Raising Hope (11 page)

“You guys,” I say, pretending to be annoyed, “you’re dripping water all over the place.”

“What were you doing with him?” Kelly asks, her eyes big and excited.

“Just having lunch.” I shrug, trying not to show how happy I am they’re making a fuss over me.

“Just having lunch? Ohmygod! Ohmygod!” they shriek.

“It was no big deal,” I say.

“Oh, he’s so cute.” Ginny sighs. “That blond hair and those blue eyes!”

“And that bod,” Kim chimes in. As if she even knows what she’s talking about.

“Tell. Us. Everything.” Kelly leans across the table and puts her hand on my arm.

I think about how I could make them pay for being mean to me on my birthday. I could just walk away and say, “Who needs you? I’m busy making new friends, like Sam, who appreciate me.” But I don’t do this at all. I tell them what I know about Sam, how he’s really an artist and lives in Boston, how he’s an amazing tennis player, and how he’s super nice. My cool quotient is skyrocketing.

Sara Lynn always says not to burn your bridges, and I think she’s right. Even if these girls aren’t so nice to me sometimes, I don’t see the harm in spending the afternoon swimming with them and sitting on towels listening to the radio and looking through Kelly’s
Seventeen
magazine at clothes. I don’t see the harm in that at all, especially when a song comes on the radio that I love and Kim says, “Oh, this song is awesome,” and I sing right along with her. I can’t believe it, but she’s smiling at me like she likes me, like for once in my life I belong, like the understudy inside me is finally getting her big break.

Chapter 7

S
o I’ll be going over to Vermont to look at Langley’s Lovely Lavender Gardens.” I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder and take a sip of my iced tea. “Is it just me, or is the name a little precious?”

Margaret laughs. “The name’s a tad much. But the garden is beautiful. It’ll make for a great piece.”

I’m finishing up on the phone with Margaret Harnett, my editor at
New England Gardening
. We’ve gone over the edits to the long piece I sent in about designing a mixed border, and now we’re reviewing my assignments for the month. I curl my toes around a chair rung and smile. One thing I love about my job is that I can take meetings sitting barefoot at my kitchen table. It feels so . . . subversive to me. I roll my eyes at my own inanity. Really, my life is beyond tame when going barefoot counts as deviant behavior.

I leaf through tear sheets of the lavender garden photos Margaret sent me last week. “You’re right. I’m looking forward to seeing it in person.”

“And next week you’re in Boston to interview Irene Luger about her Beacon Hill garden.”

I flip my date book ahead. “Yes.” I pencil a check mark next to the appropriate date. “I’ve made those arrangements.”

There’s a pause, a companionable silence, and then Margaret says, “So how
are
you, Sara Lynn?”

“Well, I’m fine,” I reply, a little taken aback by the seriousness with which she asks her question. “How are you?”

“Oh, you know. The kids. Mike. The dog. Life is good.”

“Yes,” I say. “It is.”

“Next time you’re in Portland, I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

I force myself to smile so that what I have to say will come out of a happy mouth, not one that’s prim and old-maidish. “I’m fine as I am, Margaret.”

“Oh, pooh, don’t you want to be swept off your feet by someone?”

My eyes narrow at the time on the stove. “Look at the time! I told Hope I’d pick her up at two. Gotta go! And no, I have absolutely zero desire to be swept anywhere by anyone.”

“All right.” Margaret laughs. “Forgive me for trying. I’ll talk to you next week.”

I press the end button on the phone and get up from the table, sliding into my sandals. As I grab my purse from the mudroom bench and head for the car, I can feel a red flush creeping up my face. I
tsk
my tongue in annoyance. My God, does Margaret think I’m a charity case? That my life is so barren, I’m desperate for her to find me a man?

I’m not the slightest bit lonely. Actually, my life is very full. Overflowing, even. Hope, Ruth, Mama . . . I’m certainly not lacking for companionship. And as for the sex part of things, well, who needs it? It’s my experience that it only complicates matters, makes things messy.

My life is in perfect balance right now—family, career, time for my garden. I’m absolutely not interested in changing a thing. I’m annoyed at Margaret; I really am. I know she was only trying to be kind, but that’s precisely the point. I don’t need kindness—not from her, not from anybody.

I shudder even to imagine the man she’s got on the hook for me. Probably some divorced milquetoast eager to find wife number two. Well, it won’t be me. Not by a long shot.

