Right now, I knelt down on my bright green lawn pretending to look for a four-leaf clover, but out of the corner of my eye, I was watching to see whether he would move away from the hedges or continue to spy on me. He never changed expression or turned his head away for an instant. Finally, I stood up abruptly and, with my heart racing, said, “Can I help you?”
I remained far enough away that I could quickly retreat to my house and lock the door behind me if need be.
He smiled. “What did you have in mind?” he replied.
“I’m not the one peeping,” I said. “Maybe I should say gawking.”
“Maybe you’re not at this moment, but I’ve seen you looking for minutes at a time in my direction out your bedroom window between the curtains.”
“That’s different,” I said, smothering my embarrassment. I had thought I was inconspicuous about my curiosity. And when had he seen me? I never caught sight of him or any of them looking out a window toward our house.
“And that’s different because?”
“I w
as just . . . interested in who was to be our new neighbors. Who wouldn’t be?”
“And I’m just curious about you. Who wouldn’t be once he saw how pretty you are?” he asked.
I felt myself blush. Dad always said I didn’t blush red so much as a cross between the translucent golden yellow of a bangle and a touch of a pink coral bead. Mom said he was color-blind for a jeweler and that I had more of a classic deep red ruby tint in my cheeks when I blushed. Both agreed that I normally had a light pink Akoya pearl complexion with a face that was truly a cameo because of my perfect diminutive features, especially my slightly almond-shaped eyes and soft Cupid’s bow lips, all of which I had inherited from Mom.
“Well, you don’t have to spy on me through the hedges,” I said in a less belligerent tone. “You could have just come by to say hello and introduce yourself properly.”
Although my parents and their friends always lavished great compliments on me, I was never sure of myself when it came to responding to one. A simple “Thank you” seemed to be too little. Not saying anything seemed to be arrogant, as if I was thinking my beauty was obvious, or I was too stuck up to respond. And pretending to be surprised and falsely modest always came off as phony, at least when I saw other girls and even boys doing that. I didn’t deny to myself that I was attractive. I just didn’t know whether I should rejoice in my blessings or be concerned about the responsibilities they brought along with them.
I know none of my girlfriends at school would understand how being attractive brought responsibilities, but I always felt obligated to make sure that I didn’t flaunt myself or take anything anyone said for granted. I also felt I had to be careful about whom I showed any interest in, even looked at twice. People, especially older men, were always telling me I would be a heartbreaker. To me, that didn’t sound very nice. I envisioned a trail of men with shattered emotions threatening to commit suicide everywhere I went.
“You’re absolutely right,” the new boy said. He stepped between the hedges and approached. I was right about his height. He was at least five feet ten, if not eleven. With the palms of both hands and his fingers stiffly extended, he brushed back his hair. Uneven strands still fell over his forehead and his eyes. His hair was almost as long as mine and certainly looked as thick and as rich. He had perfectly shaped facial features like those of Greek and Roman statues. I thought he had a remarkable complexion, not a blemish, not a dark spot or anything to spoil the softness and smoothness. For a moment, I wondered if he wore makeup. He wasn’t heavily built, but he looked athletic, like a swimmer or a tennis player.
“I apologize for, as you say, gawking at you. I didn’t intend to make you feel uncomfortable. Although,” he added with an impish smile, “you didn’t quite look uncomfortable. Matter of fact, you looked like you were enjoying it.”
Before I could respond, he performed a dramatic stage bow and added, “I’m Brayden Matthews.” He extended his hand awkwardly, as if he wasn’t sure it was something he should do.
“Amber Taylor. And I wasn’t enjoying it. I was uncomfortable seeing someone staring at me like that. Actually, I tried to ignore you.”
He kept holding his hand out.
“I’m glad you couldn’t,” he said.
I offered my hand. He closed his fingers around it very gently, watching his fingers fold around mine as if he was amazed that his could bend or he was afraid that he might break mine. Then he smiled like someone who had felt something very satisfying, as if shaking someone’s hand was a significant accomplishment. He tightened his grip a little and didn’t let go.
“Can I have my hand back?”
“So soon?” he replied. He let go and then looked up at our house. “Your house is one of the older houses on the street, right? Not that it looks rundown or anything. Matter of fact, it looks quite well cared for.”
“It’s the oldest on the street,” I said as modestly as I could. My father was always bragging about it. “It’s been in our family for a little more than eighty-five years,” I said. “Of course, there have been many renovations, but the first fireplace still stands just the way it was. The floors are the same, as are the window casings. My father treats it more like a historical site.”
“I bet. There was a time when things were built to last,” he said.
“Really? How old are you, ninety, a hundred?”
He softly laughed, flashed me an amused look, and then gazed at my house again, concentrating, I thought, on my bedroom windows. “I bet you can see the lake from your window.” He turned to look at his own roof. “Your house looks to be about ten feet taller than ours.”
“Yes, I can,” I said. “At least the bay. This time of the year, the trees are so full they block out most of it.”
The lake was only a little more than a half-mile from our street, but it was a privately owned lake, anyway. Because our homes weren’t lake homes, we weren’t shareholders in the Echo Lake Corporation. Most everyone who didn’t belong thought the people who did were snobby about their property and their rights, but I thought these people were simply jealous. It was true that no one without lake rights could swim, row, or fish there. You had to be invited by a member, but what would be the point of having a private lake and expensive lakeside property otherwise? We had been invited from time to time. Most recently, the Mallens invited us for a picnic on the lake. George Mallen was president of the Echo Lake bank, and Dad always gave him good deals on the jewelry that he bought for his wife and two older daughters, both married and living in Portland.
“So I guess you’ve lived here all your life,” he said.