“Well,” said Trish coolly, “we do so much entertaining. There’s always a million things to do, make reservations, research the latest restaurants, make sure we have tickets to whatever’s on Broadway in case Avery needs to impress some clients. Plus I work out every day at our club. And I have to supervise things like the housekeeping.”
“Wow. You must be so busy.”
“I am, Millie,” she retorted. “You have no idea what that sort of lifestyle demands. And I like it. I like not being a cop’s wife and vacuuming sand out of my car every week. I like going to the city and visiting museums and seeing plays. There’s more to the world than Cape Cod, you know.”
“Oh, I do know. It’s just that there’s nothing better in the world than Cape Cod. And no one better than Sam! How can you not miss him? Don’t you ever wish for your old life, Trish?”
“Not really. I mean, of course I miss Danny, and Mom and Dad. But wait till you’ve lived here another decade, Millie,” she said, a trace of bitterness in her voice. “We’ll see what you think then.”
“Well, if the Cape is so hick, then why does Avery have a house in Wellfleet?”
Avery owned one of those monstrosities overlooking Wellfleet Harbor, a massive, glaringly modern house of glass and chrome. In fact, that was how my sister had met Mr. New Jersey; Trish had been organizing a tour of homes last spring, and apparently she’d found Avery’s bedroom particularly interesting.
“Oh, that,” she said dismissively, sipping her tea. “We sold that.”
Digger began to whine pathetically.
“I can’t believe you got a dog,” Trish stated, her expression sour.
“Trish, why are you here?” I asked rather rudely.
“What?”
“Why did you drop by here? Just for a sisterly chat?”
“Oh,” she replied. “No, not really. I’m here to pick up Danny for a visit, and he and Sam are out somewhere, apparently. Mom wasn’t home, so I drove over here to kill some time.”
Digger’s whines took on a deeper note, becoming more of moan. I felt like joining in.
“Trish…” I began. The ring of the phone interrupted me. Grateful for the distraction, I got up to answer it. Digger began to claw maniacally at the door at the sound of my footsteps. “Down, killer,” I said before picking up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, Millie.”
Joe! Hooray! It was Joe!
“Hi, Joe,” I said, stepping into the living room so Trish wouldn’t see the goofy smile that spread across my face.
“How you doing?” Joe asked.
“Great,” I lied. “What’s up?”
“Oh, I had a few minutes, thought I’d give you a call.”
Aw! Loved him! “How are you?” I asked, blushing with the newfound pleasure of just chatting.
“Well, I’m good now,” he said.
“Aw,” I couldn’t help saying. In the kitchen, Trish rattled her cup on the saucer, lest thirty seconds pass without her being the center of attention. “Listen, Joe, I’m sorry, but this isn’t the greatest time…. My sister is here, so I shouldn’t really be talking on the phone. I’ll call you, um, tomorrow, all right?”
“Okay,” Joe said agreeably. “You have a good day. Catch you later.”
“Bye.” I grinned and hung up gently. I stood for a minute, savoring the sound of his voice and the warmth it brought.
“Who was that?” Trish asked as I came back into the kitchen.
I took a breath. “Oh, that was just, um, a friend.” I stood up a little straighter. “Joe Carpenter.”
Trish’s mouth dropped open. Even my gorgeous, snobby sister was not immune to Joe’s glorious beauty.
“Why would Joe Carpenter be calling you?”
I couldn’t help myself. I stamped my Nike-clad foot. “Trish, for God’s sake! You’ve been here for half an hour and you haven’t even noticed that I’ve dropped twenty pounds since Christmas. My hair is eight inches shorter and three shades lighter. I’m not your ugly-duckling little sister anymore! Maybe Joe’s calling me because he’s my boyfriend!”
“Joe Carpenter is your boyfriend?” she asked, ignoring everything else I’d said.
“Sort of,” I muttered, gathering our cups up and putting them in the sink.
“Well. That’s…that’s great,” she said. “And you do look much better.” She offered me a little smile, and I felt my anger drain away, well-trained little sister that I was.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Just about, what, ten pounds to go?”
