Geoducks Are for Lovers (6 page)

His knowledge of the kilims surprises her. Then again, he has traveled everywhere and teaches history. Figures he knows Turkish rugs.

“They are. My mother bought them in Seattle years ago. I love how sun-bleached and faded they are now.”

“Me too. I love things that show their age. It only makes them more beautiful.” 

Maggie smiles at his words. “Says the history professor.”

Gil laughs. “Good point. Do you use the telescope to spy on the neighbors?” 

She wonders why he frowns when he mentions her neighbors. “Tempting, but no. The telescope is perfect for star gazing, whale watching, and following the container ships in the Sound. I like to imagine what’s in all those containers.”

Gil walks over and looks out the telescope that is, in fact, pointed at the shipping channel. “What do you imagine inside them?”

“Sometimes random stuff. If the ship is bound for port in Seattle, then I assume it’s something from Asia like squid flavored candies or Apple products. Outbound ships are probably filled with Starbucks and geoducks.”

“Do they even ship their coffee from Seattle?”

“Good point. I don’t know.”

“Where are the geoducks going?” 

“Japan and China, of course. They’re an expensive delicacy in Asia and thought to improve male virility.” Maggie scrunches up her nose.

“Not a fan of the giant clam?” Gil says, clearly amused by her reaction. “Geoducks are resolutely phallic.”

“Visually, not so much. They’re pornographic.” Maggie laughs at the fact she’s standing in her bedroom talking about phallic bivalves with Gil. 

“You have a dirty mind, Maggie May. They’re our alma mater’s mascot.” He points at the stuffed Speedy the Geoduck on her desk.

“Hmm.” She hums. “No one has called me Maggie May since college. Actually, no one but you has ever called me that.” Her cheeks warm at the familiarity and small thrill she has from the name.

“That makes me happy to hear.” Gil turns and faces her with a small smile tugging at his lips.

His familiar smile stirs something in Maggie. It’s the same smile nineteen-year-old Gil used to give her. Part shy, part stunning… it was irresistible then and it’s pretty irresistible now. She smiles back at him.

“It’s wonderful to hear you laugh again. I love your house. It’s very
you
. Thanks for making me feel welcome and not like the crasher I am.”

Maggie looks around at the room with its white-washed wood walls and simple furnishings. It
is
very her.

“Thanks. I love this room. And it’s good to have you here. Like no time has passed at all.” She means it as she imagines how much his absence would have been noted this weekend. Maybe the wine makes her a little more than nostalgic.

“We should make sure Quinn hasn’t charred the fish.”

“Charred fish sounds like one of his studio art pieces.”

“It does.” She laughs as they walk downstairs.

* * *

Selah pours herself a glass of wine as Gil and Maggie walk into the kitchen.

“Who needs refills?” she asks, holding up the bottle.

“I’ll grab another beer,” Gil says, opening the fridge.

Maggie pours another glass for herself and walks outside to check on Quinn.

Selah and Gil follow shortly after, carrying table settings, the salad, and wine.

“Dinner is served,” Quinn says with a flourish toward the perfectly grilled, not charred, salmon on a cedar plank in his hand.

The rest applaud.

Once everyone serves themselves, Maggie makes a toast. Raising her glass, she says, “To old friends.”

The others echo her and clink their glasses. She glances over the top of her glass at Gil, who sits opposite her.
To long lost friends found again
, she thinks. As if he could read her mind, Gil winks, and she smiles in response. 

It might be the wine or the wink, but Maggie feels warm and happy, and maybe a little hopeful for the first time in ages.

An hour later, her guests compliment her about the amazing food as Maggie clears the table after telling them to sit and enjoy the sunset. She carries the plates and salad bowl into the kitchen with a promise Gil can help her wash the dishes later.

Not ready to think about dessert yet, she grabs a bottle of wine and another beer for Gil. She flips the switch for the twinkle lights hung around the railing of the deck, giving enough light outside to balance the creeping darkness. Selah lights a cigarette and moves to sit on the deck railing, with Gil’s empty bottle as her ashtray.

