The Matchmakers of Minnow Bay (22 page)

Well, I can beat them at their own game. I stop in my tracks, reverse course, and head to the inn instead. Dollars to donuts, Colleen will be in there humming “That's Amore” to herself. Nice try, ladies, I think smugly. I'll just order a pizza or something, and hide in my room for the rest of the night. Ben can eat alone.

But when I walk in the front door, I realize how grievously I've underestimated Jenny and Colleen. Ben Hutchinson is sitting in the front parlor, staring at my painting over a roaring fire.

At first I think I can back out the way I've come. But Ben is already standing up before I am more than halfway turned around. “Lily?”

I freeze. This is incredibly awkward. Is there still time to pretend I didn't hear him? I reach for the doorknob, trying to act nonchalantly deaf.

“Um, Lily? I'm pretty sure you can hear me,” he says.

I turn back around.

To my chagrin, Ben is even cuter today than he was the night before. This is starting to be a worrying trend. What will he look like in ten more years, at this rate? His hair is tousled, and he is wearing, for the first time since my arrival in Minnow Bay, a coat.

“Hi,” I say, ridiculously.

“What are you still doing here?” he asks.

Relief floods me at this question. He was counting on my leaving today as much as I was. This is not going to be as awkward as I had first assumed. “Trying to escape Minnow Bay has proven harder than I first thought,” I tell him. “Didn't you hear from Hutch?”

“Hear what?” he asks, looking genuinely confused.

“Hear about my tire. I must have driven over a nail on Friday. Maybe at your place? I had a flat waiting for me when I went to leave this morning.”

“Oh. I'm sorry to hear it. But what does this have to do with my dad?”

“His Duluth trip? He was going to buy me a new tire when he went up there for his Sunday run, but he couldn't go? Because of the storm? I can't believe you didn't get this via the Minnow Bay News Dispatch.”

There is a long, confused silence.

“So he's going to go tomorrow,” I try.

“Go where?”

“To Duluth. To Sears, to buy me a new tire.” What is so mysterious about this?

Ben scratches his five-o'clock shadow. I remember how it felt on my cheek last night. I try to remember anything but. “Well,” he says, “I very much doubt that.”

“What? Why?”

“Because the bar is open Mondays from eleven to eleven. And he will be running it.”

“Him? By himself? Not someone else, like staff?”

“He doesn't have any staff. Not in the winter.”

“Huh.”

“Huh.”

“Maybe he's going to go in the morning,” I say, though I'm not sure why I'm arguing about this. Colleen's got the logistics all figured out in her own way, knowing her.

There's another long, weird pause. Then Ben shrugs and says, “Maybe.”

“Anyway,” I say, feeling embarrassed though I'm not sure why, “that's why I'm still here.”

“A flat tire?” he asks. “No other reason?”

“Yes,” I say, sensing the uncertain territory we've wandered into. “Otherwise I'd be back in Chicago by now. But, ah … hey, since you're here anyway, I can give you the paperwork you need. Save on FedEx bills.”

There is a long, heavy silence. Have I said the wrong thing? No. He's the one who was in such a hurry for the divorce, as I recall. All kissing aside, that shouldn't have changed overnight.

“You have another copy?” he asks at last. “Besides the one you ripped up?”

I nod. “Your lawyer sent me one to keep. It's in my room, I'll go get it.”

“You don't have to get it right now,” he says. “You look like you're in the middle of something.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

He gestures to my hair, then pats his own head. I turn to the dining room buffet where the mirror now hangs. There is a huge swath of August-sky-blue paint in my hair.

“Oh my gosh. Why didn't Simone tell me?”

“Simone Wajakowski?”

“We were painting together. In that studio behind the gallery.”

“Oh. That makes sense. Maybe she just thought it was a fashion statement.”

“Blue hair?”

“You've seen Simone's clothes?” he says lightly. “She sees color in a way none of us can quite understand.”

A little smile plays on my lips. “It may prove to be evidence of latent genius,” I tell him, thinking of the riotous colors of her work, her wardrobe.

“I hope so,” says Ben. “She's a good kid.”