I walked over to the bedroom door and released the hound. In a blur of black and white, paws scrabbling, he went straight for Trish’s crotch.
Good dog.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ON WEDNESDAY AT 5:37 P.M., after a day spent counting the agonizingly slow passage of minutes, I called Joe. I knew that he usually got home around 4:30 or 5:00 and then, if he were going out, would usually leave around 7:00 or 7:30, depending on where he was going to eat—the Barnacle, the Crow’s Nest or the Humpback. Perhaps, I thought as his phone rang, he was just now changing into clean clothes after a shower, tugging on some faded jeans. Perhaps he was carelessly running his hands through his water-darkened golden hair, idly reminding himself to get it cut one of these days. Perhaps his long eyelashes were spiked from the water, his T-shirt clinging to his still damp…
“Hello?”
I jumped. “Joe! Hi. How are you?”
“I’m good. How are you?” he answered pleasantly.
“Great. Been busy?” I asked.
“Oh, sure.” I heard a familiar sound as he spoke, the sound of dry dog food clattering into a pan.
“How’s Tripod?” I smiled, picturing Joe’s cute, three-legged friend hopping eagerly around the kitchen as his master got dinner ready.
“He’s great,” Joe answered. I heard him set the pan down, heard the jingling of dog tags as Tripod dug in. “Can I ask you something?” Joe said.
“Sure, anything,” I answered warmly.
“Who is this?”
Shit! Had I forgotten to say? “Oh, sorry. It’s Millie.” My cheeks burned. He didn’t know who I was, even though we had just spoken yesterday! Well, it was still early in the relationship, right?
“Millie! I thought you were blowing me off. You got off the phone pretty quick yesterday.” He sounded like he was smiling. He was probably teasing.
“You were wrong, young man,” I said. “I told you I would call you today, and here I am.”“Uh-huh. So what’s up?” he asked.
I looked around my tidy kitchen, hoping for inspiration and finding none. “Oh, not too much. What are you doing?”
“Not much, either. You wanna see me again?” He was teasing, I could definitely tell that now.
“Well, I guess I do. Sure. What did you have in mind?” Nicely done, Millie. Ball back in his court.
“What did you have in mind?” He chuckled, low and sexy, and lust tightened my loins. I clutched the phone in my suddenly sweaty hand. Play it cool, Millie, I advised myself.
“Hmm. Well, how about if you come over for dinner?”
“Tonight?”
“No!” God, no! I was not the type of person to whip up a dinner to impress. “Sorry, I have, um, some plans tonight. How about Friday?” That should give me enough time.
“Friday? Sure.” Oh, Joe. So amiable and sweet. Such a good kisser.
“Maybe around 7:00?” I asked.
“That would be great,” he answered.
“Good,” I said. We were quiet for a minute.
“Millie?”
“Yes?”
“I can’t wait.”
My chest ached with joy. “You’re sweet, Joe,” I answered softly.
“You’re the sweet one,” he replied, uh, sweetly.
“Well. Have a good night,” I said.
“See you Friday.” He hung up the phone.
Very gently, I replaced my phone back on its charger and stared at it. Digger came over and wagged happily at me. From the kitchen, I could smell his defecation, the only real note about my surreal evening.
Sweet. Joe Carpenter thought I was sweet and couldn’t wait to be with me on Friday. “I knew it would work, Digger,” I said to my dog. “I knew he’d fall for me, I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.” Joe Carpenter was coming here, to my clean, adorable, cozy house to eat a fabulous meal with attractive, sweet me, to meet my wonderful doggy, to…maybe…was it too early to…? For fifteen happy, dazed minutes, I sighed and cooed before snapping myself out of my lustful fog. I had work to do.
In order to get through medical school, you had to be pretty organized (anal retentive is another term). You have to love lists. And I did.
