Fools Rush In
Page 8“Sure,” Sam answered easily, finishing his own sandwich.
Mission accomplished! “Great. I’ll call you and let you know when.”
They left a little while later, laden with my profuse thanks and affection, but apparently still hungry.
“Don’t worry,” I heard Sam say as they got into the truck. “We’ll stop at the Box Lunch for a real sandwich.” I scratched my nose with my middle finger at this, and Sam grinned as he backed down my driveway. His smile made my heart swell. It had been a long time since I’d seen Sam happy, I realized, and God knew he deserved it after the pummeling Trish had given his heart.
Hanging out with Sam and Danny was so different without my sister. Though I had known Sam most of my life, he’d always been Trish’s property, and she’d never been one to share. I remembered one occasion when I’d been back from college at Thanksgiving and we’d all been at my parents’ house, waiting for the big meal, football on in the living room, the classic American scene. Danny was playing checkers with my dad as they watched TV, Mom and Trish were busy in the kitchen, chatting and laughing. Everyone was happy. Sam struck up a conversation with me about school, and we were talking about classes and college life when I looked up and saw Trish glaring at me from the kitchen doorway.
“Sam,” she cooed, changing faces as only my sister could, “can I see you upstairs?”
About twenty minutes later, they came down, and from the happy, dopey expression on Sam’s face, it was obvious my sister had just shagged him. Just to reinforce the fact that she was the important, interesting, beautiful one, lest Sam’s attention, however fraternal, drift from her for a nanosecond.
But things were different now. And, thanks to Trish and her New Jerseyite, Sam was single. Katie was single. Love was in the air, although neither of them could smell it just yet.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FOR THE NEXT PART OF MY PLAN, I again turned to Curtis and Mitch.
My suffering over the past two months had paid off. By late April, I was a comfortable size eight and pretty damn pleased about it. The last time I’d been this tiny, this light, was at about age twelve. Time to see what the boys and I could do about finding me some better clothes.
In a moment of self-delusion, I had briefly entertained the idea of asking my mom and Trish to take me shopping. Last weekend, Trish had come up to visit Danny, and when I’d seen her car in my parents’ driveway, I couldn’t help the pretty little scene that had flashed through my head—Mom, Trish and me, laughing, shopping, going out for lunch. Of course, that was about as likely as a great white shark befriending a wounded harbor seal, but still…
My parents and Trish were seated at the kitchen table, laughing about something. Trish leaped up the moment I came in. For a second, I thought she was going to greet me, but in more characteristic fashion, it was to show me how busy she was and how unimportant I was.
“Hi, Millie. I’m just on my way back home,” she said, emphasizing the last word. “Dinner in the city tonight. Nobu.”
“Hi, Trish,” I said flatly. I hated her constant namedropping. We looked at each other for a minute; she was even taller than usual, thanks to the sleek black heels on her feet. I wore sweats and a paint-stained turtleneck; she wore a horribly expensive-looking red knit dress that clung to her chiseled, perfect figure.
“Well, must run,” she’d said curtly. “Bye, Mom, bye Dad. Talk to you soon. Bye, Millie.”
It was always like this. Trish never let me forget, even though it had been almost thirty years now, that I had interrupted her starring role as Only Child. Millie’s here. Party’s over. Message clearly received.
So Curtis and Mitch it was. They met me at my house, and we headed out in their beautiful, buttery-yellow Mercedes.
Hyannis is the elbow on the arm of the Cape, the town that has the airport, the ferry, the hospital, and, most importantly, the mall. Given my tight funds, I couldn’t afford the Provincetown boutiques where Curtis and Mitch did their own shopping, so it was to the soulless but affordable mall that we headed. As I was armed with two men whose wardrobes were fabulous even by P-town standards, I was confident that I would emerge well dressed.
