“Hi, Juanita, Millie Barnes. I’ve had something unexpected come up here and need to take Friday and Saturday off.”
That was more like it. Not a lie, not full disclosure. Inspiration struck: I would call her now and leave a message on her voice mail! That way (A) it would seem urgent, as it was now one in the morning, and (B) I wouldn’t have to talk to her. Brilliant. I got up yet again, made the call, and finally padded back to bed.
The next day I set about accomplishing the items on my agenda. After work, I bought groceries, stopping at no fewer than four markets in all (basic food, liquor, seafood, farmers). Once back home, I stashed the food and decided I had time for a quick run. I pulled on an old T-shirt (Guinness for Health) and began stretching the way Sam had taught me. At the thought of my brother-in-law, I sighed.
It was hard to accept that he and Katie wouldn’t be a couple, and yet, a small, selfish pleasure glowed in the knowledge that he remained unattached. Sam had a way of making people feel so enjoyed somehow—myself most definitely included. All through those long, miserable adolescent years, I’d always felt good around Sam, never awkward, never unattractive, just welcomed and funny and smart.
Would I ever be able to feel that way with Joe? As thrilling as it was to be near the Golden One, dancing through my self-created hoops was a little difficult. Still, my Joe strategies were working—this would be my third date with him in a week. The power of research, I commended myself. The naturalness would doubtlessly come with time.
Later that evening, my mom came over with some Chinese food. We sat companionably in the kitchen, eating out of the cartons and chatting about pie-crust techniques.
“I know it’s bad for you, but I use lard instead of Crisco. Lard really makes the best crust. And everything has to be as cold as you can keep it, hon,” Mom preached, her eyes taking on a religious shine. “You have to work fast if you want it to be flaky. Otherwise, the glutens…well, it isn’t pretty.”
“Cold and fast. Gotcha.” Actually, I was pretty much hoping that Mom would do everything and I could just watch and later take credit for her hard work.
“So…why the sudden interest in pies?” Mom asked slyly, delicately biting a little ear of corn.
“Oh, I’m making dinner for, um, a friend, and since it’s summer, I thought a pie would be nice. Seasonal.” Actually, blueberries were not yet in season, and I’d had to pay almost ten bucks for enough berries, but it would be a small price to pay for Joe’s delight.
“A friend? That’s nice,” Mom said, smiling. I blushed. She didn’t ask any more, and I grinned. Good old Mom. She still knew everything.
As I had hoped, my cute little mom took over, telling me just to watch the first time. Her capable hands whipped the crust out, and she deftly mixed the berries and sugar, instructing as I sat on the counter next to her and sipped my Corona.
“I love you, Mom,” I interrupted as she lectured about egg versus milk glazes. She looked up abruptly, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, Millie, sweetie, I love you, too!” she said, giving me a floury hug. “And I’m so happy to have you around, honey.” She paused to put the pie in the oven. “With Trish gone…” Her voice tapered off.
With Trish gone, my mom was lonely, and I’d been too busy stalking Joe to notice. I had only called her because I needed something from her, and I suddenly felt ashamed. For all her flaws, Trish had been a great daughter, to our mom at least.
“Let’s do something next week,” I said. “Just us. Let’s go shopping in Providence.”
“Oh, honey, that would be so much fun! We could have lunch, too.”
“I’ll even let you pick out an outfit for me, now that I’m not so chubby,” I offered. It had long been a bitter pill for Mom to swallow, that she, the reigning queen of Talbots Petite, had spawned an overweight daughter who’d worn almost solely scrubs for eight years.
“I can’t wait,” Mom said. “Well, I have to go home and watch the Red Sox. Daddy and I watched them yesterday, and they won. Now he’s afraid they’ll lose if I’m not there to cheer them on.” She rolled her eyes and we laughed, knowing my dad was dead serious. “Keep the temperature at four hundred for fifteen more minutes, then turn the oven down to three-twenty-five and bake it for another forty. Call me if you have any questions.” Mom washed her hands and gave me another hug. “And Millie…I hope he appreciates you.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, my throat tightening in a rush of gratitude.
