It's You (11 page)

He does, and then helps me carry the empty cardboard boxes back to the car. “Have a lot more deliveries?” he asks.

“Nope. You’re it.” I bury my hands in my jean pockets. I feel a little sweaty and grimy after the long day. But it’s a good feeling. It’s so much better than sitting around Dad’s room watching golf with him in the afternoon.

“What’s next? Going to see your dad?”

I shake my head. “I’ll probably grab something to eat on the way home, or just go home and run.”

“You run a lot?”

“Just enough to keep me from going crazy.”

He smiles, and his blue eyes are warm. “Never underestimate the power of crazy.”

I laugh. “That’s funny.”

His teeth flash white as he fishes into his pocket and retrieves car keys. “If you’re not expected anywhere, come join me for dinner.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

I glance down at my T-shirt, stained orange in spots from my attempt to remove the lily stamens earlier. Diana had done it without mishap yesterday. I clearly hadn’t paid enough attention to her lesson. “I really can’t go out like this.”

“I was going to cook. Super simple. Shrimp scampi and a glass of wine.”

I hesitate. I’m not sure I’m ready for this.

“We’d be eating in less than thirty minutes and you can be on your way right after,” he says.

I’m tempted, but I don’t want romance. I can’t imagine replacing Andrew, but at the same time, I’d like a friend. Someone kind, someone interesting. “Thirty minutes?”

“It takes ten minutes to prep, ten minutes to cook, and I live just five minutes away.”

“You’ve given yourself a five minute cushion.”

“I’ll have to give Bruiser some love. He’s very demanding when I first come home, but as soon as I’ve pet him, he’ll crash again on the couch, and go right back to sleep.”

“Bruiser?”

“My bulldog.”

I love bulldogs. They look scary but they have the sweetest personalities. “How’s his overbite?”

“Huge.”

“Does he drool?”

“And farts.”

I laugh. “I have to meet him.”

• • •

I
follow Craig in his work truck back down Highway 29 about two miles before he takes a right down a nondescript lane.

Grapes line both sides of the narrow road and I don’t know what I expected Craig’s house to look like, but I certainly wasn’t
anticipating a huge brick Queen Anne house with gables, angled bay windows, a widow’s walk and tower.

I climb out of my car and tip my head back to take it all in. Craig slams his truck door and comes towards me, boots crunching in the gravel driveway.

“This is your place?” I say.

He nods and glances at the house. The sun has dropped behind the hill, outlining the curve in silver and gold. The glow of gold on the horizon makes the house look dark in comparison.

“Let me turn on the porch lights.”

I follow him up the front steps. There are five, and on the top stair I see that the front porch wraps all the way around the side.

“Do you live here by yourself?” I ask, as he unlocks the front door.

“No.” He smiles at me, and holds the door open. “Bruiser’s here, too.”

And yes, there’s Bruiser, a huge, muscular male bulldog with dark brown spots on a white body and a big brown patch over his left eye, dancing in the doorway, greeting Craig with absolute joy.

He does his welcome home dance for about sixty seconds, and then with his tongue hanging out, he collapses on the floor.

Craig steps over him and leads me through the paneled central hall, down a narrow corridor, to the kitchen in the back. “What did I say?” he asks, flipping on lights as we go. “Unbridled enthusiasm and then nothing.”

“It was a very good happy dance.”

“He’s a great dog. Loves sleeping, eating, and car rides.”

“You can’t ask for more than that.”

Craig washes up at the sink and then opens his refrigerator and draws out a bottle of white wine. He shows me the bottle. “White okay?”

I nod, but it’s not a Dark Horse label. “You don’t make white wines?”

“We do, but I’m always trying different wines, and I was just in Italy and came home with a few new favorites. This Pinot Grigio is really crisp and light and cuts nicely through the butter and garlic of scampi. But I also have a great Sardinia white, which is a medium to full body wine and can handle the sauce.”

I listen, rather dazed and enchanted because I don’t know wine at all. I’m not a foodie and it’s almost as if he’s speaking a foreign language. But I like it. “Whatever you want. Might as well let you know now, but I’m not very sophisticated when it comes to wine. I usually drink light beer or those fruity flavored wines they sell in six packs at the grocery store.”

