Triple Love Score (14 page)

“It’s hard to say what my mom is like. She doesn’t really talk. The only time I’ve been able to see her, really see her, was at my oldest sister’s wedding. She had a bit to drink and started dancing. She danced with my sisters, then her brothers, and finally all by herself. It was like she finally felt free. She celebrated a job well done. She successfully got a daughter married without getting knocked up.”

“A big accomplishment?”

“Indeed. That’s one of the reasons they sent me here after my youngest sister. As if by me being here, my presence alone could stop conception.”

“Well, it worked right?”

“Yeah, but that’s cause the guy was a fool and let her go running back to Ireland. She’s now dating a guy that installs carpet with my uncle. I think they’ll get married in the spring. And that will leave only me. Four sisters all married, and me, the bachelor poet.”

“I thought you were giving that up?”

“Being a bachelor? You’re not proposing are you? I said I didn’t want a green card marriage. I’m really too romantic for that. Poet and all.” He leaned over the still-steaming plates and kissed her on the lips. “But for you, I might consider the offer.”

“Not being a bachelor, being a poet. You said you would become a plumber or lay carpet or something.”

“Bah, I dunno. I’m not really serious about all that. I might teach junior school. There’s going to be an opening at the school in my village.”

“Junior school? Like toddlers and kindergarten?”

“Like junior high here. Early teens, like at the center. After they know something about the world, but before all the ideas get fixed. I think you can make a difference there. But not poetry. Writing is okay but not poetry. I’ve had enough teaching poetry.”

“I like that. Before the ideas get fixed. Do you think ideas can ever get unfixed in a person?”

“Do you mean do I think people can change?”

“Yeah, can people change?”

“I hope so, Miranda. If people can change, then anything is possible.”

She let the silence fall between them as she finished her meal.

“Food good?” Ronan asked.

“Wonderful, thank you,” she said, her mouth still full. Her pocketed cell phone buzzed, probably with emails from Ambrose and maybe from Scott. She didn’t read them and didn’t reply.

T
HAT FRIDAY, Ronan announced, “We need a Christmas tree.”

“But we won’t be here for the holidays. I need to go to my parents’ house.” She remembered Lynn’s excited voice over the phone and Scott’s promise of “in person.” And while their time at Niagara Falls made her feel a little bit closer to Ronan, it didn’t erase all of her doubts; part of it felt much too fast.

“I’m not asking you to skip. I’m asking for a Christmas tree. There’s no rule that says you can’t enjoy a tree before Christmas Eve is there? I know you Americans do things differently, but surely you wouldn’t deny me a small part of a holiday celebration.”

“Deny you? As if I deny you anything,” she said. Then she climbed on top of him. Her hair fell from its bun around her face. He reached up and tucked it behind her ears.

“You haven’t asked me to your parents. Some could say that is a denial.”

“Well, I mean, it’s just my family and—” Miranda stammered. Panic flooded her; she couldn’t imagine bringing Ronan home for Christmas.

“You are very beautiful when you blush, Miranda. And don’t worry. I don’t want to meet your parents just yet. It’s too soon for that. Parents only complicate things. They’re lawyers, right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Why?” She wiggled free and moved to climb out of bed.

“No reason,” he said. Then he reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Stay,” he said. “Let me look at you.”

She turned and sat cross-legged on the bed. “Look all you want,” she said. “Then we will go get you a Christmas tree. A small one. Okay?”

“Take off your top,” he said.

“Why?”

“I said I wanted to look at you.”

“It’s your top actually,” she said, shrugging it off. “Anything else?”

“Well, yes, you could take everything off.”

“Oh, everything, okay.” She wiggled free of her pajama pants. Her nipples grew taut in the cool of the room. A light freckling of goose bumps appeared on her thighs. He made no move to touch her. She shifted a little, avoiding his eyes, which moved all over her body from head to toe.

“Very beautiful,” he finally said. “But that’s not it.”

“What’s not it? Can I get dressed?”

“No,” he said, reaching out to stroke the top of her thigh. “Stay like this. Let me kiss you.” He tugged at her feet, making her stretch her legs out in front of her. He started kissing her toes, then her ankles, and knees, and thighs. He lingered there, teasing his tongue along the inside edge. With a light touch, he pushed her legs apart and kissed her higher and higher until his tongue connected with her body. She settled back against the pillows, unable to stay upright. He grabbed her hips and began to massage them using the same rhythm as his tongue against her. His tongue slipped inside her, first slow and then fast, alternating between penetrating and licking. Her whole body shuddered in ecstasy.

