Soaring (11 page)

He put the bowl in the fridge and turned back, walking my way, continuing to speak.

“I work for a local company, does roofing and construction. Job sucks, my boss is an asshole. Wanna strike out on my own but with two kids fast approaching college, can’t take that risk. Gotta eat his bullshit and get a paycheck. But they work seven days a week and the only way my boss isn’t an asshole is that he doesn’t want his house to burn down without local volunteer firefighters to stop it. So he lets me adjust my schedule so I can take some shifts at the department during weekdays, as well as doin’ nights and some weekends.”

“I’m sorry you don’t like your boss but it’s good you get to do what you like to do,” I told him, even though I didn’t actually think him being able to be a firefighter was good.

In this climate, I could imagine fires weren’t as prevalent as in other, drier climates. But fires happened everywhere and I wasn’t really big on Mickey taking his life in his hands to go out and fight them.

However, this had nothing to do with me and would be an unwelcome (and rude) opinion to share, so I didn’t share it.

He put his hands on the counter, his attention still on me. “Life is life. You’re smart, you take what you can get.”

All of a sudden, that feeling of being crushed came back, thinking Mickey, a nice guy, a good father, a handsome man, had this philosophy.

He wanted to stay in his hometown and that was his prerogative.

He wanted to be a firefighter so he made that work.

That was commendable.

But I hated the idea that he felt with the rest he had to take what he could get.

I wanted him to be fulfilled. Happy. If not having it all (because who did?), at least having as much as he could get. Loving his family, his home, his job…his
life
.

Not taking what he could get.

“Hey, Miz Hathaway.”

I turned at Aisling’s greeting and smiled when I caught her beautiful blue eyes.

“Hey, blossom. Thanks again for all your help yesterday.”

Mickey had not been wrong. She’d loved helping. She’d worked hard, this mostly being, as the stuff quickly disappeared, running around rearranging so the other items for sale would be attractively displayed and not looked picked over or like the dregs since the early birds got the good stuff. She also sold beverages, the goodies, and when each drink dispenser was purchased, she’d helped me empty them out and clean them up so they could go out the door.

“No probs,” she repeated her brother’s words of earlier, moving into the kitchen and looking up to her father. “Want me to do the spinach?”

“Closer to, beautiful,” he said softly, gazing at her the same way. “Make sure it’s fresh. Got a lot of grillin’ to do.”

“’Kay, Dad,” she mumbled, shifting around him, eyes to the counter, eyes that assessed the situation immediately as she saw what Mickey had done, what needed to be done, and thus she left what was still needed while clearing away what no longer was.

Yes, she was a good girl who liked to take care of her family and I liked that, thus I started to fall a little in love with quiet, sweet Aisling Donovan too.

“Son, you wanna start the grill, get it ready for your dad?” Mickey offered.

“Totally!” Cill accepted loudly.

Mickey gave his grin to his boy. “Fire it up.”

Cillian raced away.

Mickey went to the fridge and came out with his own beer.

When he turned, he caught my eyes. “Let’s move this outside.”

“Sounds good,” I agreed.

He reached out and nabbed a packet of tortilla chips that were sitting on the counter and said to Aisling, “Grab the guac from the fridge before you head out, yeah, darlin’?”

“Yeah, Dad,” she replied.

We went out and I saw that when Rhiannon left the furniture, she also left the patio furniture. Further, I noted this was an outdoor family.

I knew this because there was a colossal shining grill against the side railing of the deck—a deck that spanned the living room and kitchen areas of the long house. Further, there was a four-seater, wrought iron table with umbrella and chairs that I knew would be comfortable because they had fluffy taupe cushions, high backs and they rocked. There were also two matching lounge chairs with matching cushions, angled toward the view of Mickey’s backyard, which was mostly trees. And last, there was a coordinating loveseat at the opposite end of the deck from the grill that had an ottoman in front of it and tables at each side.

All this, and in the densely wooded backyard that had a narrow wedge of grass close to the deck, I saw a tire swing in a tree. There were Frisbees lying in the grass (three, to be precise). And to one side, what appeared to be a narrow baseball pitcher plate set up, beyond it a tall, wide net to catch pitched balls.

