Geoducks Are for Lovers (10 page)

“Me neither,” Gil adds. “Now that the hipsters have claimed them, bow ties have been ruined for us stodgy, middle-aged professors anyway. Damn hipsters.”

“Speaking of hipsters, where’s Quinn?” Maggie asks.

“He’s outside playing Peter Pan.”

Maggie walks over to the screen door and spies Quinn on the beach with a group of tween and teen boys. They’re building something out of driftwood.

“What are they making?” Selah asks, craning her neck from her favorite spot on the sofa.

“I’m not entirely certain. Quinn seems to be in charge and is using the kids for manual labor.” Maggie steps out on the deck to get a closer look.

Quinn sits on a large driftwood log above the high water mark and directs a band of kids in constructing something from pieces of driftwood.

“Hey Q, whatcha doin’?” Maggie asks as she walks down the stairs to the beach. 

“Hey, Magpie. I’m building a driftwood dog. The original design was a horse, but we had some issues with height. I should’ve hired taller assistants.”

“Hired? Are you paying them?” Maggie sits next to Quinn. She watches the boys trying to balance a small log on top of a growing pile of logs and sticks that could possibly be a dog, if you knew it was a dog ahead of time.

“Technically, no one is getting paid.”

“Hey Mr. Dayton, where should I put this one?” One of the smaller boys asks, holding a long, flat piece of wood.

“Save that one for the head.” 

“Mr. Dayton?” Maggie raises an eyebrow.

“He told me his mother didn’t let him call adults by their first names. Can you believe it?” He leans closer to Maggie’s ear and whispers, “Kiss ass.”

She laughs.

“How was lunch and berry picking?”

“Both were fun. Selah ate more berries than she picked, but I enjoyed the company. How about you guys?”

“Gil and I foraged for food for lunch, then he started reading. I came out here and wrangled up a work force.” 

“Hey guys.” Gil walks up and joins them on their log. “Are they making a crocodile?”

“It’s a dog,” Maggie says like it’s obvious.

“A dog? Really. Are we sure? What happened to the driftwood Trojan horse, Q?”

“Overzealous design and untrained workers required some scaling back.” Quinn gets up to adjust a few small pieces and places the flat piece of wood on top for the head. He steps back to admire his work.

“Do you see the dog?” Gil whispers, leaning closer to Maggie.

She can feel his warm breath on her neck and smell his clean, summer scent.

“Not at all.” She turns to whisper back and realizes Gil is still leaning toward her. 

“You smell like berries,” he whispers, his gaze dancing across her face.

They both blink at each other for a beat longer before Maggie pulls back. 

“I still think it resembles a crocodile.” He stretches out his legs and digs his feet into the warm sand.

“Since Q is our very own Peter Pan, a crocodile makes more sense. We should put a clock in its mouth.” 

“Wasn’t Hook afraid of the crocodile? Not Peter Pan? Archenemy and all?” Gil furrows his brow.

“I’m trying to remember the Barrie version of Peter Pan, but can’t stop picturing Dustin Hoffman in a terrible wig.” Maggie tries to recall the meaning of the clock.

“I think the whole thing was about fearing, accepting, or avoiding growing up.”

“I’d say Q was in the latter category, avoidance.”

“What about you? Do you fear or accept it?” Gil asks, sounding genuinely interested.

“I think I accept it now, but try to avoid being old. Growing up and growing old don’t need to be the same thing. I’m not ready for the walker and eating dinner at four-thirty. What about you?”

“I think I’ve been old for a while now. Or at least I feel old some days. Some days I swear I’m still twenty. Or maybe twenty-five,” Gil replies.

“Me too. It’s weird.”

“It is weird how it all works.” Gil draws random shapes in the sand with a stick, then erases them.

“I feel like we’re all essentially the same, with a few more battle scars and war wounds. Then I see friends’ kids, and think ‘how did they get so big’, and it kind of freaks me out.”

“Why do you freak out?” 

“They’ve been growing and having all sorts of firsts in their lives. And my life is more of the same pretty much day in and day out.”

“You went through a lot of grown-up things over the past few years, too.” He stops drawing and puts his hand on her shoulder.

