Summer of Love (13 page)

But Charlie doesn’t comment on this. Instead, he lights a match, starts the fire and asks, “So, what’s the deal with you and Henry, anyway?”

Oh — not expecting that one. I warm my hands near the flames to buy a second or two to think. “Truth?” I ask and Charlie nods, his tongue in the side of his cheek. “Nothing.”

“So backrubs on the beach are nothing? Just your standard summer fling summer fun…”

“Are you spying on me? I don’t know whether to be freaked out or flattered.”

“Mike saw you with Henry — and since she’s been down that road before…”

“What road is that, exactly?”

“The Henry Randall
all women are mine road
,” Charlie says.

“Oh,” I say, non-committal. I mean, clearly Charlie and Henry have a little guy competition thing going on and though it’s easy to see Henry as a player, a high-roller on the hook-up table of craps even — it’s not the way I saw him. Then again, I’ve been wrong before. “Well, I guess I’ve, uh, strayed from that path. Or road. Or highway.”

Charlie opens a kitchen cabinet, reaching high up and reveal a bit of skin underneath his untucked white shirt. In my mind, I’m drooling, but exteriorly, I manage to stay calm.

“Red or white?” Charlie asks.

I think for a second. Not sure wine is going to do me any favors with my shift tomorrow, my fairly empty stomach, and need to keep my wits about me. “Neither, thanks.”

“Okay, not red…” Charlie decides and instead of handing me a glass, tucks something into his pocket and walks right to me. His eyes lock with mine and then in one smooth motion he puts one arm around my waist, the other around my shoulders and kisses me. I kiss back with all the feelings of lust and crush I’ve had building up. When we stop for a second, Charlie hands me something. “If not red or white, how about blue and white…”

I look at the object in my hand. “Oh — not red wine. Okay. Feeling cool.” The mug fits perfectly in my palm, despite its lack of handle. I grip it as though there’s a cup of coffee inside. “I can’t believe you have this! I’ve been semi-obsessive about looking for it.

“Who’d you think had it?”

I lean back on the kitchen counter, my elbows resting on the edge. “I have no idea — but I guess I thought…:”

“It’d be with someone more important?” Charlie half-grins at me. “Here — this is the note that goes with it.”

“No, not important just…” Maybe more of a key player in my life. But maybe this is what Mable’s trying to tell me. The scroll he hands me is tied with a pink ribbon, a reminder of Mable’s fight. I untie the bow and unfurl the letter that is a continuation of the note I found at Tink’s pottery place.

“Find the matching blue and white mug and drink in all life has to offer. Everyone deserves a…

Second chance. Even when life — or love — or the potential for it — comes to pieces, it doesn’t mean the shards should be thrown away. Some of the best relationship are those that are salvaged.”

I wonder if this is Mable’s way of hinting that she should have repaired things with my mother — Gal — a long time ago. Or if she lost love and wished she reclaimed it. I keep reading.

I spent some time with Charlie this winter and spring when I visited and he’s a stand-up guy. A gorgeous, funny, stand-up guy who likes you — a lot. But you needed to find this out for yourself. If you’re reading this, then you have. Now go and find the meaning of your name. Oh — and if you’re looking for your next clue, you’ll have to search high and low. XXs forever, Mable”

I blush when I read the part about Charlie being so good-looking, which of course he is but I am really glad that I chose to read the note silently rather than out loud. When I’m done, I roll it back up, slide the ribbon back on and say, “Mable wanted me to give you a second chance. You know, after the diner disaster…”

“She told me I could give you the mug whenever I first saw you, but I wanted to wait. T9 make sure…”

“To make sure what? That I was worth the trouble?” I smile at him and reach out for his jacket lapels, using them to pull him closer to me.

“Something like that. Plus…” Charlie stops for a second, looks away and then looks back at me, choosing his words carefully. “There’ve been a lot of girls — oops that doesn’t sound good.” I laugh but wait to see where this is headed. “A lot of people like the idea of money. Or the perception of my money. Which is just ironic because I don’t have any to speak of now…”

“Well, your background — financially speaking — is impressive,” I say and watch his face fall slightly. “It’s impressive, but I’m not impressed with it.” I take a breath and a risk. “But I’m kind of impressed with you…”

Cue the stringed instruments or the cool off-beat soundtrack by an Indie film producer (oh — like Martin Eisenstein!) as we kiss and connect, with the straps of my borrowed dress sliding slightly off my shoulders, Charlie’s jacket in a heap on the floor, and my heart soaring.