I shake my head as I start the car, and then I flick on the radio to take my mind off this ridiculous folly of Margaret’s. “Swept off my feet indeed. I prefer my feet flat on the ground, thank you very much. . . .” I realize I’m talking to myself, so I close my mouth with a click.

It’s exactly two o’clock as I pull into the driveway of the country club. Right on time, I think as I slide my car into a parking spot near the pool. I reluctantly leave the air-conditioning, push the lock button on my key chain, and place my keys in my purse. Then I hear a low, gravelly voice say, “Hi, Sara Lynn.”

I whirl around, surprised. “Oh, hello,” I say. It’s that tennis pro who teaches Hope. Sam. My eyes widen as I see how handsome he is. Where in the world was my head at that I didn’t notice his looks this morning? He’s tall, and his body is lean and muscled. He’s got blond, wavy hair over a tanned face with blue, blue eyes. He’s smiling the most dazzling smile at me, and my hand inadvertently goes to my throat.

I collect myself, drawing my back up straight. Ridiculous, to be so shaken by a good-looking man. I’m certainly not looking to find anyone, contrary to what Margaret might wish for me. Sam is just Hope’s tennis teacher, for heaven’s sake. “How was Hope’s lesson?” I ask.

“Terrific,” he says. “She’s got some natural ability. Like you.”

“Like me?” I don’t know when he would have seen me play.

“Yeah.” He nods. “I’ve seen you out on the courts. You’re good.”

“Thank you,” I say automatically. Then, just as I’m about to excuse myself, he leans against the hood of my car and says, “Listen, I hear you’re a garden writer.”

Now, how in the world does he know that? He certainly doesn’t seem the kind of person who’d be an avid reader of
New England Gardening
. Well, chatterbox Hope must have filled him in. “Yes,” I say, adjusting my sunglasses up higher on my nose. “That’s so.”

“Well, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would you mind showing me some gardens around here?”

“You’re a gardener?” I ask, raising an eyebrow and crossing my arms over my chest. He certainly doesn’t look like a gardener.

He laughs and shakes his head. “No—I can’t even keep a houseplant alive. I’m a painter.”

“A painter?” Well! I wouldn’t have called that one. What does he paint—houses? I glance at my watch, hoping he’ll take the hint that I need to end this conversation. He’s obviously in no hurry, however, or else he chooses to ignore the fact that I am. So typical of a good-looking man—thinks women are just swooning at his feet.

“Yeah. My work is primarily abstract, but I use nature as a theme. When Hope told me you were a garden expert, I thought you might recommend some gardens I should take a look at.”

The photographs Margaret sent me of Langley’s Lovely Lavender Gardens flash into my mind, and I get excited, thinking about how a painter could drown in all that purple. “Oh, my gosh,” I say, and without even thinking, I touch his arm. “There’s this wonderful lavender garden in Vermont I’ll be visiting for the magazine. The pictures indicate it’s breathtaking.”

“Great.” A smile lights up his face, and I realize I’m touching this man I barely know, this man who’s probably an egomaniacal idiot. I take my hand back. Stupid, stupid to have become so excited over the silly lavender garden. “Do you mind if I tag along with you?”

The heat of a blush floods my cheeks, and I have to restrain myself from putting my hands to my face. “I’m happy to just give you the contact information,” I say, shifting my purse firmly onto my shoulder. “That way you won’t be tied down by my schedule.” I certainly didn’t mean to sound like I was angling for us to do something together. Honestly, that conversation with Margaret threw me off my game, and I haven’t recovered.

“Oh, I’d really like to go with
you
,” he says easily.

With me? I look at him through my sunglasses, and his eyes are warm and shiny. I could swear he’s flirting with me, and I’m a sucker for it—I feel pretty and young under his admiring gaze. It’s been a long time since an attractive man has looked at me like this, and I wish I’d put on a little lipstick before I left the house.

Oh, for God’s sake! It’s embarrassing to be thinking about Hope’s tennis teacher in this way. He’s—what?—in his twenties? And I’m a settled woman caring for a young child and an aging mother. Of course he isn’t interested in me. He’s probably got nubile twenty-one-year-olds just lining up for him. And here I am rounding the bend into middle age—well, early middle age, anyhow—with my pathetic little fantasies. Hope suddenly pops into my mind and gives me that disgusted look she’s perfecting:
Get a clue, Sara Lynn. You’re old. O-l-d. Like, get over yourself already.

