Geoducks Are for Lovers (32 page)

“Sex. How about sex?” Gil offers.

“I’d thought you’d never ask, but I’m sitting here with my husband, so this is a little awkward,” Quinn says.

Rolling his eyes, Gil addresses the elephant in the car. “Yes, we slept together, had sex, whatever you want to call it. No regrets.”

“‘No regrets’ doesn’t sound like a grand plan to get the girl to me,” Ryan comments.

“Oh, but you don’t know this girl. She has to think it was all her idea.”

“It’s true,” Selah adds. “Maggie will rebel if she thinks she is being pushed into anything. She’s more stubborn than you can imagine. Just a matter of laying out the pieces, and then letting her figure everything out.”

“Interesting. What’s the legal term for that? Leading the witness?” Quinn asks.

“I think so, but I’m not a lawyer. Doctor, remember?” Ryan answers.

“Speaking of pieces, who started the dirty Scrabble game?” Gil asks. “It couldn’t have been Ben or Jo since it was going before they arrived.”

No one answers right away.

“Like I said, it’s a matter of laying out the pieces.” Selah smirks.

“Are you saying it was you?” Gil asks. “I swore that had Quinn written all over it.”

“Why me?” Quinn attempts to sound innocent. “I am a gentleman, and like Maggie, would never use the C word in polite company.”

They respond to his declaration with laughter. “Uh huh, Q. I remember a certain Warhol-inspired project.”

“Damn you all and your long memories. Clearly you didn’t do college the right way. Everything should be all fuzzy and vague.” He crosses his arms. 

“Since there are no do overs, we’ll have to live with the memories we have. Or agree to the new versions. No reason why we can’t follow in the grand tradition of historians before us and rewrite things to favor the victors,” Gil says.

“I wonder how history will write this weekend,” Selah ponders out loud.

“I’m thinking of Waterloo,” Quinn says.

“The battle between Wellington and Napoleon? Who is who?” Gil furrows his brow. 

“No,
ABBA
. Silly man.” Quinn shakes his head.

“Oh, Q, so stereotypical,” Gil admonishes. “That song is about surrendering… so I guess it does fit.” 

“I, for one, hate
ABBA
,” Ryan replies.

“How can you hate
ABBA
?” Selah asks, the judgment clear in her voice.

“I do. Liking
ABBA
is not mandatory to be a fag.”

“I like your husband, Q. He’s a man of convictions.” Gil smiles.

“Back off the hot husband. You’ve got a woman to woo.”

“What’s the plan, Gil?” Selah pushes. 

“Now we, I, wait. I have faith,” Gil says.

“Gil, I have faith in the both of you finally pulling your heads from your asses and figuring this out once and for all.” Selah tosses her empty ice cream on the tray sitting on the console. “Sugar high in five, four, three….”

“I should have asked if anyone is lactose intolerant before getting the ice cream. This could be a long drive to Seattle,” Quinn says.

“Little late.” Gil rolls down his window. The horrified look on Quinn’s face makes him laugh. “Kidding. Totally kidding.”

The ferry pulls into the dock and the cycle of unloading and loading repeats, as a seemingly endless line of cars streams up the hill behind them.

“I can see why islanders stay put over here. This ferry wait is an exercise in patience.” Ryan yawns and stretches.

“Many things in life are,” Gil muses. “We don’t realize it most of the time. We’re busy rushing to get to the next thing, hit a milestone, or whatever. We’re always pushing to get to the next stage, counting down to the next zero birthday, or being able to mark decade anniversaries. Being patient is a virtue for a reason.”

Selah looks over at him. “Wise man is wise. When did this happen?”

“Not sure. Maybe five years ago at Lizzy’s funeral. Maybe this weekend. Hard to say for sure. I’m not saying everything happens for a reason, only there are things that happen which fit together in ways we don’t see until later.” He rubs the back of his neck.

“You sound like a history professor,” Quinn says.