“I will not hold it against you,” he promises, uncorking the bottle and pouring us two glasses.

He gives me my glass, directs me to a chair at the big farm table and tells me to relax.

I sit down and sip my wine and watch him. From the doorway Bruiser snores loudly. Craig glances at me as he puts a pot of water on for pasta, and then while the water comes to a boil, he swiftly deveins the fresh shrimp, pats them dry on a paper towel and gives them a good shake of salt and pepper.

He adds the pasta to the boiling water, gives the noodles a stir. Soon butter is making little crackling noises in a medium sauté pan and Craig adds the shrimp, and then a minute later, the freshly minced garlic.

The shrimp comes off, into a bowl, and then he scrapes the browned bits off the bottom of the pan, adds vermouth and lemon juice to the bits of butter and garlic, and sets that aside to drain the pasta.

And then it’s time to eat.

We carry our plates and glasses of wine outside to his garden right off the kitchen. Globe-stringed lights stretch across the walled garden. There’s a little fountain trickling water on one brick wall. We sit down
at a small wrought iron table and Bruiser pushes open the back door, and staggers down the steps to flop down at Craig’s feet.

He reaches down to scratch Bruiser’s ear. Bruiser sighs with pleasure, before emitting an ungentlemanly fart.

“He has no sense of decorum,” Craig says, grinning.

“Bruiser likes keeping it real.”

Craig lifts his wine glass. “To you, Alison McAdams.”

“Why to me?” I ask.

His blue gaze meets mine and holds. He’s still smiling, a half smile, but his expression is strangely serious. “Why not?” he answers.

I don’t know what to say to that.

I have nothing to say to that.

I drink my wine and we eat, and as we eat, I feel like I’m somewhere far away. This could be Charleston, or a garden in the French Quarter of New Orleans, or even in Provence.

“This is lovely,” I say.

Craig has refilled our glasses and the meal is over and I feel like Bruiser, lazy and content.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Craig stretches and settles back into his chair. “I’m glad you came. It’s nice to have some company. Usually it’s just Bruiser and me.”

“Have you ever been married?” I ask. I hate the question but I’m curious. He’s good-looking, and successful. He owns a winery. He’s a great cook. He has this incredible house and a wonderful dog. Why is there no woman right now?

“No. You?”

I shake my head, slightly disappointed that in answering so quickly he turned the focus from him to me. But I’m still curious. I want to know more about him. “Was this a family house?”

“No. It had been abandoned years ago and it sat here, empty, falling into ruin. Kids would come and graffiti the outside, or break off the boards covering the windows and vandalize the inside. I
couldn’t stand it. I thought she deserved better. So I bought her and have been fixing her up ever since. It’s definitely a labor of love. I do most of the work myself.”

“How long ago did you buy it?”

“Just before I got Bruiser. So it’s been a little over five years.”

“You must love this place a lot.”

“I do, and I enjoy carpentry and everything else that’s gone into restoring the house. If I hadn’t become a vintner, I would have been a contractor. I like using my hands. I like making things, creating things. It’s good for the soul.” He sips his wine, swallows, and waits a moment before asking, “Why did you choose to become a dentist?”

I slouch lower in my chair, and cross my feet at the ankles so I can see the tips of my shoes. “I made the decision in junior high.”

“Really?”

“I had a crush on my orthodontist. He was young and sexy. He had swagger.”

I grin, embarrassed even as I laugh at myself. “I liked everything about him. He had a really cool office and he drove this amazing car and everyone in his practice hurried around doing the hard work and the boring work while he’d make all the decisions.”

I bite my lip, my cheeks hot. “I loved the idea that I could have my own office and a team that’d execute my decisions. I wanted to play rock and alternative music while I worked and take long lunches when I could go play tennis and then come back to the office refreshed. It would be a great life . . . I’d be the boss and happy and people would want to be me . . .” My voice fades. My face burns. I’m uncomfortable with my innocent fantasies.

And no, I don’t have that life.

I work for an old-fashioned dentist who doesn’t believe in anything cool, progressive, or new. He’s a good man but not open to change. It’s his way or the highway. It’s not the practice I ever wanted for myself. It’s not the life I would have picked.