“So you’re cool with just thinking of me as a boat bum?” Charlie asks.

“If that’s how you want it, sure. And what about me?”

“What about you?” he asks, his eyes glazed over with that guy look they get when they’re struggling to pay attention to words due to booty beckoning.

“How do you want to see me?” I put my hands flat on his chest.

“Exactly as you are. A woman with a lot to say — who’s perfect for me.”

And we leave it at that, kissing, talking, and hanging out in the small beach cottage until the sun rises and he walks me back home.

A few days later, in the new relationship phase that clouds my vision, mind, and mouth (I keep flipping words and letters and appear perpetually tongue-tied), Charlie invites me to do the most romantic thing:

“You want me to clean your boat?” I ask, and sound thrilled despite the Cinderella-style date. It’s the first time he’s asked me on board — the bleach and water combo is an added bonus.

“So if you scrub like this,” Charlie reaches underneath one of the built-in seat with a wet spongue, “You can get more bang for your buck.”

“Oh,” I say, semi-drooling over the grungy fisherman thing he has going — all faded and cut off khakis and a shirt so threadbare it betrays the definition of clothing. “Can we have one of thos stereotypical movie moments where the guy teaches the girl a new trade — say welding or something…”

Charlie picks up my lead, “Or golfing, where the guy has to stand behind the girl…like this?” he comes over so his chest is pressed to my back and repeats the scrubbing demo with the spongue. “Better?”

I turn back to see his face without moving apart from his grip. “Perfect,” I say and we stay like that, washing the boat and talking until the inside and the outside (which we cleaned with long-handled brushes) are frothy.

“Can I interest you in a shower?” Charlie asks.

“Ahem?” I say as a word not a cough.

“No — not that kind. This kind.” Charlie unrolls a coiled hose and hands the spout to me. “I’ll go turn it on, you wash it down.”

It’s therapeutic, actually, spaying all the sludge and fishy smells and bleach off, leaving a shiny clean boat.

“Now, if you really wanted to live the cliché, this is where I’d spray you, and you’d giggle and then I’d just happen to get your tee-shirt wet…” Charlie says as I hand him back the hose.

“Yeah, and then I’d be all wet and overtly vixeny and then you’d go to kiss me and my dad would show up.”

Charlie considers all this. “That sounded great up until the last part…”

I reach for his hand. “Well, you don’t have to worry — my dad’s not here. However, I’m not planning on being hosed down, either.”

“How about just getting a sandwich, then?” he asks and points to the diner where he stood me up so long ago. “Proof we’re past it?”

“Lead the way,” I nod — and he does.

“Are you sure I’m not going to be late?” I ask Charlie for the second time. The day has flown by — literally. His buddy, Chet, owns a plane and we went for an aerial tour of the island with Arabella this morning. She then went back to work at the café and I’m due for the evening shift. I left my watch at the tiny airport so now my wrist feels naked and my panic about being late has crept in.

“You’ll be fine,” Charlie says. “You don’t need a watch to know the time.”

“Sounds like a discarded Dylan lyric,” I say and for the first time in two weeks — since that night in Charlie’s cabin — I think about Jacob. Not because I miss him — at least not actively — maybe a fragment of missing him way beneath the surface. But only because of the Dylan thought — Jacob is connected to music in my mind, and therefore impossible to shake off completely.

“Anyway,” Charlie says, rolling over to face me, the waves now at his back as we lie on the oversized beach blanket he keeps stores in his truck. “If you need to now the time, you can just check your front yard. Carolus Linnaeus, this Swedish botanist, observed that some flowers open at certain times. Like Dandelions between five and six in the morning.”

“And when do Dandelions close?” I ask, half-joking, and half impressed by his obscure knowledge.

Charlie squints in the bright sunlight and props his head up with one hand, tracing an invisible pattern on my bathing suit with the other. “You’re testing me, but don’t…they close at two or three, water lilies open at seven or eight and close around six or seven.”

“So if I happen to remember all this and just happen to be around a flower garden, I’m all set,” I say and raise my eyebrows at him. He leans down and kisses me.

