Take It - Part Two (8 page)

My date with Pierce begins well. We drive for twenty minutes, chatting away pleasantly, until we leave the highway to journey another mile or so into the country. Inwardly, I begin to groan.
Not another picnic.
At last we turn off the road, and I see a huge expanse of grass, dirt, and asphalt spread out before me. When I look at Pierce, questions popping up on my face, he tells me this used to be the local airfield. Now, he proudly declares, it's his. There is no one in sight. The back of his pickup could easily be made into a bed. I know the odds are slim he’s changed his mind, but I hold onto hope.

A few minutes later I have my first clue, and it dashes my hope for us pleasuring each other under the hot sun. He goes to the back of his pickup and pulls out a couple folding chairs, a battered old card table, and a decal-decorated wooden box with some sort of silvery grey gizmo nestled in the center. Staring at its row of dials and two dominating toggle switches, I still have no idea what it is until he gently pulls out the telescoping antenna. "It's a radio-control thingy," I exclaim, trying to look excited.

"It's a transmitter," he mumbles as he dives back into the bed of his pickup and carefully removes the blanket he'd thrown over something. When he emerges, he’s proudly holding the cutest little airplane I've ever seen. "How pretty." I laugh. I’m not trying to be patronizing; I genuinely mean it. It’s really beautiful.

"Lady Esther is an RTF floatplane. An accurate replica of a DHC-2 Beaver."

I barely manage to choke down a giggle at Pierce's innocent sexual reference. If I weren’t so painfully horny my brain wouldn’t go into middle-school-boy mode. I’m not sure Harrison and I could have gotten past the word beaver without some kind of crude joke having us bent over in laughter. But then again, I think if Harrison were here, those planes would only leave the bed of the truck so he and I could get in and make good use of the blanket.

"Beavers are hardly pretty. They're one of the workhorses Bush pilots use up in Canada and Alaska."

I'm about to sputter myself into hysterics but this is clearly something very special to Pierce. He’s sharing something with me that means something to him.

Instead, I try to show interest, wisely asking him about the controller thingy. He tells me it's a SLT 6-channel transmitter-receiver and then gives me a basic run-through, showing me how to use the toggles for elevator control and throttling up or down. As if I'm going to fly his toy.

Within five minutes, he's placed the plane in a small man-made pond, and it’s speeding across the glittering ripples. Using his controller to bring his seaplane streaking up into the air, I can see the excitement he feels, watching his plane take off.

As he puts his plane through its paces, making it bank, dive, climb, and turn, I ask him how long it took him to build such a beautiful little craft.

"Oh, no—I didn't build her. RTF means ready to fly. I bought this baby three months back. If I'd built her—dear Lord, I don't know how those guys have so much patience. It takes hundreds of hours of painstaking work to build one of these from scratch. Those guys are true master craftsmen. I know if I had built this, I'd be a lot more reluctant to send her hurtling through the sky."

Plastering on what I hope is a pleasant, indulgent smile, I take a seat in the nearest folding chair, preparing to endure an hour or two of boredom while this handsome jock plays with his toys.

"Jenny, there's a six-pack of soda behind the seat, and a bottle of your favorite wine chilling in that little cooler."

"You brought me
wine
?"

"Can't have you climbing the walls, can I? I’m not foolish enough to think you’d be a closet model plane aficionado, but I wanted you to see something I really enjoy. Plus it’s so quiet out here.”

“We’re completely alone aren’t we?”

He's so absorbed in flying his seaplane all I get in return is a quick nod that I’m correct.

"Your turn." Pierce smiles as his shadow casts a dark spot over me from behind.

"W-what," I sputter, as he holds out his plane's controller and thrusts it toward me.

"Come on. Give it a try. Live dangerously every once in a while. It’s fun."

Pierce has no clue that just last night in a dream Harrison taunted me with those words. He lured me in and then evaporated into thin air. But that isn’t Pierce’s fault, and his idea of living dangerously reminds me he is not Harrison. While that comparison usually leaves me cold and lonely, in this instance I’m happy he’s not the man who broke me. I’m happy he takes joy in the excitement of a flying toy.