“Quinn was nicely pointing out I’m the last person on the planet to smoke,” Selah says from her perch. Thankfully she’s down wind. “Back in the day, you all smoked. Quitters.”

Quinn laughs. “Yes, and ‘back in the day’ we all thought forty was old age.”

“Forty is the new thirty, don’t you know?” Selah quips and blows smoke rings. “At this rate, by the time we’re fifty, we’ll be forever thirty and twenty will be the new fourteen.”

“Ugh, don’t mention fifty,” Maggie moans. “We’re closer to fifty than twenty.”

“How did that happen?” Gil asks.

“We got boring and married, and grew paunchy.” Quinn pats his belly, which is almost as flat as it was in college. “And by we, I mean all of you.”

“Perpetual youthful teenager is no way to go through life, Quinn,” Selah says, jokingly.

“I’ve made a career of pandering to the base of youth obsessed culture,” Quinn replies.

Maggie sips her wine and observes the sparring between Q and Selah.

“How’s the poster business, Q?” Gil asks.

“Now, now don’t you start. Poster business?” Quinn laughs.

“Plastic and printable satire? What did the critics call your show earlier this year?” Selah interjects.

Maggie has to suppress a grin. That line had particularly irked Q when he read it to her over the phone.

“Hush, woman. Let it be known, I sold out most of the show before the opening. Lars was interviewing collectors to determine who was worthy to own one of my masterpieces.”

Selah puts out her cigarette and snorts.

“Tiara-wearing honey bears are hardly masterpieces.”

“Selah, you teach about art filled with the nakedness and nudity of the old ages. This is contemporary art, conceptual. Those bears were eighteen-carat gold-plated.”

“I prefer my ‘Liza Loves Me’ puffy heart box from your first show,” Maggie interjects.

“Art is in the eye of the beholder,” Gil adds.

“Art with a big A or a little a?” Selah asks.

“Both. Look at Maggie’s collection of paintings of the island. All amateur, all not very well done, but together they form a collective piece that becomes more than the sum of their parts,” Gil says.

Maggie blushes over how Gil seems to understand her little collection of misfit paintings.

“Did Maggie invite you upstairs to show you her etchings?” Quinn can’t stop teasing.

“Disappointingly, she didn’t. She was a complete lady on the house tour.”

“Disappointing indeed.” Quinn does, in fact, look disappointed.

Selah joins them at the table and refills her glass. “I’m well on my way to tipsy so I’ll forgive the ‘nudity and nakedness’ comment.”

“Oh come on, Elmore,” Quinn bats his eyelashes. “Think of all the young men you’ve lured into taking art history with the promise of boobs and bush.”

“Dr. Elmore, thank you. Boobs and bush—now that’s a course title. Much better than ‘The depiction of the female form from Renaissance to Impressionism’.”

Quinn fake yawns and Selah gives him the stink eye. Maggie knows provoking Quinn is entertaining and comfortable for Selah. 

“I should invite you to give a guest lecture next time you’re in the area. You can expound on the cultural relevance of poop or history of plump children in art.”

  Their opinions about art rarely agree, yet they both enjoy the verbal sparring. Quinn gives as good as he gets.

“Those pageant girls are living cherubim. Most of their proportions are classic Italian Renaissance.”

Gil and Maggie roll their eyes at Quinn.

“I will say anything’s better than ‘Gary Busey is my co-pilot’ sticker campaign you did right after college,” Maggie says.

“Dude, Busey was epic. Had to pay respect to the man.”

Selah hits her head on the table in exasperation while Gil chuckles.

“How many times did we watch
Point Break
? I used to have that movie memorized,” Gil says.

“Ben will know. Remember when he had us get the dead presidents masks and go as them for Halloween?” Quinn asks.

Gil laughs. “Man, I’d forgotten about that.”

“I wish I could forget about it.” Selah half grumbles, half laughs. “I got so sick of the three of you always quoting that movie.”