“You could just do what the Romans did —”

“Dress in togas?”

“No, Love, rely on the sun — the shadow cast by a stick is shortest at noon.” Charlie is so hot — or at least I find him so — that everything he does or says seems appealing. Or suggestive.

“So I need a big stick?” I ask, mentally putting my hand to my lewd mouth.

“We’ll see,” he says and flops back down on the blanket, the sand’s heat warming us from underneath, our hand clasped together, even though they’re both slightly sticky from the sunscreen.

Then I remember that I have random trivia knowledge myself. “You know, flower boy, that you can use the moon to tell time, too.”

Charlie, bemused, rolls his head toward mine so we’re nose to nose. Revolting cute if I do say so myself. “The moon — it’s highest at midnight…”

“Like a lot of the summer people,” Chris says from above us. His body casts a shadow on us and Charlie and I laugh at his comment then sit up to say hello.

“Hey, Chris,” Charlie says, using his hand like a visor.

Chris nods hello at Chris and then motions for me to come with him for a second. “Back in a minute,” I say to Charlie and get up, trying to fix the bathing suit wedgie I’ve managed to acquire.

“What’s the scoop?” I ask when Chris has led me a little further away from my comfy spot with Charlie.

“Two things,” Chris says. “One — you look good in that suit. I’m glad I convinced you to buy it.”

“Well, you’re a shopper’s best friend — truthful but tactful. What’s the other thing?”

“No,” Chris says and slings his towel over his shoulder. “That didn’t count. That was just an aside.”

“Okay — fine — what’re the two things?”

Chris motions with one finger, subtly trying to guide my gaze down the beach to a large green umbrella under which Haverford Pomroy is currently engaged in reading a book. “Today’s the day.”

“For what?” I ask though I have my suspicions. Chris likes Haverford so much — likes that Haverford is into sports but not a jock, into hanging out with no particular goal without being a total stoner, and of course that he’s easy on the eyes.

“I can’t take it anymore. I just have to know. I’m done with the guessing game of is he
huh
or not?”

“Well, here’s to honesty.” I watch Chris’s face, seeing that he’s fairly calm, considering. “Not to make you nervous, but you do realize that if you do this you’re potentially going to make things a little — no — a lot — tense?”

“Believe me, I get it. Not many people like being asked — even super causally — hey are you gay? ’Cause you seem it…” Chris crack sup and then stops. “But I’m just going to frame in the context of my own feelings and see what happens. I mean, I’m leaving Friday to go back to Hadley, so what do I have to lose?”

I lift my shoulders. “You tell me?”

Chris sighs. “Oh — and the other thing — you got a call from Mrs. Dandy-Patinko. She was all friendly and summer happy, but was digging about colleges.”

“You mean she called only me? Or was this part of the Hadley hell — and she’s phoning around to everyone with a buzz kill?”

Chris waves to Haverford who waves back. “I didn’t actually ask that. But she did happen to mention a letter she forwarded to you here.”

“To the café?” I look back at Charlie and watch him watching people. I wonder if he’s checking girls out or just zoning, or thinking about the future.

“No — to the post office — general delivery.”

“Thanks for the message — I’ll run by there before my shift…In my fantasy I just opened the letter and it’s from some amazing school and they’re begging me to go.”

Chris nudges me and I nudge him back. “Yeah, right.”

Chris heads off to make his proclamations and I poke my toe into Charlie’s thigh. I love that I can just do that now. Two weeks ago, I couldn’t look at him without blushing and now — well, now I still blush but at least I can hold his hand when I feel like it. “Can I pick up you late tonight?”

“My shift goes until midnight,” I say. “Or will you know that just by checking how high the moon is or what flower is open…?”

Charlie hops up, brushes off the sand from his arms and pulls me close. “Can I pick you up then? I know a place that’s open late.”

I nuzzle into him, feeling the heat emanating from his chest. “You know where to find me,” I say. We kiss for a minute and then I begin the long walk back to my car, carrying my water bottle, my shoes, my bag, and my happy heart all close to me.

I notice Henry getting out of his car as I’m getting into mine. I parked next to Charlie’s red pick-up and if I look at it through Henry’s eyes, it looks stupid. Like we’re so couply we can’t even park independently.