We started with underwear. Curtis and Mitch had no interest in me as anything but a friend, and yes, they picked out my underwear. Gone were the days of Hanes purchased at the supermarket, I noted as the boys chose my panties in shades of lavender and rose and black. Matching bras! Thankfully, the boys let me try those on all by myself, and once I found a model that was both comfortable and made the twins look perky, the boys went to town.
Next was pants. I hated pants. Not only was I short, but I had no waist to speak of, and pants were always a challenge.
“Absolutely not,” Mitch agreed. My opinion, clearly, was not required.
“Nothing flared.”
“Dear heavens, no! And let’s not even consider those ghastly low-risers….”
“Classic, tailored, clean lines.”
“You’re so right.”
As the boys scoured the department store, I wandered around, fingering the sleeveless blouses, wondering if I could get away with showing my plump arms, deeply grateful to have friends who loved both me and the challenge of clothing me. I pulled a bright green top with a square neckline from a rack. “How about this?” I called to my boys.
“Put that down!” Curtis ordered sharply.
“My dear girl, how could you? Green!” Mitch murmured, in shock.
“Honey, just go sit and wait for us, okay?” Curtis said, trying to recover from the obvious horror I’d presented. “We’ll call you if we need you.”
I found a chair and waited, occasionally hearing Mitch or Curtis exclaim over some item of clothing, some accessory. As this was an alien world, I passed the time with my favorite hobby: daydreaming about Joe Carpenter.
The last time I had seen him was a week ago. Another wave and “Hey, Millie!” from the rooftop, like some demigod calling from the heavens. My thoughts drifted….
I am walking into the senior center, wearing tailored, classic pants with no flares and a sleeveless, non-green blouse that shows off my contoured but feminine arms. Great shoes, great purse (though I couldn’t picture either). Joe leaps off the ladder as I cross the parking lot.
“Whoa, Millie!” he says, giving me the once-over.
“Hi, Joe!” I respond.
“You doing anything this weekend?” he asks, staring at me, his dimples just showing.
“This weekend?” I reply. “Well, I have plans for Friday, but…what did you have in mind?” (I know better than to be immediately available…it’s in all the books).
“Maybe we could go out or something.” He smiles.
My reveries about Joe were not that, well, imaginative. I was a realist, I liked to think. I had no illusions about Joe; I loved him for who he was, a blue-collar kind of guy with a heart of gold. And I never had silly, overly romantic dreams about him rescuing me from muggers or anything like that. Just his noticing me would be more than enough.
“Come, child.” Curtis interrupted my thoughts with a wave of his manicured hand. “Time to try these on.” He had a pile of clothes draped over his arm. Mitchell had a similar load. Each item was either beige, black, ivory, red or royal blue.I took the heavy piles from them. The fabrics felt great, silky and cool over my arm. “Are these my colors?” I asked.
The boys waited outside the stall as I tried on the clothes, instructing me through the slatted door.
“Everything is mix-and-match, Millie,” Curtis informed me. “That way you don’t have to worry about what goes with what.”
“I know what it means, Curtis,” I said. “I’m not stupid.”
“Only when it comes to fashion!” Mitchell said.
I stuck my head out of the dressing stall. “Be nice!” I ordered. “Or I won’t buy you lunch.” But it was impossible to be mad at these two, and truthfully, I loved being Eliza to their Henry Higginses. And, hell, they knew what they were doing. My God, I thought as I surveyed myself. I looked great!
The boys had chosen lovely, nondramatic pieces, all of which could be, in those complicated fashion terms, mixed and matched. Three shirts, two short-sleeved sweaters, four pairs of pants and a long skirt. Tailored, professional, classic. I couldn’t believe how I looked. Of course, my hair would have to be worked on and I wasn’t wearing any makeup, but still…I actually looked the part of confident, smart, well-dressed doctor.
“Guys,” I said, coming out garbed in the long black skirt and red sweater. “Guys…” My throat closed with sappy gratitude.
“Ooh! Honey, you’re so pretty!” Curtis exclaimed, darting in to adjust a shoulder pad.
“I always knew a beautiful woman was hiding in there,” Mitch added, kissing my cheek. I grinned wetly back.