I followed Mickey out but he went to the grill to survey Cillian’s activities.

I decided on the table, where we could all sit, eat chips and guacamole, and chat.

Mickey and Cillian joined me, Mickey opening the chips after he sat, tossing them on the table.

Aisling came out with the guac, which was homemade, had the perfect hint of cilantro, a nice tang of garlic and minimum tomatoes, making it sublime (Mickey’s creation, which made me look forward to dinner). She also saw the chips, rolled her eyes at her father and went back in, coming out with a bowl in which she dumped the chips (budding hostess, and a good one, for certain).

And we all sat, munching, sipping, Cillian doing most of the talking with Mickey and I interjecting.

Not long after, Mickey got up and went in to get the meat.

He started grilling.

At their father’s good-natured demand, without complaint, the kids got up and grabbed outdoor table stuff, including nice plastic plates, and set the table.

When it was time, Aisling went in to make the spinach salad.

In the end, I ate more than I had in weeks (and my stomach protested, but I didn’t listen because it was all so delicious) and surprisingly in Mickey’s company, did exactly what he wanted me to do.

I kicked back, drank beer, ate good food, sat with a nice family on the deck during a comfortable summer day in Maine, and relaxed.

* * * * *

“Babe.”

I was in the danger zone.

“Hey.” A hand was on my hip.

Highway straight to the danger zone.

That hand gently shook me. “Amy.”

My eyes fluttered open and I saw dark purple twill.

I knew exactly where I was.

I was in a home with a family that liked me.

A home where we sat in the sun on the deck and ate three different salads (all excellent), superbly grilled brats and chicken breasts slathered in barbeque sauce. This being followed by a heavenly chocolate cake that made my meringue-frosting-topped cupcakes seem like sawdust topped with pillow foam.

A home where I told a fourteen-year-old girl I felt that way about her cake, and she handed the world to me when her blue eyes started shining.

A home where we chatted and laughed and ended our meal playing Frisbee.

A home where I could run around the backyard with kids who enjoyed my company, demonstrating my Frisbee prowess because I was an awesome Frisbee player, seeing as my brother and I would go to the beach as often as possible (it was what you did, we grew up in La Jolla, we had a beach, we used it) and we’d play Frisbee. And being good at Frisbee was apparently a skill you didn’t lose.

A home where, during Frisbee, an eleven-year-old boy told me I was “da bomb” because I was an awesome Frisbee player.

A home where, after Frisbee, we camped out on a big cozy sectional to watch Tom Cruise and Val Kilmer play volleyball (amongst other things) and with beer, a full belly and wonderful company, relaxed and at ease, I’d fallen asleep curled into a corner of that big, cozy, purple couch.

Right then, still half-asleep, I turned my head and looked into Mickey Donovan’s amazing blue eyes.

This didn’t make me shake the dream.

No, the dream took hold of me and I stayed in the danger zone because I
liked
it.

And I liked it because I was in a home with a handsome man who protected me, fed me, laughed with me, was open, honest, loved his kids, didn’t hide his admiration of my Frisbee abilities, and who looked after me.

“Kids are in bed,” this handsome man in his comfortable home murmured to me words a handsome father, a handsome husband, a handsome
lover
would say to his woman. “You needed to crash, so I let you sleep. Now we both need to hit our beds, Amy.”

We did. We needed to hit our beds.

But half-asleep, staring at the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, having the only really good day I’d had in three years, spending time with him, being a part of his life, a part of his family, I decided first that I needed to
hit him
.

So I did, blinking at the dream that still had hold of me, unwilling and maybe unable to let it go, I leaned up and in, doing it deep. At the same time, I lifted a hand to curl around the side of his strong neck, feeling the muscle there and also feeling the thrill of knowing that hardness was probably everywhere.

And without delay, I pressed my lips to his, wanting nothing more, nothing else, nothing in my whole life,
caring
about nothing but living that dream.

Mickey jerked away.

I jerked fully awake.

“Amy,” he whispered.