I pause, and draw a slow, painful breath.

Maybe it wasn’t the life Andrew wanted, either.

“So you became a dentist because you had a crush on your orthodontist,” Craig repeats, his tone teasing.

“Pretty much.”

“And from what I understand, you’ve just been through a pretty bad breakup.”

“Is that what your great-aunt told you?”

“More or less.”

I exhale and set my wine down. My eyes are hot and gritty and there’s a lump in my throat now, too. “I guess you could say it was a pretty bad breakup. He, uh, died six weeks before our wedding.”

Craig winces. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” I study my wine, where the line of liquid hits the glass. I keep my gaze fixed to keep from looking at Craig, not wanting to see whatever it is that might be in his face. And then for reasons I don’t understand I blurt, “He killed himself. Hung himself at home, from the chandelier in our entry hall.”

Craig says nothing.

I exhale, my chest tight, my throat squeezing closed. I fight for air. My eyes burn, but it’s not sadness. It’s rage. Rage at what Andrew put me through.

To find him like that.

To walk in with a paper bag of ice cream and . . . and . . .

“I will never forget what I saw.” I cross my arms over my chest, my hands beneath my armpits, nails digging into my ribs. “I’ll be your great-aunt Edie’s age and it’ll still be there, burned into my mind.” I finally look at Craig from across the table. “You’re a man. Tell me. How could he do that to me? If he loved me—” I break off, hating myself for saying anything at all. It was the wine that loosened my tongue. The wine that made me speak. I jump to my feet. Bruiser lifts his head, looks at me.

I’m not going to cry here. I’m going to get in my car and drive home and go to bed without shedding a single damn tear.

“It’s late,” I say roughly. “I should go.”

He gets to his feet, sets his wine glass next to mine. I think he’s going to walk me to my car but instead he hugs me. A warm, hard silent hug that takes me completely by surprise.

And then he walks me to my car.

“Are you okay to drive?” he asks as I open the car door.

“I didn’t even drink two full glasses of wine.”

“Maybe I should rephrase that.” He hesitates a moment, brow furrowed. “Are you okay?”

I hesitate even longer. “Not yet,” I say finally. “But I will be. One day.” I look up, meet his eyes. “Right?”

• • •

B
ack at the house on Poppy Lane I drag a lounge chair from the patio out onto the lawn and lie there in the garden, hands behind my head, staring up at the stars.

I look for the Milky Way. And then the Big Dipper. The Little Dipper. Orion’s Belt.

Hello, Andrew. Hello my love, my heart.

Do you know how angry I am with you?

Do you have any idea how upset I am?

Do you have any idea how much I miss you?

Do you know how many things I’d like to say to you? How many things I’d like to ask you? But mostly,
why
?

And is it better now? Is it what you thought it’d be?

Is it the peace you needed?

The quiet you wanted?

The stars glow and glimmer. Countless pricks of pure white light. And that moon, waxing and waning and tonight luminous, a stunning geisha flawless even without her makeup.

I am sure Andrew is happier.

But what about his parents? What about his sisters? What about the nieces and nephews he left behind? How are they to ever be totally happy again?

And me . . . I don’t want another man. Andrew can’t be replaced and won’t be. But it’s not because Andrew was so perfect—he wasn’t—it’s because I can’t do this again. Can’t feel. Can’t love. Can’t care.

Love is too capricious.

It’s selfish and it wounds. It bites. It cuts. It’s too full of suffering and strife.

Andrew.

Look what you did to me. Look what you did . . . you took the best of me and threw it away, like trash rotting in a Dumpster.

Or a dead animal on the side of a road.

And then I think of Bruiser, with his sturdy body and ridiculous overbite and I wish I could wrap my arms around his stocky neck and give him a hug, and hold him, and hold him until some of the ice inside me thaws.

• • •

I
wake up cold.

I’m still on the lounge chair. It’s still dark but there is moisture in the air. Shivering, I swing my legs over the side of the chaise and put them down in the damp grass. Dawn must be close.

I’ve survived another night.

I’m still here.

In the house I climb into bed and feel Mom. She’s with me. She believes in me. All that potential, she used to say, brushing my hair back from my face. So much potential . . .