Tick Tock (Michael Bennett 4)

I went around back and grabbed a couple of beers to wind down with on the porch. When I came back, I spotted a good-looking blonde sitting on the steps.

Hey, wait a second, I thought after my double-take. That’s not just a good-looking blonde, that’s my au pair, Mary Catherine.

“Psst,” I called to her, waving the Spatens temptingly from the shadows. “Come on. Run before someone sees.”

We crossed the two blocks to the beach and walked out on the dunes, drinking, taking our time. We made a left and headed north toward a firemen’s bar nearby called the Sugar Bowl that we’d been to a couple of nights after the kids had gone to sleep.

If you haven’t guessed by now, my relationship with Mary Catherine was more than merely professional. Not that much more, but who knew where it was heading? Not me, that was for sure. Mary Catherine was a nice-looking female. I, of course, was a handsome gentleman. We were both hetero. Add vacation and cramped quarters, and trouble was bound to happen. At least, that’s what I was kind of hoping.

“How’s the thesis coming?” I said as we walked along the beach.

In addition to being the Bennett nanny, Mary Catherine had an art history degree from Trinity College in Dublin and was now in the midst of getting her master’s from Columbia. Which made her as smart and sophisticated as she was pretty and kind. She was truly a special person. Why she insisted on hanging around all of us remained a mystery that even I hadn’t been able to crack.

“Slowly,” she said.

“What’s the summer course again?”

“Architectur

al history,” she said.

I drew a massive blank. Dead air.

“How about those Yanks?” I tried.

As we approached the loud, crowded bar, Mary Catherine stopped.

“Let’s keep going, Mike. It’s so nice out,” she said, hooking a right and walking across some more dunes and sea grass down toward the Atlantic.

I liked the sound of that. No dead air this time.

“If you insist,” I said.

We were strolling beside the rumbling waves at the shoreline when she dropped her beer. We went to grab it at the same time and bonked heads as the surf splattered around our ankles.

“Are you okay?” I said, holding her by her shoulders. We were so close our chins were almost touching. For one delicious second, we looked into each other’s eyes.

That’s when she kissed me. Softly, sweetly. I put my arms around her waist and pulled her toward me. She was lighter than I thought she would be, softer, so delicate. After a minute as we continued to slowly kiss, I felt her warm hands tremble against the back of my neck.

“Are you okay, Mary?” I whispered. “Are you cold?”

“Wait. Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I’m sorry, Mike,” she said, suddenly breaking away.

In the faint light from the bar’s neon signs, I watched her cross the beach at a fast walk that turned into a jog. Rooted to the wet sand, feeling about fifteen emotions at once, I noticed my hands were also trembling a little now. She passed the bar at a sprint, heading back toward the house.

“Sorry?” I said to myself as I rubbed my hot and sore head by the water. “That’s the best thing to happen to me all day. Maybe even all year.”

Chapter 8

AFTER THAT CASANOVA MOMENT, instead of heading straight home, I decided to stop in at the Sugar Bowl to apply something cold to my wounded—What? Heart? Ego? I couldn’t decide. I sipped a crisp Heineken as I watched the Mets lose to the Cubs at Citi Field. It seemed like there was an epidemic of striking out all over Queens tonight.

As I drowned my sorrows, I thought about what had just happened between me and Mary C. Or to be more precise, I lamented what hadn’t happened.

Because I had to admit, it had been a nice kiss. Tender and sweet and surprisingly sensual. I definitely would have liked to stay down there along the water line with her, perhaps reconstructing an outer-borough version of that famous beach make-out scene in From Here to Eternity. Instead, she’d run like it was a scene from Jaws.

“Hey, you’re cute,” said a young dark-haired woman next to the pool table as I was coming out of the men’s room five minutes later.

I stopped in my tracks and took in the attractive thirty-something’s barely-there tank and tight shorts, her slightly drunk-looking cute face, the Tinker Bell tattoo on her left ankle. I couldn’t remember the last time a tipsy young woman with a Disney tattoo had hit on me. Probably because it had never happened before. My summer hookup radar was going like gangbusters. Maybe the night wasn’t such a bust after all.