But they weren’t finished. “The outfits are just the foundation,” Mitchell pronounced, leading me to the shoe department. To save time, Curtis went to the jewelry counter. One hour and $775.39 later, we were done. I was a well-dressed woman. I weighed 134 pounds. I was a size eight. I had a decent haircut. I owned makeup.
It was time.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS ALL VERY WELL TO PLOT and stalk and plan about getting Joe, but it was another thing altogether to go out and start doing it. What exactly should I do? What was the first step? I needed input, so I called Katie. I could hear crashing and shrieks in the background as she answered the phone. “Hi, it’s me,” I said brightly. “Bad time?”
“No, it’s fine,” she answered blithely. “Hold on, I’m going in the closet.”
I waited as she hid herself away from her sons. There was a sharp scream from one of them, followed by another crash.
“Do you need to go?” I asked, envisioning one of my godsons with blood streaming down his face.
“No, no, they’re just playing,” she answered. “What’s up?”
“Well, a couple of things,” I said, stretching luxuriously on my couch. There were fringe benefits to being single and childless, and talking uninterrupted on the phone was one of them. “Sam was here the other day, and I thought we really should take him out some night. He’s still a little glum.” Actually, Sam had seemed just fine to me, but I sensed he was only happy when he was doing stuff with Danny.
“Sure,” Katie said. “Just give me a couple days’ notice.”
“Great. The other thing is…well, it’s about Joe.”
“Well, I’m kind of ready. To make my move.”
“Good for you!” Katie said cheerfully.
“So can I run the plan by you?” I asked, feeling very eighth grade.
Katie laughed. “Sure. Go for it.”
“I was thinking maybe I could have him see me out running, so he could notice that I’m, uh, in shape or whatever. And he’d see Digger and then he’d realize that we’re both dog lovers. And then we could talk about that when we saw each other next.”
“That sounds great. Very well thought out.” Katie’s voice became muffled. “Michael, if you do that one more time, I’m taking that dump truck away for nineteen days!”
“I thought you were in the closet,” I said.
“I am. Doesn’t mean I don’t know everything that goes on here.”
“Nineteen days?”
“Figure of speech. He thinks it means forever,” she answered, and I could hear the smile in her voice.
“So the running thing is good?” I asked, seeking validation.
“Running thing sounds great,” Katie answered. I heard Mikey’s lisping whine. “They found me, Mil,” my friend said. “Gotta go.”
“Okay. And thanks, Katie. I’ll let you know about Sam.”
WITH KATIE’S APPROVAL IN HAND, I set about orchestrating the casual, coincidental encounter with Joe. This is what I pictured.
I am running down Nauset Road, Digger trotting adorably by my side. I am wearing nylon running shorts and a T-shirt with an adorable, pithy statement. And what’s this? Oh my goodness, it’s Joe Carpenter in his truck! He slows down, appreciating the feminine bouncing, then realizes it’s his old classmate, Millie Barnes! “Hey, Millie!” he says, pleasantly surprised. “I didn’t know you were a runner.”
I stop, not horribly out of breath (because my car is hidden at the ranger’s station a half mile back).
“Hello, Joe!” I answer, reaching down to pat my adorable doggy. “How are you?” Chatting ensues. Some laughter. A few appreciative glances at athletic form (his glances, my form). We talk until a car rudely honks its horn, and Joe, regretfully, must take off. He watches me in the rearview mirror as I run effortlessly and happily until his truck rounds the bend and he can’t see me anymore (when I start walking back to my car).
Joe left for work at 6:30 every morning. This I’d learned on a stalking expedition several years ago. But timing was everything for my little running venture, and I had to be sure.
We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of, haven’t we? Things we don’t want to confess to friends or parents or children. My obsession with Joe was one of those things. It was bad enough to have been secretly in love with a man for more than half of my life, but resorting to stalking at twenty-nine and a half was really embarrassing. Still, one does what one must.