Gil’s touch is soothing and sweet. Still, underneath Maggie feels a familiar heat where his hand touches her skin. She reaches up and covers his hand with hers, and gives it a squeeze.

“I have. We’ve all gone through some pretty big grown-up things in the past five years.”

Gil pulls away and goes back to his drawing in the sand. 

Maggie forgets all about Quinn and the Lost Boys while she and Gil are talking. Looking up, she sees they’re standing around admiring their work, which now looks much more like a dog.

“It
is
a dog!” 

“I told you so.” Quinn acts put out. “When are you two going to believe me when I speak the truth?” 

“Now the show’s over, who wants a beer?” Maggie asks as she gets up from the log and dusts off the sand from her butt and legs.

“Me,” says one of Quinn’s workers.

“How old are you?” Gil asks him.

“Twelve.” 

“Nice try.” Maggie laughs as she and Gil walk back up to the deck. Quinn hands out high-fives to the boys and follows behind them. 

Selah sits in the shade of the table umbrella, texting on her phone. “Sounds like Ben and Jo won’t get here until late. Ben says we shouldn’t plan on them for dinner, but if we go out to leave them a key. They might want to crash.” 

“So, four for dinner? That works. We can go to Prima Bistro or Cafe Langley, then drinks at the Doghouse,” Maggie suggests.

“Sounds good. Selah, you want a beer?” Gil asks as he heads inside.

“Sure, why not.” 

“Me too,” Maggie calls out. “Quinn can drive tonight.” 

“I can drive where?” Quinn kicks the sand off his feet as he walks up the stairs.

“Dinner. Ben and Jo are arriving late, so just the four of us,” Selah explains.

“Oh, like a double date. Or a date with two chaperons. Very formal.”

“Who’s going on a chaperoned date?” Gil asks as he returns with their beers. 

“No one is going on a date. The four of us are going to dinner without Ben and Jo,” Maggie tells him.

“Double date.” Quinn smirks.

“Not my type.” Selah laughs. 

Maggie listens to their easy banter. A date with Gil sounds fun. Back in college they hung out in the group or sometimes off on their own, but never dated. She wonders what he’d be like on a real date, not hanging out as friends. Selah’s strange reaction about his girlfriend flashes in her head, and she wonders if he is unattached.

“Let’s head out at 6:30. I’m going to take a shower,” Maggie says.

“Outdoor shower?” Gil teases.

“No.” She laughs as she walks inside.

* * *

Waiting for the others to finish getting ready, Gil stops by the dining table and glances down at their Scrabble game. His eyes widen when he realizes more words have been added.

Quinn notices Gil gaping at the Scrabble board and goes over to look. “I can’t believe you two were playing dirty Scrabble without us last night!” He theatrically huffs.

“What? We weren’t playing dirty Scrabble,” Maggie says. When she sees the board, she blushes. The words from last night are switched around. Only “licks” remains the same. 

Selah walks inside and joins them.

“Please, love, licks, sighs, cunt, moan,” Selah reads aloud. “Which one of you two played ‘cunt’?” She glances between Gil and Maggie. 

“I didn’t play cunt,” Maggie whispers the last word. “Someone’s been messing with the letters.” She looks pointedly at Quinn and Selah.

“Maggie May saying the C word.” Gil laughs. “Impressive. I remember when you couldn’t even say ‘c-word’ above a whisper. You’d whisper it like you were saying the actual dirty word. I used to think you meant cancer. ”

“I still don’t say that out loud. I’m a lady.” Maggie defends herself, but she can’t keep a straight face as everyone laughs at her.

“I remember getting you drunk and promising to do your laundry for a month if you’d yell it in Red Square on campus.” Selah wipes her eyes.

“I hated doing laundry more than I hated that word.” Maggie laughs. “That was an easy bet to take.”

“Say it again,” Gil prompts. Maggie saying cunt is all sorts of dirty and hot. 

“I will not! Unless Selah promises to do all my laundry again.” 

“I send my laundry out, so that would be a no.”

“I’ll wash all the dishes for the weekend if you say it.” Gil offers.