I do fly his seaplane, and you know what? It is fun. I love the way it dips and dives, the brilliant sunlight dancing off the silver on its sides and pontoons. With Pierce's coaching I'm able to make the plane dance through the skies, unable to keep my delighted smile from beaming. Maybe this isn’t the excitement I felt every second I was with Harrison, but it’s still something. Right?

But it’s short lived. It happens as I'm coming out of a dive and starting into a steep climb. The plane does fine as it whizzes upward through the first fifty feet or so. I feel elated; I'm really getting the hang of sending this little beauty winging through the air. Pierce notices first.

"Give it a little more throttle."

It all looks fine so I ignore him, afraid of what would happen if it has too much throttle.

"Don't forget your elevators—use them to give you lift. Jenny—throttle up."

Immersed in finally having some control in my life again, I fail to hear Pierce's commands or the nervous rise in his voice.

"Jenny—more throttle. You're going to stall!"

As if by saying it he made it happen, the plane does stall. I can't hear the electric engine die; the seaplane ceases to climb for a second. A few seconds more and I stare in panicked horror as Pierce's plane begins an uncontrolled dive toward the ground.

I'm not exactly sure what he's saying to me, I just know he's telling me what to do, and I don't like it. In angered frustration, I thrust the controller at him seconds before his seaplane slams into the ground with a horrible crunching smack.

I can't look at Pierce, so I whirl around to look at his plane. Maybe it won't be too bad. The twisted, splintered heap of bent and broken airplane parts screams the obvious at me. This crash is fatal. Destroyed.

Besides useless apologies, I don't know what to say. Pierce gathers up his wreckage, chairs, and table and hurls them all in the back of his truck; it's pretty clear he's at a loss for words as well. When he hops in his pickup and slams the door, I just stand there, hot tears flying down my cheeks.

"Well, are you coming?” Pierce asks, and I slink my way into the truck.

We drive for the first few miles in silence until he finally draws in a deep breath. “Jenny, I know you didn’t mean it. This stuff, it’s more than just a bunch of toys to me though. These hobbies, they keep me grounded. I know I told you I don’t drink, watching my dad screw up for so long made it unappealing, but the truth is I had a time where I did drink, and it wasn’t pretty. I got into these planes, some Civil War re-enactment stuff, and even a trapeze class. Keeping my hands busy, it’s always helped me stay focused. The guys at the station, they screw around and call me a geek, and I can understand if you feel that way too. Being a nice guy with a couple hobbies doesn’t tend to have the same appeal as the bad boys who break hearts.”

“I’m not looking for a guy to break my heart. I don’t need a bad boy. I like that you have hobbies, and I’m really sorry that I broke your plane. You’ve done so much for me, and I should have listened more closely when you were telling me how to fly it. I don’t think you’re a geek. You’re a hot firefighter who’s saved my life twice. How could I not be attracted to you?”

“You think us waiting is a mistake though, don’t you? I’ll be honest, there are plenty of moments I just want to forget what’s right and do what feels good. I’m trying to be strong so that we might have a future.”

“I know you are. It’s not that I disagree with you, but I’m finding it hard to not act on the way I feel about you.”

We arrive home about ten minutes after I told Mom I'd be home. I'm hoping she and Alex have finished whatever they were doing while they waited.

When I walk into the kitchen, leading Pierce by one hand, I'm immediately shocked.

I remember Alex as a fat man with rapidly thinning hair. He actually looks better than he did back then. Mom is all aglow, dressed to the nines and wearing more makeup than some cosmetic counter makeup artists. I've got to admit, she knows how to apply it. She doesn't look cheap —she's gorgeous.
Alive.

Maybe, just maybe, good things do come to she who waits. Almost unconsciously, I give Pierce's hand a squeeze.

The four of us sit down to a nice dinner. Alex and Pierce hit it off from the get-go, chattering enthusiastically about football and their hopes for the upcoming season. Mom and I eat quietly, satisfied to interject a few words now and then, and roll our eyes with put-upon indulgence.
Men and their sports.