“There’s a quote about knowing history and not repeating history I could recite, but I won’t. Let’s say I’ve learned a lot in the past twenty years. I pray I’m not making the same mistakes now I made then.”

* * *

*Made the ferry. Thanks for everything.*

Maggie reads the text from Quinn and smiles. 

*Miss you already. Safe travels. Tell everyone the same.*

Another text pings from a Portland number that isn’t Selah’s. Smiling, Maggie opens it.

*Quinn says he won’t be our go between. Miss you.*

She sighs and clutches her phone before responding.

*Who is this?*

A new text sounds right away.

*Gil. Who is this?*

Giggling, she types: *You texted me. Shouldn’t you know? ;) *

A beat or two later there is a new text.

*Funny girl. Take care of yourself. See you soon.*

She smiles again. *You too. x*

Laying her phone down on the counter, she walks over to the dining table where the Scrabble game lays discarded. Many more words have been added and it’s now an impressive array of swear words and body parts. She notices there is an “H” tile abandoned next to the board. Where it used to find a home is now “TRUST”. This simple change causes her to smile. Did Gil do this? Or was it one of the matchmakers? Rather than sweep the tiles back into the bag, she decides to leave the board on the table for a little while longer. 

She contemplates working on some articles or checking her email for new assignments, but the idea of work doesn’t appeal. Not even as a distraction. Instead, she grabs one of her mother’s romances from the bookcase and her coffee, before going out on the deck to catch the last of the sun before the rains come back. A simple, happily-ever-after riding off into the sunset is the perfect thing she needs.

Twenty-nine

Rain hitting the windows wakes Maggie the next morning. The gray sky gives little indication of the time. Stretching, she tries to remember what day it is. Biscuit yawns and looks at her, then tucks his head back down. It must be early. Craning her neck she can see 8:14 on the bedside clock. Early, but not atrocious.

She shifts to stare out at the monotone gray landscape where the water is lighter than the sky. This is a real rain, not a passing summer afternoon thunderstorm. Checking the weather forecast might be a good idea, she notes.

Mentally she goes through her day and then week, trying to figure out if she can stay in bed all day. Biscuit gets up and shakes, jingling his tags and collar.

“No run today, sweet boy.” She snuggles further under the covers. 

A wet dog nose pokes at her forehead. 

“Don’t make me get out of bed, please?” 

Dog tongue licks her head.

“Fine. You and your tiny bladder. I should’ve gotten a cat.”

She shuffles over to put on her robe. The room is chilly and she shudders when her feet hit the bare wood between the rugs.

She lets Biscuit out and he makes his way across the deck to the lawn. Wrapping her robe tighter around herself against the damp air, she wanders into the kitchen to start the coffee maker. The neatly-stacked plates in the drainer next to the sink make her smile. Something so simple is the sweetest gesture. Who knew a man who washes dishes, who loves to do the dishes, was such a turn on? She smiles at the image of Gil, hands and forearms soapy, standing at her sink. 

She waits for the coffee to finish, pondering what to eat for breakfast. Setting a single bowl on the counter, she makes some yogurt. One cup, one bowl. Sighing, she looks out to the deck and sees a wet and muddy Biscuit standing by the door.

“How did you get this muddy so fast?” After grabbing his towel, she dries him off, before letting him in the house. He shakes off the last of the water, leaving sprinkles of sand and water on the floor. He trots over to his bowl and devours his breakfast before curling up on his dog bed, sighing in resignation.

Maggie hops up on the counter to eat her yogurt. There’s nothing she must get done for the day, but she doesn’t want to wallow, if that is what she is doing. She might be wallowing.

Dumping her empty bowl in the sink, she wanders into the den and turns on the television. It’s early, but surely she will find something mindless on to watch—some housewives or dentally challenged people with interesting ways of making money. 

