Rusty Nailed (Cocktail 2)

“It would make the newspaper.”

I sighed. “No more chair bumping, no more attempted forking. Just go be a polite guest at a wedding, okay?”

“I hate you,” she huffed, smoothing out her dress and checking her lip gloss in the mirror.

“No, you don’t,” I huffed back, then turned to Mimi. “And you, I thought you were going to watch her,” I muttered while Sophia adjusted her boobs.

“I was, but then Ryan had his hand on my leg under the table, and—”

“Save it—we don’t want to miss their first dance,” I replied, glancing in the mirror myself. Damn, I do look good in goldfish.

“Okay, ladies, knockers up: We’re going in. No more drama,” I instructed, and we headed back into the ballroom.

To find that the chair to Neil’s left was no longer unoccupied.

A chairful of hot blonde had taken up residence, and over her giggles and squeals, Neil made sure to catch Sophia’s eye. And wink.

Message delivered: Two can play at this game.

Shit.

• • •

The rest of the wedding passed by in a flurry of images. Jillian and Benjamin sharing a spotlit first dance. A five-tier wedding cake being cut and unceremoniously shoved into the groom’s gorgeous face. Simon toasting Benjamin with raised glasses and laughter, and more than one throat clearing.

Neil parading around a preening Blonde in front of Sophia and Hot Barry. Sophia clocking Hot Barry when he had the nerve to look at Blonde himself. Neil’s stone face as he watched Sophia and Hot Barry dancing in a very, very close way. A bemused Benjamin as Hot Barry tried to sell him additional life insurance.

And sharing my own dance with Simon, swaying under the disco ball. Which always seems like a terrible idea, but in reality bathed everything in the coolest sparkles ever. He held me close, his hand fitted into the small of my back, the other holding my hand. Weddings are romantic by nature, and I wasn’t the only one who had sparkles in her eyes tonight. The sapphires were off the chart.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked him, my voice dreamy. Simon looked dreamy too. What was on his mind? Me in this dress? Me out of this dress?

“Fishing poles.”

“What?” Not at all what I was expecting.

“Fishing poles. You asked.” He chuckled, twirling me.

“I see. And what about fishing poles?” I asked, my nose wrinkling.

“Where I grew up, there was a state park not ten minutes from the house. River, rocks, old mill spillway, and walking trails everywhere.” His face grew peaceful, describing it. He so rarely talked about his past, I wondered what it was about this night that made him think about it. “Anyway, the last time me, my dad, and Benjamin were all together was one Sunday afternoon, fishing. And Benjamin sat on my dad’s favorite fishing pole, almost broke the damn thing!” He laughed, his hand holding mine just a tiny bit tighter.

“It’s funny how you remember certain things. Someone was burning leaves that day, so everything smelled like smoke—you know that smoky smell that you only get in the fall? I remember that, and how cold the water was. Nobody caught anything that day, not even a nibble,” he finished, his eyes faraway.

I let my hand tangle in the back of his hair, slipping down to smooth over his brow, feathering my fingers there. “Sounds like a good day.”

“It was a good day.” He smiled down at me, pulling me closer still. The band began to play Duke Ellington, and I was twirled and whirled and dipped by my Wallbanger.

This was a good day too.

Made even more so by nary a dick ending up in a hot dog bun.

chapter eight

“Okay, all your extra linens and towels are in closet down the hall, extra blankets in the cedar chest, hmm . . . what else? Oh, the window next to the bed tends to stick a little when it’s raining, but not too bad. I left notes on all the remotes with instructions on how to use everything—it took me forever to learn how to just turn the damn thing on . . . let’s see, oh! Let’s go back into the kitchen and talk about the burners. There’s a trick to getting the back one to turn on high and—”

I followed Jillian through their Sausalito house Sunday afternoon, while Simon went through the same thing in the garage with Benjamin. House-sitting isn’t what it used to be; you can’t just bring in the mail and have a party.

