Down on Love (6 page)

They’d been making the rounds for about an hour and a half, and no matter how frequently George grumbled that she wanted to get back to the house, Sera ignored her. She wasn’t finished, she said. And they hadn’t even bought the damned mop yet.

This latest stop, according to Sera, was to pick up some food for lunch. Why they couldn’t get food at the market while they bought the cleaning supplies, George had no idea. What she did know was it meant she had to endure another round of Twenty Questions, this time from the shiny-faced Lorenzo D’Annunzio behind the counter. George had always liked Mr. D’Annunzio, but she knew the same questions were coming up any minute now, and she dreaded it.
Where ya been, George? How’s Boston treatin’ ya?
(This was usually followed by a jolly recitation of “Pahk the cah in Hahvahd Yahd” because, really, at what other time would anyone be able to trot that out?)
No place like home, right?
Quite often she’d get the dreaded
Married? Kids?
And when she answered in the negative, she had to endure a pitying look and the follow-up
Ah well. You’re still young.
The “-ish” was implied. Usually, though, the conversation would take a more pleasant turn with a question she didn’t mind:
Your niece sure is a cutie, isn’t she?
That one, at least, George could answer with enthusiasm and sincerity. Because yes, her niece certainly was.

But the rest of the chitchat? Getting tiresome. And yet it was inevitable.

“Good to see you, Georgiana.”

“Good to see you too, Mr. D’Annunzio.”

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

Oh yeah—she’d forgotten that one.

“Sure has.”

“How’s Boston treating you?”

Ah, back on track.

“Good, thanks. Nice to be able to visit, though. Yes, sure is nice to see everybody again. And the town looks great. Yep, Sera and Jaz have been taking good care of me. Nope, not sure how long I’ll be staying—until Amelia gets tired of me, I guess. And yep, she sure is a cutie patootie.”

Mr. D’Annunzio stared at her and went a little pinker.

Sera gaped. “George! Could you be any more rude?”

“Just getting the preliminaries out of the way—thought I’d spare Mr. D’Annunzio having to ask all the usual questions. Right, Mr. D?”

Mr. D’Annunzio remained speechless. After a moment he recovered enough to extend a hand over the deli case, with a slice of meat proffered like he was appeasing a wild animal. “Try some honey ham?”

 

“Good
God,
George! What is the
matter
with you?”

“What’s the matter with me? What’s the matter with
you?
” George snapped as she wrestled the stroller back out of the deli and followed her sister down the sidewalk.

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh gee, I don’t know—maybe the fact that you’ve been dragging me all over town all morning, showing me off like some sort of trained poodle.”

“I prefer dancing show pony.”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t say shut up in front of Amelia.”

George trotted double time to keep up with Sera, who could stride along at a faster clip, unencumbered by the monster stroller. “She isn’t even paying attention.” Suddenly uncertain, George took a peek at her niece through the clear-plastic peephole in the canopy over Amelia’s head; sure enough, she was looking around placidly, sucking on her bottle, not a care in the world.

“Babies absorb everything. They’re like little sponges.”

“Yeah, speaking of sponges—when are we going to get what we came here for?”

Sera let out a heavy, put-upon sigh. “I suppose. It’s almost time for her nap anyway—we should get her back home.”

“I assume she doesn’t take to napping well,” George said, taking another peek at the baby, who was still fresh as a daisy and alert as anything.

“She does need convincing, most days. But maybe the fresh air will help knock her out.”

Amelia twisted around and tipped her head up, smiling at George around the nipple of the bottle. “Doubt it,” George muttered, then groaned. Sera had stopped again, gazing into the window of a shop that most definitely was
not
Marsden Mercantile. “Come
on,
can’t we just—”

Then George looked at the window display as well. It was filled with samples of Sera’s pottery. She would have known it anywhere: earth tones livened up with unexpected splashes of brilliant color, mosaic-like bits of jeweled tiles, thick glazes, leaf and twig imprints, and winged creatures—Sera’s signature motif—dragonflies, butterflies, honeybees, hummingbirds.

George caught her breath. She’d forgotten how talented her sister was. “Oh.”

Sera smiled—really smiled, this time. “That one’s my favorite,” she murmured, pointing at a double-handled urn on a pedestal, with a stylized A on the front, surrounded by vines and flowers and minuscule fairies.

“A for Amelia?”

“Yep.”

“It’s beautiful, Sera. They all are.” And George meant it. “Hey, why don’t we get you back to the house so you can create more gorgeous stuff? And Amelia and I will have a discussion about this nap issue.”