Snuggled under a throw on the couch, Maggie wastes the morning watching TV. Finally grabbing her computer in the afternoon, she opens her email and finds her inbox bursting with new messages. She scans the typical blog notices, flash sales, and work related emails she can deal with later. Gil’s name stands out amongst the usual suspects.

An email from Gil. She feels nervous. Silly but true. She puts off opening it, telling herself she needs to deal with a few work things, which are important but could be done later.

His unopened email teases and tempts her like a note passed in class in middle school that she wants to save to read until she is alone in a bathroom stall or home in her room with the door securely locked. A nervous fluttering settles in her chest.

She texts Selah for information on what happened on the ride back to Portland.

*Everyone make it to their destinations last night?*

Selah’s response arrives a few minutes later.

*Sorry. Getting coffee. Yes, we all made it. Fascinating conversations. Gotta run.*

Typical of Selah to taunt her but not spill the dirt.

*Tease. x*

No response. It’s Monday. People work. Maggie wonders what Gil is doing today. Her mind insists on drifting toward thoughts of him. 

Finally unable to stand it any longer, she opens his email. The message is short—a thank you for the weekend and how great it was to see her again. Casual. Friendly. The postscript says he probably should create a password for his phone. There’s an attachment.

She clicks to open it, and sees a picture of the two of them, sitting on a driftwood log. Taken from behind, they are turned, slightly facing one another, knees touching, heads close together. Beyond them is Quinn’s dog sculpture and kids running on the beach, but they are in a bubble. The only two people on the planet. The afternoon sun gives them a glow and blurs their faces. If she didn’t know better, the picture could be from college. They look ageless. 

Maggie stares at the image, and blinks back tears. This is love. Not silly French accents and over the top seductions—a quiet, comfortable bubble. 

“Oh, sweet Gil.” His email was casual, but this picture says more than chatty words. It says everything.

Uncertain of what to reply, she saves the file to her desktop before closing the email. She tries not to think about all that happened over the weekend. Knowing she’ll need time to process, she attempts to push his face from her thoughts. 

“What am I going to do about you, Gil?” She dries her cheeks on the sleeve of her robe. Doing her best Scarlet O’Hara, she tells herself, “I’ll think about it tomorrow.”

* * *

Gray clouds allow fleeting patches of sunlight to brighten the days, but it rains every day the rest of the week. The rain isn’t heavy—more of a mist—perfect for cool morning runs, enough to stay inside in the afternoons, working and watching TV.

It dawns on Maggie she’s now caught up with every TV show that features housewives. Maybe she
is
wallowing. She tries to remember the last time she showered after taking two showers on Sunday. It’s Saturday. Certainly she’s bathed since Sunday. She vaguely remembers a particularly muddy run on Wednesday and showering after that. She sniffs herself. 

“Shower,” she declares. “Maybe time to get out of the house. Go visit Sally at the market.” She nods. Having a plan is good; bathing is good. 

The rain stops as she pulls into the parking area of the farmers’ market. Mud puddles, where the dry earth was only a week ago, squish under the tires of the Subaru. 

Her wellies protect her feet from the mud and wet grass in the field. Sally stays dry under a large white tent with all but one side closed. Looking around, Maggie notices she’s the only other car in the lot besides Sally’s.

“Slow going today?” 

“Hi, sweetie. Been slow and soggy all morning. You show up and the sun comes out.” Smiling, she hands a biscuit to Biscuit, who offers his paw.

“Where is everyone? I don’t think I passed more than a few cars on the way over here. It feels like November already.”

“It isn’t that bad. Raining and the tourists stay away. Missed you on Tuesday. I see you’ve switched back to Saturday pick-ups again.”

“Sorry. I’ve been working.” She makes an excuse for her flaky behavior.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. You okay? You seem…” Sally pauses. “…not quite yourself. Did you have a bad time with your friends last weekend? Connie mentioned she ran into you at the store and you looked like a young girl in love. Handsome guy was with you, she said.”

Connie.