Though I’m not surprised, before dinner is over I've got the assistant's job at
Wagging
Tails
if I want it. Anything my mother puts her mind to usually comes to fruition. The pay will be a giant step down, but I do like animals, and since it's a small shop, I imagine there'll be plenty of idle moments when I can make phone calls, secretly setting up interviews for better jobs and talking with Tracey.  Still, I hesitate. It’s not until the three others gang up on me, pointing out what a smart choice it'd be for now, that I cave and take the job. Great. Assistant manager at a pet store.

The rest of the dinner goes well, and before I know it, both Alex and Pierce are saying their good-byes. I catch Mom's slight reluctance to release her boyfriend’s hand. I see the glint of tears in her eyes just before Pierce seizes my chin and plants a warm kiss on my lips. My bucket list does not include double dating with my mother, but even cynical and depressed me has to admit it could have been worse.

“So now you’ve met Alex, dear. I know he’s not much of a catch physically, but he’s the one man who stood by me when your father left. In this whole world, outside of you, he’s the only one who cares.”

I bite my tongue, quelling any smart remark about “settling” that might be rearing its ugly head, and decide to flash a warm smile and tell the plain truth. “He seems very nice.”

Mom and I tidy up a bit after the men leave, chatting away like two sisters. I'm basically happy, though Pierce pointed out he's on duty for the next three or four days before he headed for his pickup. That's almost okay, as I'm starting work at the pet store tomorrow. We finish and Mom says good night and heads up the stairs to bed. Wishing her a good night's sleep, I head into the living room to watch a little TV before going to bed myself.

Cuddled up in my father's old recliner with a glass of wine and some popcorn, I use the remote to buzz through the endless array of cable channels. God, it's amazing how many of these shows nobody would ever watch.

As I sit sipping wine and growing drowsy, I think back on our evening. Pleasant as it was, I'm getting the feeling everybody was ganging up on me. As though I'm a small child, Mom and Pierce seemed eager to guide me down the correct path, convincing me to do the right thing. Right thing for whom?

Only Alex seemed reluctant to join in and tell me what to do. My feelings for him warm immensely. He seemed to realize my life is my own, and he had no right to stick his nose in my affairs. As of tomorrow, this is the man who's going to be my boss. Maybe I have made a wise choice for once.

For the next five days I immerse myself in satisfying Mom and learning my new job as pet store assistant, a doomed attempt to bury the churning chaos raging through my mind. The chaos bears two faces: Harrison and Pierce.

I’m irritated at myself because I’m allowing Harrison to be a part of the equation considering he seems completely gone from my life. He has made no attempt whatsoever to contact me, and that’s pissing me off.

One silver lining is that Alex is a peach. On my first day he laboriously took time to teach me the ins and outs of running his pet store. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I had it all in the first twenty minutes. It’s not rocket science. In that same twenty minutes, I’d figured out six ways he could increase his sales almost overnight. Still, I kept mum, waiting for a private moment when I’ve known him a little longer.

I sold a purebred beagle pup the first day and while it paled in comparison to even the smallest task at my old job, it still felt good. That’s the point, I guess. Maybe my standards for happiness need to be set around selling dogs and dating Pierce, rather than anything more exciting. And in time, maybe it will eventually feel like enough.

On the second day, I learned just how frustrating it was to catch tiny fish with a stupid net. I spent ten minutes chasing cheap freshwater zebra Danios, succeeding in traumatizing both the fish and two teenage customers. As the giggling girls left the store with their plastic bag full of zebra-striped fish, I gobbled a big chunk of humble pie. Made a fool by a one-inch fish.

That evening, Alex took me aside and showed me how to turn the store’s alarm system on and off. When I flashed an arched eyebrow, showing my amazement that he needs an elaborate alarm system for a
pet
store, he quickly pointed out a few of his puppies sell for over a thousand dollars, one or two of the Macaws for almost that as well.

“See that tank of blue fish over there? Hippo tangs. Those beauties sell for fifty dollars a pop.”

Looking quickly, I counted twenty or so three-inch fish.
Damn!
I promised myself never to forget about the alarm.