As we toured the house, taking notice of everything we’d need to know while staying there, I was reminded of how perfect it really was. Situated in the hills just above the main street, the house was two stories in almost a triangular shape, so that practically each room had a view of the bay and, in the distance, San Francisco. Along with a multiterraced outdoor seating area, dotted with benches and fire pits, there was the in-ground hot tub they’d installed. Perfectly isolated, perfectly private, with a killer view.

The hot tub is where we found Simon and Benjamin, hunched down by the controls. Simon was having a great time, turning the interior lights from pink to blue to green to purple with a big grin.

“Caroline, look! It’s like having a light show!” he exclaimed excitedly.

“And I think that’s everything,” Jillian said. “Car keys are in the bowl by the front door, alarm codes you’ve got written down, you know how to work the hillevator. Oh what am I forgetting?” She pulled her notebook out, frantically checking her notes.

“Don’t worry about anything—we’ve got this. You two just enjoy your trip,” I replied. “And you’re not allowed to call and check in for at least a week. Go have sex with your husband.”

“Yes, go have sex with your husband,” Benjamin chimed in, closing her notebook and wrapping his arms around her from behind. “Thanks, guys, we really appreciate it.”

“You sure you don’t mind? You don’t have to stay here every night; just maybe a few nights a week?” Jillian asked.

“Oh my God, shut up already, will you? It’s a real big hardship, staying here— what a sacrifice.” I laughed, gesturing to the house.

Benjamin said, “All right, let them get outta here. Simon, thanks again for everything. And make sure you check out those bike trails; I left the maps with everything else.” As Jillian went for her notebook once more he told us, “I’d make a run for it if I were you.”

“Oh, let go you big oaf, I need to hug her,” she protested, engulfing me in her arms. “Thank you; you have no idea how much I need this,” she whispered. When she let me go, there were tears in her eyes. “And remember, I’m just a phone call away.”

I hugged them both and let Simon pack me into the Range Rover for our trip back over the bridge. We were both quiet as we entered the city, winding through the streets toward our apartment building.

He parked, then walked around to my side to open my door. Taking my hand, he said, “You know, this might not be so boring after all. It could be fun, having a house.”

• • •

Later on that night, Clive and I were playing Kill the Ponytail—a game we’d created a few years ago when I made the mistake of lying down next to where he was sleeping, and swishing my ponytail in front of him. He woke up to a giant piece of dancing hair in his face and went utterly apeshit. The object of the game, as closely as I could understand, was for Clive to chew on, bat about, and all but dangle from my ponytail.

Did I have to wash my hair thoroughly after this game? I did, but to see his eyes light up, and his little sideways crab walk across the floor when he knew it was time to play, was worth it. The game was taking place under the coffee table when Simon came over.

“Kill the Ponytail?” he asked as I poked my head out.

“Yup,” I replied, wincing as Clive took my inattention to grab a mouthful and tug.

“Who’s winning?”

“Who do you think? Ow!”

I turned under the table, intending to give chase, but laughed when Clive curled onto his back, purring loud enough to rattle the windows.

“Truce?” I asked him, rumpling the fur on his belly. The half-lidded eyes and the upside-down kitty grin was answer enough for me. Dusting myself off, I crawled out from under the coffee table to join Simon in the kitchen.

After our trip across the bay, I’d worked for a few hours while he napped, sleeping off his jet lag. I took my Clive break when he ran out to pick up some dinner. Now I got a whiff of Vietnamese, and quickened my steps toward the kitchen. A bowl of pho on a chilly evening was the best thing ever.

I got out bowls while Simon unwrapped containers. I grabbed chopsticks and he poured wine. We settled in at the kitchen table and in between slurps and sips, he went through his mail. It piled up when he was gone, so it was always a chore when he got back. We chatted about the day, different takes on what it would be like living part-time in Sausalito, when I noticed he’d stopped slurping.

“What’s that?” I asked as he stared at an opened letter.

“Huh? Oh, it’s a letter from the alumni association.”

“Stanford?”

“No, my high school, actually. It’s an invitation to my ten-year reunion.”