Sera glanced at her sister beside her. “I’m not stalling or anything.”

“Not much.”

She sighed. “I haven’t really felt too inspired lately. That urn was the last decent idea I had, and that was months ago.”

“And of course this creative block has nothing to do with you being stressed, with a baby, with Jaz getting hurt . . .”

“Yeah, no connection whatsoever.”

“Look, I’m here. I
want
to be here, no matter how much you think you coerced me.”

“I didn’t coerce you?”

“Well, yeah, you did, but now that I’m here, you might as well take advantage of it. Just buy me my damned mop, leave me with Amelia to knock out and your filthy hovel of a house to clean, and stop worrying about everything. I’ve got it under control. You just . . . go make art.”

Sera stole another sidelong glance at her younger sister. “Thanks.”

“I’d say ‘don’t mention it,’ but I know you won’t, so . . .”

“Shut up.”

“What was that about language, Mommy?”

“Oh great—now you’ve got me doing it.”

“Yeppers, I’m a
baaad
influence.”

“Having serious second thoughts now.”

“I tried to warn you.”

“Amelia—no, honey.”

George detached her niece’s drooly mouth from the corner of her laptop screen and tried to go back to work. But a moment later, the suckermouth reattached itself. George sighed, irritated, and looked up at her sister-in-law beseechingly from her spot on the floor.

“Jaz, make her stop.”

“Hey, Mary Poppins—your job.” The other woman chuckled as she shifted on the couch, tucked her lumbar pillow under her back, and aimed the remote at the TV.

“Strangely enough,” George said, as she gently separated Amelia from her laptop a second time, “I’ve already figured out your family is more like Nanny McPhee’s Browns than the Banks.”

“You won’t find Colin Firth here.”

“More’s the pity.”

Jaz flicked through a few more channels. “So. Nobody since Thom?” She pronounced the “H” in his name for George’s benefit; George appreciated the solidarity.

“Nope.”

“Why not? Boston is full of eligible guys.”

“Well, first of all, I don’t know any of those eligible guys. Thom pretty much took care of that by cutting me off from any sort of social life.”

“Er, you
let
him.”

“Noted. Second . . .” George paused, distracted by the sounds of Sera entering the house.

She stomped into the kitchen, whacked the faucet, then shouted, “Damn—I mean, darn it!”

“That thing is getting worse,” George called. “You’d better get it fixed.”

“Yeah, yeah,” her sister shouted back.

“And don’t get any mud on the floor. I’m not mopping it again. Till tomorrow,” she muttered, “then I’ll end up starting all over again.” She turned her attention back to Jaz. “As I was saying . . . second, I’m not interested in finding another guy.”

“Oh, please.”

“Seriously.” George gave Jaz her highly potent I-mean-it hairy eyeball. “That is the last thing on my mind. Besides,” she added, turning back to her laptop, “even if I wanted to—which I don’t—at this point I’m not sure I can manage it.”

“What, psychologically or physically?”

“Oh God, neither. I mean professionally.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Well, maybe a little psychologically—as in, emotionally exhausted and indifferent. And my trust issues are now legion. But mostly professionally.”

Sera plopped down on the beat-up recliner next to the sofa, wiping her hands on a towel. She was still muddy from the forearms up. “I don’t want to know what you two are talking about, do I?”

“George is a slave to her art form. She isn’t allowed to get a boyfriend,” Jaz informed Sera. To George, she said, “Can you get laid, at least?”

“Jaz! Not in front of the baby!” Sera threw the damp towel at her wife.

Jaz rolled her eyes. “Well?” she pressed George. “Can you?”

“I don’t know what my readers would think.
If
I felt like finding a guy. Which I don’t.”

“Wait—what?” Sera persisted.

Jaz dropped the towel on George’s butt. “It’s the whole ‘neo-virgin’ thing.”

“Still not getting it. But it sounds awful.”

“It’s an unfortunate offshoot of my blog. Call it collateral damage of the literary kind.” George peeled the towel off and put it on the floor. Amelia promptly picked it up, but George intercepted her before she could stuff it in her mouth. “It’s not called ‘Down on Love’ for nothing. I slam relationships. Belittle love. Mock the poor souls who are slaves to the societal construct of having to have a significant other, even if having said significant other is more depressing than being alone. Present company excepted, of course.”