I think of what paroxysms such a comment would give Simone if she were here to hear it. Probably best she's not.

“Ben?” I say.

“Hm?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh. That. I came to see the painting.”

The color drains out of my face, and I feel powerfully self-conscious.

“You did?”

“Yes. Colleen couldn't stop raving about it to my brother this morning. Said everyone should come over and see it tonight before she took it to be insured.”

“That's very sweet of her.” And crafty, I think.

“She's not wrong. It
is
beautiful.”

I color deeply. “Thank you,” I say, more embarrassed by his compliment than I would be if he hated it.

“I wasn't sure if you'd be gone,” he adds. “I didn't know about the, er, tire situation.” He takes two steps closer to me. I realize now how many steps I've taken toward him. Now, again, we are too close together.

“I have a boyfriend, in Chicago,” I blurt, before I accidentally kiss him again.

Now it is Ben who colors.

“It never came up before—I probably should have stuck it into the conversation at some point, but, things were a little fraught…”

“No, of course. That makes sense.” Then he takes one more, tiny step closer. “But last night…”

“I know,” I say, nodding. “Last night.”

“It was…” Ben presses his lips together. Those lips.

“It was a mistake,” I say, too quickly, too loudly.

His face transforms. It is a slate wiped clean. “Okay. A mistake.”

I can think of nothing to say back. I want to explain, at great length, the series of events and misunderstandings that led to our kissing last night. But I don't know how to start.

Ben takes a mighty step backward. “I think, if you really don't mind, I will take that paperwork now.”

I retreat in turn. “Right. Of course.” I want to die a little. “I'll just go get it right now.”

I turn to head for the stairs. My steps falter a little. Something inside me is flashing, a beacon of something, telling me to do something else. Do something differently. I don't know what something it should be. Give up my dreams of the museum? Betray Mitchell, the one gallerist who believed in me from the beginning? Burn the only bridge that leads back to my life before? I start for the stairs. One foot in front of the other. Get the paperwork. Say good-bye. Go to bed. Get up and get the hell out of here.

I close myself in my room. Lean against the door.
Get the paperwork. Go home.

Instead I stand there perfectly still, wishing there was another way.

I don't know how long I stand there frozen before I hear a mighty racket in the foyer. I turn and step out into the hallway, head for the stairs. Before I can reach the first landing, a loud voice calls up to me. “Lily?” It is Colleen, breathless, shouting. “Lily, are you in here? You must be in here, we've looked everywhere else. Come quick, Lily!”

She starts up the stairs. “There you are. Oh, thank goodness. Well, wait, no. This is bad.”

“Slow down, Colleen,” I say patiently.

“If you're here, and your car isn't. Oh, this is bad.”

“What do you mean my car isn't?” I say warily. “My car is in the parking lot in front of the inn with a flat tire.”

“No, it's not. It was, but—oh, hi, Ben!” Ben has come up the stairs, most likely to see what Colleen is caterwauling about. “Guess what? Lily's car is being stolen. Right this second!”

 

Thirteen

 

My car isn't being stolen. It is being towed. To a garage. Where they sell tires.

Ben explains, on a patient sigh, that he texted his brother Erick, part-time mechanic and tow truck driver, when I went up to my room. Told him about my predicament and how eager I was to leave town. One of Erick's guys was in the truck plowing out a parking lot two doors down, so he came right away, hitched up the car, and that's what Colleen mistook for grand theft auto.

Colleen has the good manners to look sheepish. “They sell tires at Hutchinson Auto?” she asks. “But when I needed to replace the tires on my truck, I had to drive to the Sears in Duluth.”

“Probably because it wasn't urgent, or you needed a certain kind of tires. Erick only has a small selection of patch jobs, but that probably includes something that will work on Lily's car in an emergency.”

I look from Colleen to Ben and back. She is giving him a crazy buggy-eyed glare as though she's trying to bend his brain like a spoon. Ben is looking at her like she's a moron and shaking his head.

Then, in his stone-cold way, he tells her, “Perhaps you don't understand, Colleen. Lily is
very eager
to get back to Chicago. Like,
emergency
eager.”