I stayed quiet, watching his face work through a few things. When he picked up his chopsticks and started on his noodles again, I asked, “So, you think you’ll go?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t think I’d want to go, but now that it’s here—maybe?”

He changed the subject, but I saw his eyes wander over to the letter more than once. And while I was cleaning up after dinner, I saw him reading it again.

“You should go,” I said, hours later. We were in bed, the news was on, Clive in between us. Simon knew instantly what I was talking about.

“I don’t know if I can. It’s between Thanksgiving and Christmas; I’m sure I’ll be traveling. I must have missed the notice somewhere,” he said, eyes on the screen. He was tense.

“You’d have known about it if you were on Facebook. I bet you anything your classmates have been looking for you on there.”

“I doubt most of them would remember me,” he scoffed.

I bit down a response. Though I didn’t know him back then, every high school had a Simon Parker. Couple that with his parents passing away so unexpectedly, and yeah, they all remembered him.

With a sigh, he turned toward me, hand reaching out across the pillows. I curled on my side as well, my fingers tangling with his. He tucked his other arm under his head. In the light from the television, he looked young. And a little sad.

“I never planned to go back. I mean, I really had no reason to.”

I squeezed his hand.

“I don’t know, maybe I should? Might be kind of fun to see some of those guys again, right?”

I smiled and said nothing.

“I’ll look at my calendar tomorrow. Maybe I can swing it.”

“Want me to check mine?” I asked.

“You think you can? I mean, I know how busy you are.”

“I think I can get away for a weekend. Besides, I’ve never been to Philadelphia. Can we go for cheesesteaks?”

He groaned. “Oh my God, do you have any idea how long it’s been since I had a cheesesteak? That may have just made up my mind.”

I slid across the bed and straddled him, moving his hands to my hips. I leaned down and brushed his hair back from his face and kissed him square on the lips.

“Tell me about your favorite place for cheesesteaks,” I said as he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me down on top of him.

For the next twenty-seven minutes I lay on top of Simon, listening to him talk about a mom-and-pop sandwich shop. And the importance of both sweet and hot peppers. In doing so, he told me more about his family and the place he’d grown up than he had in the entire year we’d been together. I realized that I’d never even seen a picture of his parents, had no idea what they’d looked like.

I’d ask him about that soon. Not tonight, but soon. Tonight was all about cheesesteaks, and everything that came with them. And I’m not talking just about the sweet and hot peppers.

• • •

“Caroline, there’s a call from someone over at the Design Center. They want to know if Jillian would be teaching her class again next month? Can you take it?”

“Caroline, Mrs. Crabtree is calling again, Jillian’s client. She needs to know exactly what shade Jillian painted the trim in her sitting room ten years ago, and if we have any kind of guarantee that it shouldn’t be yellowing? She also mentioned to me that she smokes two packs a day in that room and never opens a window; you want to handle this?”

“Caroline, there’s a guy from the heating and cooling company in the lobby, says we’re due for our fall maintenance check. Did Jillian mention this to you?”

“Caroline, I think I accidentally deleted the last few billing invoices on the Peterson account, but I know Jillian always keeps paper copies of those. Any idea where?”

“Caroline, can you—”

“Caroline, will I need—”

“Caroline, I superglued this doorknob to my—”

I gazed out the window of my new office, realizing that with the bigger office came not only bigger responsibilities but also bigger headaches. And the one I currently had was a whopper. I’d officially been in charge of the office for one week, and I was ready to throw myself to the sea lions. How the hell did Jillian manage all this? She had her own clients, she had her team to mentor, she was the answer woman and the puter-outer of all fires, and she managed to do it with her signature calm style.

I was frazzled, freaked, and fucked.

I could have called Jillian, of course. But she was on her honeymoon; I didn’t want to interrupt her and Benjamin while they were . . . well, while they were. Besides, I didn’t want to admit that there was so much to running this business that I wasn’t aware of. I was determined to handle it on my own, figuring it out as I went, so when Jillian checked in after a few days, I lied through my teeth and told her everything was great.