After Mom left, I called those fabulous P-town boys for their wardrobe recommendations. I hadn’t seen them for a while, since they were busy with the Peacock, and we set up a night out.
“Bring the boy,” Curtis commanded. “We want to meet him.”
“We’ll see how it goes,” I answered, grinning. What fun that would be, introducing Joe to my friends, like a real girlfriend! Eventually, I’d even take him home for the official meeting of my parents. My dad would be pleased to have me with a laborer, and everyone was charmed by Joe. Soon, soon, he would be a real part of my life, not just the fantasy that had been playing in my mind for the past fifteen years.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
FRIDAY MORNING WAS FOGGY and a little cool for the end of June. The forecast was for steady rain toward evening. Great, I thought. Cozy, romantic, good for cooking, good for cuddling. So he would smell pleasingly of rosemary and lavender, I washed my puppy, ignoring his mournful eyes as I lathered, rinsed and repeated. At ten o’clock, I began chopping, mincing, sautéing. I shelled and deveined the shrimp. You’d think that a person who has dissected a cadaver would not be dry-heaving over a little seafood preparation, but such was not the case. Still, I managed to keep down my meager bowl of Special K as I ran my thumb up each gray, cold crustacean.
I boiled, reduced and strained. I stirred, blended and drained. As the steamy, spicy smell of étouffée filled my kitchen, it began to dawn on me why people liked to cook. I washed the lettuce for the salad, chopped in some red and yellow peppers, threw in a few grape tomatoes, then cut up the green and yellow squash.
Mom’s pie looked fabulous, its golden-brown crust scattered with sprinkles of sugar. I vowed to learn to bake for real once Joe and I were together. I had plenty of Cape Cod coffee, my favorite brand, and light cream. My curtains went back up, clean and freshly ironed. After arranging the flowers I had bought at the farmer’s market yesterday in a mason jar, I set the table. The wine and beer were chilling.
After Joe had arrived, I planned to finish cooking the étouffée, for that nice, cozy domestic atmosphere. The rice would be put on just before he came. I’d stick it in a bowl and warm it in the oven in order to get the nasty cleanup of the rice pot done before Joe’s arrival. Planning, planning, it was all in the planning. It seemed I had just about every angle covered.
Finally, I stepped back to survey my work. My house gleamed and sparkled. My dog also gleamed and sparkled. Now it was my turn. I showered, using the expensive, fabulous-smelling bath products Curtis and Mitch had given me for Christmas. Carefully, oh so carefully, I shaved my legs. I blew my hair dry—the humidity made it a little tricky, but I managed to come out with fairly well-behaved hair. Next, the precise application of makeup. Too much and I’d look slutty; not enough, adolescent. On to the clothes. Cute cotton pedal pushers in black and cream, sleeveless cream-colored top, short-sleeved little black sweater. Black leather mules on the feet.
I took a long hard look in the mirror. I’d never be Trish, but still…I looked about as good as I would get. Stylish. Attractive. Not beautiful, but pretty damn cute.
It was now 6:30. I went to my stereo and picked out a few CDs for mood music. Elvis Costello. Sting. Norah Jones. Dave Matthews. Again, all calculated to set a mood of romantic, slightly funky, low-key homeyness.
I took Digger out again on the leash, warning him not to poop in the house on this night of nights. He waggingly agreed (or so I hoped), and flopped down in front of my chair to dream his doggy dreams.
I put the rice on and fussed around the kitchen. There wasn’t really much to do, since I had planned so very well. We would eat in the dining room, which had been used once when my parents had come over. It was a small room that I’d painted last month in a deep shade of rose. The little table was a mellow-stained maple, and I’d just set it with place mats instead of a table cloth. Didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard, although frankly, planning this evening had been harder than my surgical rotation.
I poured myself a glass of wine and took a healthy slug. It wouldn’t hurt to be a little relaxed when Joe came over. In ten more minutes, it would be seven, when, no doubt, I would start peering out the window for his truck. But hey, why wait? I peered out now. No Joe, just the promised steady rain pattering in the gutters. I turned on the porch light.
