point to the places where the brackets should go on either side of the cubicle entrance. She felt her breasts rise as she raised her arms to touch the board running along the front. This brought her so close to Jesse, she was almost touching him. They were face to face, separated by only a few inches. “And hooks,” she continued, backing up as she spoke. She was having trouble getting her breath. “Nice brass hooks here and here and here, for clothes.”
Jesse entered the dressing room. It was a small space, meant for one woman and some light clothing. With two people, it was crowded, almost impossible to move. Jesse reached into his shirt pocket, then leaned forward. Lexi stepped back sharply, bumping into the wall. Jesse reached around her and made a mark on the wall with a pen. “Here?”
She nodded. She could smell him, she could feel the heat of his body. He put the pen in his pocket. He looked at her. Lexi felt something delicate and enormous approach, a shadowy and unexpected pressure, like the sand sharks that had brushed her legs when she swam at Steps Beach. Something frightening yet compelling, its presence an awesome, breathtaking gift.
“Jesse.” She put her hand on the blue cotton of his shirt, just where it buttoned over his chest.
Jesse put his arms against the wall on either side of her and pressed himself against her and brought his mouth to hers. She closed her eyes. His mouth was soft, his body hot. Sensations churned inside her. She had never felt this way before in her life, and she had no idea what to do, but she wanted this with every atom of her being. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing him closer. His erection was thick between them, so hard it almost hurt her. Sliding her hand down, she lay her palm on the bulge beneath the blue jeans.
He groaned, and pushed himself away from her. “We can’t do this.” He lunged into the other cubicle, grabbed up his tool belt, and strode across the shop to the front door. He slammed out the door, leaving Lexi alone, and trembling.
Brown paper still covered the two large plate-glass windows at the front of the shop while Lexi got it ready for its grand opening. She was glad for the privacy it provided. She walked to the front door and turned the latch. She walked to the radio on the counter and snapped it off.
Then she went back into the cubicle and pressed herself against the wall where Jesse had pressed her.
Never before had she felt so purely, physically,
alive
. The caressing heat of Maui, the perfumed air of Bali, the powerful surf on the New Zealand coast—none of that had awakened her like Jesse just had. She felt like Pinocchio transformed into a real person. Before she’d been wooden; now her body was supple and warm. And greedy.
Warning voices clamored, but she refused to hear them. Not just yet. For just a while more, she wanted to let her body soak in this extraordinary pleasure. Closing her eyes, she remembered Jesse’s mouth on hers, his body pressing against hers. The soft warmth of his breath. The scratch of the bristles along his jaw.
And the way he looked at her. The look was so powerful, so intense, it was a kind of touching.
That hadn’t been good ol’ take-it-easy, laid-back, my-man Jesse who was with her just now. And there hadn’t been a glimmer of the teasing, cocky, lady-killing Casanova, either. Jesse had looked worried. He’d looked desperate. He’d even looked just a little bit scared, and Lexi thought he’d been trembling, too.
Sinking down, Lexi folded up her knees and hugged them. She sat like that for a long time.
The spell didn’t lift. Those few moments with Jesse buzzed around her like a hive of honeybees. All she knew was that she wanted Jesse to come back—now. She wanted him pressed against her, kissing her, touching; she wanted to run her hands over his warm, hard body—
—and that was something she could never have.
Jesse was engaged to marry Clare.
Clare had been her best friend, was still the best friend Lexi had.
What kind of person lets herself get sexually attracted to her best friend’s man?
But what kind of relationship did Jesse and Clare have, if Jesse could act the way he had with Lexi?
No, not
act
; Lexi was sure that was no kind of an act. That was real.
Or maybe not. What did she know about the ways of men? Pathetically little.
Remember what you do know, she told herself. Remember your plans. Look around. Where are you now?
From the chaos and humiliation of her marriage and her divorce, she had gotten herself this far,
so
far. She’d made a plan, she’d worked as hard as she knew how, and she was trying to start her life over. She couldn’t allow whatever had happened with Jesse to derail her new life.
Open your damn eyes,
she urged herself.
She opened her eyes. The cubicles were plywood. They needed to be painted. The rest of the shop gleamed with new, luminous color. She was creating more than a shop here; she was creating an entire world. She’d started her life fresh. She was friends with Clare.
She couldn’t allow herself to be alone with Jesse ever again.