Wednesday p.m. (that was tonight)
1. Clean fridge. Throw out yeast.
2. Clean oven.
3. Wash bathroom with bleach so smell dissipates by Friday.
4. Dust.
5. Make shopping list for dinner.
Thursday
1. Buy groceries, beer, wine.
2. Wash floors on Thursday p.m., Friday noon if raining.
3. Clean sheets just in case.
4. Rent movie in case #3 doesn’t happen.
5. Call Curtis/Mitch for wardrobe suggestions.
Friday
1. Wash Digger and make sure he doesn’t roll in dead things afterward.
2. Cook.
3. Sponge mop kitchen floor if needed.
4. Set table.
5. Shower/hair/makeup/clothes.
Now, what to cook, what to cook? The ever-important first meal I would cook for my boyfriend. Because, after Friday night, I think I could definitely consider myself Joe’s Girlfriend.
Having learned many painful lessons about ingredient substitutions, I knew that I would have to follow directions meticulously. I wanted to find something delicious, not so hard as to cause mayhem and despair, but difficult enough to impress subtly. Not too garlicky, I thought, rejecting all things Italian. Perhaps something that could stay in the oven warming, like a casserole. But not a casserole. Too mom-ish. Hmm. Hmm. Nothing too cliché, too old ladyish, too spicy, too bland or too messy.
After poring over my three cookbooks for a couple hours, I finally decided on the following meal to win Joe’s heart via the gastric route: mixed green salad with raspberry vinaigrette, shrimp étouffée over rice, broiled summer squash and zucchini with parmesan, finished off with blueberry pie.
Joe loved shrimp, as I had witnessed many times at restaurants over the years. The summer squash-zucchini thing would be nice, since it was seasonal and colorful and the pie…well, what man doesn’t love blueberry pie? All in all, I didn’t think those dishes would be too hard. After I read and reread the recipes, I decided the only thing I might have trouble with was the pie crust.
But never fear! My mom was a master baker, and I imagined she’d love helping me put a pie together. I gave her a call, and sure enough, she was delighted to be needed.
Though it was now after eight o’clock, I popped a Tom Petty CD into the stereo and set to work, cleaning, scouring, chiseling the mysterious charred remains of some long-ago dinner from the bottom of the oven. I threw the curtains in to wash and assessed my napkin and place-mat options. Clearly I would have to buy more…would I have time for a quick trip to Sleet’s Hardware, where all the really nice kitchen stuff was sold?
It was after midnight when I finally went to bed, but I was pleased that everything was going according to plan. Just as I started to doze off, I jolted awake with an unpleasant thought…work! Shit! I would have to take off work, because clearly I wouldn’t be able to get everything done otherwise. A guilty wave cramped my stomach. I was a doctor, after all, and calling out so I could prepare for a date was just awful. Stupid. Moronic.
However…it was just once. The means to an end. I deserved to have a life, right? I had vacation time. And it wasn’t like patients were asking for me in particular. Granted, I wasn’t giving a lot of notice, but Cape Cod Hospital would send another doctor up to cover for me. Juanita had said so at the orientation.
Telling my conscience to take the night off, I focused on Joe. Once we were an established couple, I wouldn’t have to go to these lengths anymore. It was just this once. I stuffed the guilt into the dirty-laundry area of my soul and moved on.
I would have to call Juanita. I got up, fumbled in my desk and located her card, then taped it to my phone so I’d remember to call her first thing. Luckily, Dr. Bala was scheduled for the second shift tomorrow. I’d try to leave early, and definitely would have to take Friday and Saturday off…. Saturday, because I might be dressed in only a sheet with the object of my love in bed next to me, and obviously I wouldn’t want to be dashing off to work. As I got back into bed, I went over my conversation with Juanita in my head.
“Hi, Juanita, it’s Dr. Barnes from the clinic…I’m making dinner for my boyfriend and need a few days off.”
Hmm. Though it was the truth, it lacked a certain something. Maturity, perhaps?
“Hi, Juanita, it’s Dr. Barnes. I have a slight emergency here and can’t come in to work for a couple of days.”
No. Growing up Catholic, I was taught not to say such things, because God would be irritated with my lie and make it true. Now, as an almost thirty-year-old adult, I could intellectually dismiss this argument—God wasn’t hanging around waiting for me to tell a lie so He could strike me down—but just in case God was having a slow day, I figured I should work on something else.