“Johnny Utah was the man. Never compromised, never worked for the man. He’s my hero.” Quinn raises his mostly empty glass. “To Johnny.”

“To Johnny.” They all toast with laughter.

Seven

Maggie starts the water for the dishes while Quinn and Selah sprawl out on the gray sectional sofa in the living room. Biscuit curls up by Quinn’s feet.

“Hey now, I’m supposed to be washing dishes. I didn’t contribute at all to dinner.” Gil walks around the kitchen island and joins her at the sink.

“You really don’t have to do the dishes, Gil. It’s fine.”

He takes the sponge from her hand, bumping her out of his way with his hip. “Move. I need to earn my keep.” 

“Okay, you can help. It’s an old dishwasher—everything needs to be scraped and rinsed. You rinse and I’ll load.”

When Gil hands her the dishes their fingers brush together. Maggie decides his actions must be deliberate, but she can’t deny the little touches affect her. 

“Remember when we didn’t even have a dishwasher in the house that summer? What a disaster.”

Maggie laughs. “Remember Quinn insisting on paper plates during his week on dish duty?”

“The chore wheel thing was a nightmare. Who came up with that?” Gil asks.

“Jo. Had to have been. She ruled the roost with an iron fist.”

“I think you’re mixing your metaphors.” He teases.

“I’m a little buzzed.” She admits and laughs. “Now I’m imagining a chicken with an animatronic human hand.” 

This is easy. Like old times. They can do this. They’ll be fine.

“Yeah, I’d say you’re a little buzzed.” Gil joins her laughter. 

“Whose idea was it to burn the chore wheel in the barbecue before we all moved out?” Gil asks.

“Quinn. I think he declared the fire performance art. Jo was pissed.” Maggie laughs at the memory of the charred chart.

“Right. He’s a clever bastard. He gets away with everything by calling it art.”

“Ahem, I can hear you two, you know,” Quinn says from the living room. “I’m right here.” He waves over his head and points down to himself.

“Q, don’t worry, we can never forget about you. You won’t let us,” Gil says.

“Damn straight. I’m the gay glue holding this group together,” Quinn boasts. “Selah is the heart, Maggie is the memory, and you are the brain, Pinky.”

“Talk about mixed metaphors,” Maggie whispers to Gil. He leans down to hear her. Their heads are close together, very close. Suddenly aware of where she is, and who she’s with, she pulls back and turns off the water. 

“Thank you for your help,” she says to Gil rather formally. 

“No problem. Happy to help.” He gives her a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Wandering over to the stereo by the dining table, he picks up a couple of albums sitting on the credenza.

“Feeling sentimental, Maggie?” He holds up the cover to
Avalon
for her to see.

“I was going through some of mom’s albums the other night and discovered that shelved next to
Blue
, one of her favorites.”

Maggie ignores the silly grin on Gil’s face that he’s trying to hide by facing the window, but she can see his reflection. Finding that album and his unexpected arrival are probably more than coincidence. She fights her own smile at the thought.

“I have dessert if anyone wants it—local gelato and cookies. Anyone?” 

“Me,” Selah says from the sofa where she checks her phone.

“Can you even get service?” Maggie asks. “The island is notorious for dead spots.”

“If I sit here and face south, I can. I’ll tap into your wi-fi later if you don’t mind. I need to do a little writing this weekend.”

“Academic or smutty pirates?” Quinn asks.

“Academic pirates who give up everything for one good fuck.” Selah snarks.

“Really? Cause that sounds interesting. Based on anyone we know? Gil could be a pirate. Or at least he could’ve when he had long hair.” Quinn muses.

Maggie pauses scooping the gelato, and closes her eyes, thinking about Pirate Gil and his shoulder length, shaggy hair in college a la Dave Grohl. 

Gil’s voice brings her back to the present.

“Every guy had long hair in college.” Gil sits down on the sofa next to Quinn. Maggie watches Biscuit nudging Gil’s hand with his head to be petted.

“Not Ben. Never Ben,” Maggie says.

“No, never Ben. Shame. How different his life might have been had he been a long hair.”