Sera stared at her. “That’s stupid.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s very cathartic. Lots of people feel the same way, and I give them a forum to share their darker thoughts on lousy relationships. It helps them heal, in the long run. So my, um, reestablished virginity through abstinence is a small price to pay. It just so happens I have no interest in being dragged into another relationship cesspit after Thom, so it’s not really a sacrifice.”

“That’s a mouthful—and a whole lot of justification.” Jaz snickered. “I think you
do
need to get laid.”

“No-ot in-ter-est-ed.” George went back to her blog post. After a moment, she muttered, “And I saw that.”

“Saw what?” Sera asked, fidgeting guiltily.

“That . . . look you just gave each other. No plotting. Forget it.”

Silence for a moment. Then Jaz said to Sera, “How about Artie Packard?”

“Nah. He’s got that skin condition.” Sera chewed her lip for a bit, then said eagerly, “Woody What’s-his-name.”

“Woody VanDeusen? He’s, like, seventy years old!” Jaz snorted.

“He’s got dough, though. And he’s shopping around. I hear Match.com isn’t working for him, so maybe he’d be interested in going local.”

“You guys! Stop!” George ordered.

Sera snickered as she scooped up her daughter and gave her a kiss. “You guys!
Staaahhhp!
”

“What are you, twelve? Cut it out. I’m not interested, I’m not looking. Get it through your thick skulls. Both of you.”

“I dunno. This might be the perfect time,” Jaz said with a wink. “You know what they say—just when you stop looking . . .”

“Oh,
please
don’t tell me the story of how you guys met again. I know it by heart.”

Jaz wasn’t a Marsden native; five years back, she came to town to attend the summer theater festival, met Sera at a reception after a play, and never left. It was love at first sight, even though neither of them was looking for a significant other; they swore from the first moment it was meant to be. George heard all about it, long distance, and had had to endure their sappily-ever-after ever since. Secretly she was happy for them, but she never admitted it—and she never took their love story to heart. It should have given her renewed faith in the whole soul-mate-finding thing, but it never did dent her protective shell. She made sure of that.

“Look. I have my livelihood, I have my fans—and I have my neo-virginity, for better or worse—and I
like
the way my life is at the moment, okay?”

Sera wrinkled her nose and held Amelia out to her sister. “Okay, but you might want to rethink that. Your life at the moment includes a diaper change.”

“And before you go, hand over your laptop. I’ve gotta check out this blog that’s more important than getting your hoo-ha any action.”

 

The pain in Casey’s left hand made him wince. Damn, that hurt. He glanced down. Oh. Of course his hand would hurt—he had the steering wheel in a death grip. He shook out the cramp and wiped his hands on his jeans. Sweaty palms? He’d officially lost his mind. Shaking his head at his idiocy, he looked up at the Downs’ property—the tall, narrow, down-at-heel white house with its tiny porch tucked into the set-back L in front, blue plastic baby swing hanging from a crossbeam, the house shaded by the tall maples in the scrabbly side yard, the double gravel track of a driveway, the two-story barn/garage at the back. It was a place he could draw with his eyes closed (if he could draw at all), a place he’d spent plenty of time visiting when he was a teen. But now it was completely different, solely because he knew George was in there. For the first time in years.

He knew he really should just park his truck, get out, march up those paint-peeled front steps, and knock on the edge of the screen door. This was no big deal. He was just checking up on the Down-Montgomerys, as he’d done about once a week for the past month. It was the least he could do; Jaz had hurt her back working on his farm, after all.

The accident had been completely avoidable. And yet Jaz was out of commission, maybe for a good long time, because of his carelessness. Never mind that he had been half a mile away in the fields when she’d gotten hurt; it was still his operation, and he felt responsible.

So this visit had nothing to do with the fact that George was back home. It was a courtesy call, to help the girls out. Nothing more than that. Right?

He took a breath, pulled the truck over to the curb, wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans one more time, and flung himself out of the vehicle before he could chicken out. Casey Bowen wasn’t one to chicken out of anything. Well, hardly ever. Maybe once in a . . . never mind.

Sera came to the door when he knocked, but she didn’t open the screen. “Oh. Hi.” She still sounded a little frosty. Casey didn’t blame her one bit. Hell, he’d be frosty too, if he were face to face with someone who laid his wife low indefinitely.

“Hey, Sera. Just thought I’d stop by to check on . . . things. How’s Jaz?”

The woman allowed herself a small smile. “She’s not bad, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She’s getting better.”

“What’d the doctor say—about surgery? Does she need it?”

“No, she doesn’t. Just needs time to heal.”

Casey let out a breath. “Well, that’s something.”

“Yeah.”