Well, wait a minute,
I argue back.
Why wouldn’t a man like Sam be interested in me? I’m attractive and smart and kind. Right?
Yes, and I’m also thirty-seven years old.

Looking on the bright side, maybe he’s intrigued by my age. Perhaps he imagines that I’m terribly sexually experienced. An older and wiser woman. My mouth twists into a smile at that thought, and he must think it’s a smile meant for him because he smiles back at me. At me! I toss my hair back and tilt my chin up.

“So when were you planning on going?” he asks.

Going? Where are we going? Oh, the garden. “Um, Friday. I was planning on Friday.”

“That works,” he says, nodding. “I can reschedule any lessons I have.”

“Great!” I say brightly. Too brightly? Why isn’t he saying anything back? Am I supposed to keep talking? I’m terribly rusty at this whole flirtation thing, if that’s even what this is.

Finally he asks, “You want me to pick you up?”

“No!” Mama’s disapproving face flashes into my head, and I cringe to imagine him arriving at my doorstep on Friday. “I’ll pick you up. You know, the magazine reimburses me gas and mileage. It just makes more sense.”

“That’s cool,” he says.

Cool? It’s “cool”?! Nobody my age talks like that. God, I’m all aflutter over a man who likely was in high school when I started raising Hope. He grew up with different music, different defining political events. Our reference points don’t match up at all. I’m being utterly ridiculous in even imagining he could see me as anything other than a garden guide.

“Want me to give you directions to my house?” he offers.

“Um . . .” I have to get out of here. Right now, before I do something silly, like say, “Are you attracted to me? Because it seems like you might be, and, well, I’m a lot older than you. Not that I don’t find you terribly attractive, too, but, you know, the age difference and all . . .” Oh, the horror. I shake my head to rid myself of that vision and say hastily, “Just e-mail me.” I dig into my bag and pull out a business card. “I really need to go get Hope now,” I say apologetically as I practically run from his side.

My head clears a bit as I walk up the path to the pool area. I can breathe again, and I think maybe the sun just got to me out there in the parking lot. Good Lord, I’m thirty-seven years old! Years beyond getting weak in the knees over anybody, let alone some devastatingly handsome kid! I scan the pool and see Hope sitting on her towel with some girls from school. As I walk over to them, I recognize Ginny, but not the other two. It looks like Hope’s having fun, laughing about something with her friends. “Hi, girls,” I say.

“Hi,” they all mumble back, not looking at me. I feel brittle and old all of a sudden, and there’s a bad taste in my mouth. Am I so dour that I can shut up a pack of twelve-year-old girls just by showing up? Ruth’s voice echoes inside me—
Jesus H. Christ, Sara Lynn, do you have to take things so goddamn personally?

“Time to go,” I say, and I try to smile, willing myself to grow a thicker skin right here, right now.

“Okay.” Hope gets up and grabs her swim bag, dragging her feet behind her as if I’ve asked her to make a great sacrifice. “Bye,” she calls back to her friends mournfully.

“You can come back tomorrow.” I put my arm around her and give her a quick squeeze as we walk to the car. Honestly, everything is so dramatic at this age.

“Really?” she says eagerly. “Great, because I want to practice my tennis and hang out with my friends.”

“Who were those girls? Besides Ginny, I mean.”

“KK and KK.”

“Pardon me?”

She sighs and slowly says, as though I’ve asked her to explain the alphabet, “Kelly Jacobs and Kim Anderson. They’re going into eighth grade.”

I look around the parking lot as I unlock my car. I know who I’m looking for—Sam. Despite my better judgment, I was anticipating seeing him again, and I feel as if the sun’s gone behind a cloud. Dammit! Haven’t I learned my lesson? I’m angry at myself as I get in the car and turn the key.
Just stop! Stop thinking about anybody in that way.
My mother’s voice speaks from inside me, railing against my tendency to pursue inappropriate men.
I’m not pursuing anybody,
I respond firmly to her voice,
not anybody at all.

After I quit my job at the law firm and came home for good, I alternated between walking about the house restlessly and sulking in my room. Mama gamely ignored the desperation seeping out of me. She was certain that all I needed was “a little rest,” and then I’d join Daddy’s law practice until I married a nice man and raised children right here in Ridley Falls. When I refused to smile and agree with her, she decided to take matters into her own hands. “God helps those who help themselves,” I could imagine her muttering as she pulled out her blue leather address book and made some phone calls.