I say nothing. Colleen says, “It doesn't sound very safe to drive all the way to Chicago on a secondhand tire.”

“Probably safer than her driving on the imaginary one Hutch was going to get her tomorrow from Duluth. While he worked at the bar at the same time.”

Colleen falters for a beat, and then says, “Shit. He said he was going to go the minute he could get up there after the storm. I didn't think about the bar.”

“Maybe I could run the bar for him?” I say dryly. I feel like I've wandered into a Stoppard play.

“Ooh, good idea,” says Colleen, oblivious. “What do you think, Ben?”

“Great idea,” he replies, matching my tone. “Or better yet, I'll run the bar, since I'm his son and all, and Lily can teach my AP comp sci classes at school.”

Colleen tilts her head. “You aren't being very helpful, Mr. Hutchinson. Maybe if I had a word with your mom…”

Ben holds up a hand. “We don't need to go nuclear. Believe me, I want Lily to get home as badly as anyone,” he says. “Did you know she has a boyfriend who is expecting her back?”

“I'm right here,” I say with a little wave. “I'm sorry I didn't explain, Ben. It's a long story.”

“I'm getting the idea that most of the things you do have a long story to go with them.”

“And I'm getting the idea that your Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde thing can really give a girl whiplash.”

“Now, now,” Colleen says. “Lily, Ben did a nice thing for you, getting your tire situation taken care of. Thanks to him, you can leave first thing tomorrow. And Ben, Lily really does have extenuating circumstances. We can fill you in over dinner at the bistro—”

“NO,” Ben and I say at the same exact moment.

Colleen shrugs dramatically, as if to say,
See, you guys are of one mind.

“Here, Ben,” I say, thrusting over the annulment renewal paperwork. Then I turn to Colleen. “I'm hungry and I want French fries.”

“Thanks,” he says, also to Colleen. “Enjoy your fries. I'm going to go get a beer.”

“Not at the bistro,” I suggest.

“Agreed.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Oh, for heaven's sakes,” says Colleen merrily. “Like an old married couple. Well, it's wine o'clock, honey,” she says to me like this hasn't been the most uncomfortable and confusing exchange her inn has ever seen. “Let's get uncorking!”

*   *   *

A glass of really good Zinfandel heals a lot of the wounds from the uncomfortable encounter, or “Ben-counter” as Jenny is gleefully calling it. Perfectly steamed and sauced mussels and a shared tin of crispy fries with sriracha aioli heals the rest. By the end of the meal we are all laughing over the flat tire, the tow truck, and Ben's ruffled feathers. That's all they are, I'm quite sure. It was only a few days ago that he was barking at me about divorce from his front yard while wielding a hatchet. A little nostalgic smooching in the gentle snowfall doesn't change the fundamental fact that this guy does not like me.

Fortified, I pass the rest of dinner telling the girls about my life in Chicago, such as it is. I tell them about Red or Dead, which they think is a brilliant and ballsy business concept, and about Renee's white-shoe firm where I can often be found sullying the otherwise impeccable waiting room among Chicago's wealthiest and most disgruntled spouses, and about the pop-up craft fairs where I tried, usually unsuccessfully, to sell my art before landing a gallery. I tell them about the great Affair of the Thirty Thousand Dollar Potatoes—the one time Mitchell ever had a genuinely emotional reaction to anything, the only time I've seen his calm shattered. He brought in, from D.C. at no small expense, an extremely high-profile experiential sculptor, who worked by throwing huge clay pots, carving pornographic images into them in relief, and then smashing them with a sledgehammer in order to make mosaics from the resulting shards. Mitchell commissioned this guy, again at no small expense, for a show of six works, which the artist refused to show him in advance and installed in the gallery under the cover of darkness early on the morning before the opening. But instead of mosaics, the works were six different arrangements of grocery store baking potatoes, held together in various vaguely sexual poses with toothpicks. The title of the collection was “No Smoking on Television.”

When Jenny hears this she claps her hands together and says, “Of course!”

“You read about it?”