They both paused, and Casey resisted the urge to dry his hands off again.

“Anything else, Casey?” she asked.

“Just checking to see if you need anything. And, you know, I’m always interested in how you and Jaz and Amelia and . . . everybody . . . are doing.” Ouch. It occurred to him leaving George’s name out was more telling than including her.

“We’re fine. I suppose you heard George is back . . .”

Oh God. She’d noticed he was fishing for information, hadn’t she? Casey glanced past Sera, into the shadowed front hallway. He wondered if George was in there right now, if she was going to come up behind her sister and say hello. He scrambled to fill the silence. “I—I did. That’s nice for you, right?”

Sera grunted a grudging assent. “Sure. Been long enough, you know?”

“Suppose so.”

More silence.

He tried again. “So—what do you need? Can I help with—”

“We’re fine,” Sera said, cutting him off. “You don’t have to keep checking on us. I’m perfectly able, Jaz is sort of mobile, and now with George here—”

Suddenly a shriek came from inside the house. Then another, the second one baby-sized.

“What the—”

Sera immediately raced down the hallway, and Casey yanked the screen door open and followed her.

“Oh,
fu—FARLEY!
”

“I don’t know what happened!” Jaz shouted, while Amelia screamed in her high chair. “It just exploded!”

The entire kitchen was being hosed down by a forceful spray of water from the kitchen faucet—including Jaz, Amelia, and now Sera, who was holding her hands out to shield herself, her head turned away from the water, as she groped her way toward the sink with the intention of trying to find a way to turn it off.

Casey grabbed the baby and handed her to Jaz, who was probably able to make it the few steps into the living room carrying her without reinjuring herself. He hoped so, anyway. Then he lunged into the cabinet under the sink, shoved cleaning supplies out onto the floor, and wiggled in until he could grasp the shutoff valve. A couple of turns, and the water stopped.

“Son of a . . .” Sera muttered in the suddenly quieter kitchen, her words punctuated by the steady dripping of water off every available surface.

“George told you it was gonna go!” Jaz shouted from the living room over Amelia’s persistent cries.

“Are you all right?” Sera called back.

“Never mind me. George is going to murder you. She just cleaned the kitchen.”

“Yeah, well, now it’s extra clean. Amazing what an indoor carwash can do for a room.”

Casey stood up and toed a big puddle in the middle of the floor. “I’ll get my toolbox out of the truck.”

 

George slowed down as she trudged the last few yards back to the house. Back
home,
she amended. It was home. For now, anyway. She was surprised to find herself out of breath. Even though she’d walked nearly everywhere when she lived in Boston, a lot of the city was pretty flat. Marsden, on the other hand, was carved into the side of a mountain. Main Street was in a valley, which meant everything surrounding it was “up”—mainly the residential neighborhoods. Could’ve been worse, though—at least their street wasn’t so steep that steps had to be built into the sidewalk, like over on Second, and on Chautauqua.

She stared at her sandals as she walked, her shoulders stretching and fingers cramping from the weight of the shopping bags. She could have taken the car, but she had looked forward to a nice, leisurely stroll, because it would keep her away from the house longer.

Not that she was trying to get away from her family, but . . . she was trying to get away from her family. She was used to being alone, and the sudden, all-pervasive, uninterrupted presence of two adults and one squealing tot was getting to her. She figured walking to the shops and the library (the fact that her sister and sister-in-law still took books out of the library gave her the warm fuzzies) was a legitimate way to get some peace and quiet.

Of course, that didn’t guarantee the alone-time she craved. The walk to Main Street and back had been fine, but in the commercial district she ran into one person after another who hadn’t seen her the other day when she and Sera had gone shopping, so she had to answer the usual litany of questions all over again. And again. And again.

And now she had to go back to her regularly scheduled nannying. Which, she hated to admit, she wasn’t really feeling. Oh sure, she loved her niece. Who wouldn’t? The munchkin was so cute she just wanted to nom on her chubby arms, and not in a cannibalistic way at all. But taking care of her day in and day out—not to mention the nights, which she saw way too much of, since the kid woke up every hour or two? It wasn’t turning out to be George’s strong suit.

Well, she’d warned her sister, hadn’t she?

Not that she was planning on leaving . . . mainly because the mere thought of starting over in Boston (yet again) gave her a headache . . . so back to the house and the babysitting she went. Besides, if her family was as hard up as they seemed—which had been quite a surprise—the least she could do was hang around for a while and help out. Maybe Sera was right—she owed them that much, after being gone for so long.