Maggie considers his offer for a second. “Hey, you said you were doing the dishes anyways to earn your keep.”

“Damn, true. I’m a man of my word, so yes, I’ll still do the dishes even if you don’t say it.”

“We’ve apparently reached an impasse with Magpie and her cunt. Since the game has taken an interesting turn, I say let’s keep going,” Quinn says as he adds “ASS” to the board.

“Oh, this will be fun.” Selah claps, then adds “MOIST”.

“Ew.” Maggie cringes.

“What’s wrong with moist?” Selah taunts her.

“You know I can’t stand that word.”

“What? Moist?” Quinn moans “Mmm, this cake is deliciously moist.”

Selah studies the board. “I wonder if I could play 

panties off of moist.”

“Gah.” Maggie flails her arms and runs away. “Stop!” 

“What’s wrong with moist panties? I thought wet was a good thing for girls.” Quinn laughs.

He knows this teasing is more juvenile than sexual, but the thought of Maggie, panties and wet makes Gil heat up. He needs to think of something less enticing.

“Taint,” Quinn says aloud as he set down the tiles.

That works.
Gil gratefully exhales.

Eleven

After dinner, everyone decides to walk to Langley’s historic pub, The Doghouse. The town sits above the water on a bluff. Tourist-friendly shops line the streets offering books, antiques, and art prints in addition to the mandatory sweatshirts and Orca-decorated mugs. Gil and Maggie walk behind Selah and Quinn, who are debating whale songs as music.

“The Clyde,” Gil reads the marquee of the town’s single screen theater. “Wow, I didn’t think these old movie theaters still exist.”

“The Clyde is a beloved institution around here. When they replaced the seats a few years back, people bought specific seats where they had their first dates or first kisses. Or even where they proposed.”

“Island people are a sentimental bunch. You fit right in here,” Gil says, while looking around for a bakery amongst the colorful storefronts. “Where was the bakery?” 

“Over on Second,” Maggie points south, “a block over. It’s still there—just not mine anymore.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes. When I sold mom’s share to her business partner, she brought in her niece to help. They sell cupcakes now.”

“Cupcakes are everywhere. They’ve taken over.”

“They have. Mom did classic pies, cookies and cakes, mini loaves of banana bread, that sort of thing.”

“What about scones? Or is that your thing?” Gil could eat Maggie’s scones every day.

“The scones are mostly me. The one thing I can consistently bake. I’m much better writing about food than baking. Have to play to my strengths.”

“Your food is amazing.”

They catch up with Selah and Quinn at the entrance to the bar. As they walk in the double doors they can hear music coming from the back room.

“Ooh, live music,” Selah says, delighted. “Where there’s live music, there’s the potential for hot rocker guys.”

“It’s a Thursday. On Whidbey. Highly unlikely these guys will be rock stars,” Maggie argues.

“Remember when Gil was a rock star?” Quinn asks as they join the crowd at the long bar that runs the length of the right side of space.

Gil notes the pool table in the center of the room, the small tables on the left surrounded by flannel-wearing locals, pitchers and pint glasses scattered around the tabletops. 

“I was never a rock star. I played bass in a college band.”

“Yes, but in a college band in Olympia when Seattle was the epicenter for grunge. Plus, you were hot enough to be a rock star.” Maggie smiles at him.

Gil stares at her. The wine from dinner has loosened Maggie’s tongue. 

“It’s true. You were always much hotter than whatshisface, the lead singer of Inflammable Flannel.”

“Mark. And thanks. Worst band name ever.” Gil laughs. 

“Right. Mark Jones. I fucked him,” Selah casually says. 

“You and most of the fans of Inflammable Flannel.” Gil shrugs. “Mark definitely got more than his fare share.”

“Personally, I always preferred the quiet bass player types in glasses.” Maggie winks. 

This surprises Gil, but he doesn’t comment.

Pitcher and glasses acquired, they make their way through the crowd to the back room. Gil puts his hand on Maggie’s lower back to help guide her down the narrow hall packed with people. His notices how his hand fits perfectly on the small of her back like it was made to be there.