By the fourth day, I knew almost everything. I’d sold two more dogs and bagged up three expensive saltwater fish without incident. I’d learned to corral the fish with the net, and chase them into a see-through plastic container to avoid trauma. It seemed foolish at first until I read the price tag on the Clown Triggerfish and Queen Angelfish I sold and realized the very serious customer was plunking down a hundred dollars per fish. By the time my first week ended, I realized I liked my new job, and I liked Alex.

In all that time, I didn’t see Pierce. It’s given me a lot of time to think about us. When we finally see each other, he picks me up and we drive into Brookline to visit a friend who's in the same Civil War re-enactment group as Pierce. I apologize for being so busy and not making time to go out since starting my job, and his response puts me at ease.

“I didn’t want to distract you as you got started. It was me who was being quiet.”

Pierce promises to take me to the best Italian restaurant in town, and all I can think of is the meal I had with Harrison on the Cape. Is this what my entire life will be like now? Will Harrison be my ruler, everything measured against the time spent with him?

Doing my best to stifle my bored fidgeting, I sit like a proper little girlfriend, giving my best impression of a demure 1860s belle as Pierce and Bob Thatcher discuss some upcoming mock battle in Marblehead. As they rattle on, I let my eyes sweep around the parlor Bob ushered us into. My stomach is beginning to rumble, the response to the promise of lobster ravioli.

One thing is apparent. Bob Thatcher has too much time and money on his hands. Not only is he interested in things dealing with our war for emancipation, he's thrust his home back into that time period. Everywhere I look, there are things glaring at me, eager to convince me I
am
in 1863.

The only thing eager about me is my desire to leave. I'm bored out of my skull and famished.

It takes me a moment to realize Bob is talking to me. Pierce is nowhere to be seen. Bob tells me he had to use the water closet.
How quaint.

After a few minutes of mindless conversation I realize two things. Gradually, Bob Thatcher's conversation is leading down a winding path toward some suspicious destination. He seems overly interested in my well-being, repeatedly mentioning the shell-shock of Yankee troops returning from battle and the hysteria generated among their womenfolk when learning of a loved one's death or forced to endure physical assaults themselves at the hands of ruthless troops.
Where is he going with this? And where the hell is Pierce? How damned long does it take him to pee?

I begin to see the light just as Pierce makes a reappearance in the parlor doorway. He doesn't take a seat next to me, but leans against the doorframe, listening to his friend probe my psyche and spoon out his expert advice.

I jump up and scoot us out of there before either clown catches on. Halfway to Pierce's pickup, I do my best swooning actress act, claiming the onset of a violent migraine. I can tell Pierce doesn't buy it, but he's wise enough to curb his tongue until we're back in the truck driving away.

"Take me home please." The please is a courtesy I don’t feel like giving but it’s just a part of my DNA. I’ve been programed over the years not to be too assertive or else I’ll be labeled a bitch.

"But the restaurant—Jenny, what's wrong?"

"Home. Now! And don't act so innocent. I may be a bit slow, but you took me to see your friend Bob so he could analyze me and give me some homegrown therapy."

"Bob's a professional. Dealing with mental health issues is his nine to five job. Yes, I took you there to see if he might point you in the right direction. I care about you. I'm just trying to do what's right for you."

"Take me home."

“I’m sorry I’ve been trying to help you.”

“I never asked you to. I’m fine on my own.”

“You don’t seem to be. I don’t know what this guy did to you, but it must’ve been pretty traumatic. Honestly, I just wanted to help.”

Guilt and doubt start to set in as Pierce’s voice stays level and calm. He’s not looking to fight with me, to raise his voice, and let colorful fireworks rain down around us as we battle it out. He sounds like someone who does want to help. And don’t people who need help rarely admit it?

“Why won’t you let me in? Tell me what happened.”

I shoot a glance across at Pierce. He
does
mean well. He
is
trying to help. Yet, all I want to do is jump out of his truck, whether he stops it or not. I need to get away from him. Right or wrong, I might not be ready to be fixed because it will mean I’ve moved on from Harrison. Even if all the man left me was hurt, it’s my hurt and it’s my connection to him.

“Jenny, say something.”

“Just take me home.