I decided I had time to call Curtis and Mitch for a check-in. Katie was working, and besides, she and I had had a nice chat earlier. I sat carefully in my wing chair so as not to wrinkle and called P-town.
“Good evening, the Pink Peacock!” Mitchell purred into the phone.
“Hi, Mitch! It’s Millie,” I said.
“Hallo, my darling! Is all in readiness?”
I giggled at the quaint phrase. “Yes, all is in readiness, including myself.”
“Which earrings did we choose?” he asked
“Little gold swingy thingies,” I answered. I heard Curtis ask if it was me. Mitch didn’t answer.
“Is that Millie, I said?” Curtis demanded in the background.
“Yes, it’s Millie!” Mitch huffed. “Am I allowed to talk to her without you?”
Uh-oh. The Golden Couple rarely fought. “Bad time, Mitch?”
He paused, then laughed. “We had a fight. I had the audacity to change the flower order—he wanted tulips, but they were twice as much as the roses—and now he’s ready to take my head off.”
I giggled. “Can this marriage be saved?”
“Let’s hope, shall we? Very well, my dear. Have a smashing night. Here’s Curtis. Hang on, can you?” I heard Mitch talking in the background, then the unmistakable sound of a kiss. Aw.
“Hi, Millie,” Curtis said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
“Is everything okay, Curtis?” I asked.
“Yes, now that he’s groveled. How are you, princess?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Just waiting for Joe.”
“That’s right! ‘Tonight’s the night,’” he sang. “Are you nervous?”
“Yes, of course. That’s why I’m calling you.”
“Well, don’t worry, sweetie. It will be wonderful. I want every detail tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay,” I smiled. “Thanks, Curtis. You’re the best.”
“I know. Love you.”
A truck rumbled up my street. I hurled the phone back into the charger and leaped up. Here! He was here! Digger continued to lie rug-like in front of my chair. Going into the kitchen, I peeked out the back-door window…no truck. No Joe. Not here.
Hmm. Well, it was only seven after. Not really late.
However, twenty-three minutes later, he was really late. It was 7:30. A half hour late was pretty late, right? But still acceptable, if he came right this instant. I covered the rice so it wouldn’t dry out and turned off the heat from under the étouffée, which still awaited the shrimp. Checking my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I saw that I looked worried.
Joe wouldn’t blow me off, would he? I finished my glass of wine, the alcohol lightening my head a bit. No, Joe wouldn’t do that. He had said he couldn’t wait, I reminded myself. And that I was the sweet one. And God, the way we’d kissed! No, I didn’t think he would stand me up. Maybe his truck had broken down? It wasn’t the newest truck, but it seemed to run well enough.
The phone rang, and I jumped. “Don’t sound worried,” I advised myself. Or pissy.
“Hello?”
“Hi, sweetness, it’s Curtis. Sorry, I couldn’t resist. How’s it going?”
My heart sank. “Curtis, he’s not here.”
“Oh.” There was a pause. “Well, how late is he?”
“Thirty-four minutes.”
“Ooh. That’s not good. Well, he’s a bit absentminded, isn’t he?”
“Should I call him?”
“No!” Curtis shouted. “No,” he continued more calmly. “That’s for desperate women, and you’re not desperate.”
“Right,” I said, feeling actually quite desperate. “So what should I do?”
“Have a glass of wine,” he advised.
“Already did that.”
“Have another one, honey. Don’t just sit there waiting for him. When he does come—and he will, sweetie—we want you to be happy and fun. Right?”
“Okay,” I said. “Happy, fun, but not drunk.”
“Exactly. I’ll call you in a little while and check in.”
“Thanks,” I said, grateful to have a pal like Curtis. Someone with whom one could discuss these stupid situations. What to wear, how to set the table, stuff like that. Most people had done this in high school or college or in their early twenties, but I was a late bloomer.
I walked around my house, nibbling a cuticle. Digger leaped up for some lovin’, tail thumping against my freshly vacuumed ottoman.
“No, Digger!” I ordered tersely. Then, filled with shame at taking my frustrations out on my dog, I sat down and called him over.