Oh God, had I just kissed Mickey?

I stared at him, immobile, no,
frozen
, completely mortified, taking in the look in his eyes.

Surprise.

Remorse.

Aversion.

Oh God.

I’d just kissed him.

I flew off the couch, aiming sideways to miss him where he was leaning over me, mumbling humiliatingly, “God, sorry. So, so sorry. I was half-asleep.”

“Amy,” he called but I was on the move.

“Gotta go,” I kept mumbling, now walking and doing it swiftly. “I’m sorry I fell asleep. A lot has been happening, I guess I let it…” I trailed off, hit the mouth of the hall, turned to him and saw he’d straightened but hadn’t moved. I aimed my eyes at his chest. “Anyway, thanks for a great day. It was just what I needed. You gave me that, I wore out my welcome. Another demerit and I’m so, so sorry.”

Then I turned and I wanted to walk casually down his hall like nothing had happened.

But my feet had a mind of their own.

They ran, taking me down his hall, out his door, across his lawn, the street and to my house, one desperate step after the other, until I was behind my closed door.

I locked it and made another dash through my empty, dark house, straight to my bedroom then to my bath.

I closed that door and locked it too, as if Mickey would come for me, break down my door, demand an explanation for me touching him without invitation,
putting my mouth on his
when he didn’t want that.

Surprise.

Remorse.

Aversion.

Oh God, I’d kissed Mickey!

I put my back to the bathroom door and slid down it until my behind was on the floor. I bent forward, resting forehead to my knees, my heart slamming in my chest, my breaths coming fast and uneven, my skin burning.

The dulcet tones of my doorbell sounded.

I didn’t move, didn’t even lift my head.

I didn’t know how late it was but it was summer and dark so I knew it was late.

This meant that could be nobody but Mickey. Mickey being a nice guy and trying to make me feel better after I’d embarrassed myself
and
him, putting us both in an untenable situation that had no escape.

I was forty-seven years old. I should be old enough, brave enough, to get up and go to the door. Talk to my neighbor. Open myself to him (slightly) the way he seemed perfectly okay with opening himself to me, and sharing that I’d lost my husband, my family, and I’d been alone for a long time. And that day I got lost in him and his family, I liked it, and I was half-asleep. I didn’t think.

I didn’t think.

But sitting on my bathroom floor, it didn’t matter that I should be old and brave enough to do it.

I didn’t move.

The doorbell sounded again and I heard my whimper whisper through the knotty wood paneled room of my rustic, elegant, fabulous bathroom.

And I didn’t move.

I stayed in that position, the mortification burning through me, as minutes passed, listening hard and not shifting an inch.

The doorbell didn’t ring again.

After what felt like hours, lifetimes, I crawled on hands and knees to the towel rack. I grabbed a pink towel that looked great in my master bath in La Jolla but did not fit at all in that rustic, elegant bathroom in Maine.

And right there, I curled on my side on the floor, pulled the towel over me, up to my neck, where I tucked it in and closed my eyes.

I knew in that moment I’d hit bottom.

I knew in that moment I could sink no lower.

But I feared with everything that was me, that being me, I’d find new ways to fuck everything up even worse.

I had a talent with that.

It was the only talent I had.

And I didn’t want it.

I just had no idea how to get rid of it.

It was the only part of me I knew was real.

So I lay on the floor in my bathroom, covered in a towel, and thought (maybe hysterically) that perhaps I didn’t need to find me.

And thus I fell asleep on the floor of my bathroom fearing that was the only me that there could be.

* * * * *

The next evening, I was sitting on my couch in the sunken living room, feet to the seat, arms around my calves, chin to my knees, eyes to the darkening sky over the sea that had been gray all day, and stormy (reflecting my mood), thinking, priority: since I’d sold mine (all four of them), I needed to get a new TV.

Immediately.

I had not had dinner (or lunch, or breakfast for that matter). And I didn’t have a glass of wine beside me (though I wanted one, I just had an empty stomach and Mickey’s ex made me worry I wasn’t consuming much anymore, but I was going through wine like crazy).