“Thank you, thank you,” she said.

“I love you,” he said. Then he got up and padded out of the room.

She listened to him open the medicine cabinet and brush his teeth, then the shower starting, the low hum of a song she didn’t know. He loved her. Or at least he said he did. Some women dream of hearing such a confession, pull out all the stops to make it happen, and here she was, just lying there, thinking the only thing she wanted in that moment was a shower. By herself.

The Christmas tree lot stood at the edge of town in front of the VFW hall. Old school light bulbs with vibrant filaments glowed faintly despite the noon sun. Ronan bounced through the lanes of trees. Every few feet he would stop and pull out a tree. He’d twirl it like a dance partner, then lean it back up against the rope propping the trees up.

“I’ll know it when I see it,” he said.

“I like short ones,” Miranda said. “Avery always gets the tallest to fill the ceiling, but I like short chubby ones. More homely. In a good way.”

“Ah, the lady has a tree preference. Good to know.” He clapped his hands together and skipped ahead. “How about this?” he said. He pulled out a tree almost as wide as it was tall.

Miranda mimicked his bounce. “Yes, yes, yes,” she said. “It’s perfect!”

“Perfect?” he asked. “Can’t be. Nothing is better than you.”

She leaned up on her toes and kissed him. He nearly dropped the tree from the force of her, toppling them both over.

“Whoa,” he said. “There’ll be plenty of time for that after we get this tree home, my lady.”

As Ronan struggled to get the tree tied to the roof of her car, Miranda finally took out her phone to read her emails. There were twelve from Ambrose. They all said the same thing: “I don’t care when you sign the contract, but you need to keep posting. Don’t let the brand die while you decide. Post more.” And there was one from Scott, equally short, “Sign with Ambrose. Fair contract. Looking forward to seeing you on Christmas. Lynn says hey.”

Christmas. A day that normally meant very little to her now felt like a hinge on which her life turned. Should she waste the last few days she had with Ronan by going home to Connecticut? What does it mean that Scott is looking forward to seeing her? And then there’s Lynn. On Christmas. The possibility of that pulled at her in ways she didn’t expect. Along with Blocked Poet and the deal and the writing. And Ronan.

Okay, she replied to Ambrose.

Tell Lynn I said hey, she replied to Scott. And thanks, she added before hitting send.

“What is it?” Ronan asked when he got in the car. “You okay?”

“I’m fine; why?”

“Your brow is furrowed. What are you thinking about?”

“Work. That’s all. Work.”

“Work? I thought your classes ended.”

“They did. I have this other thing going. I’ll show you when we get home. After the tree, okay? One problem, though. I don’t have any decorations.”

“I’ll get them. I’m pretty sure I can afford some fairy lights. And candy canes. You can show me your work when I get back.”

Before he left, Ronan maneuvered the tree into place in her living room window. Without a proper stand, it leaned against the glass completely blocking the light from outside.

“I’ll get a stand, too,” he said.

She pulled out the Scrabble board and put on the coffee pot. The tree haphazardly installed in her living room window fueled boards about Christmas and glad tidings. Noel and Mistletoe, breaking the seven-letters-only rule this once. She photographed as many sculpture poems as she could.

Once she started posting the pictures, she saw Ambrose’s point. The account for Blocked Poet binged repeatedly from likes and forwards and retweets and new Twitter and Instagram followers. Six or seven poems and her reach expanded. She printed out the contract from Ambrose, signed it, and slipped it into the scanner to email back. She didn’t know exactly what he could do for her, but whatever it was, she was up for the journey. She dug out the bottle of Champagne from last New Year’s Eve and found the fancy glasses. Ronan returned, cheeks flush from the walk to the shopping center and laden with bags containing many strands of lights, glass baubles for the tree, and candy canes in multiple flavors and colors.

She handed him a glass of Champagne as he dropped the bags at his feet.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“I don’t know exactly, but it might be something big. I just signed a contract for some of my poetry.”

“A book? Miranda that is wonderful.” He grabbed her up with his free hand for a hug.

“No, not a book. Well maybe a book, but first a web page, I guess. It’s for this.” She pointed to the Scrabble board on the coffee table.

He leaned over and examined the words carefully. “You had someone come over for Scrabble while I was out?”

“No, that’s my poem. I do this.” She pulled out her phone and scrolled through the poem sculptures saved there.

“That’s you? I’ve seen those! You’re Blocked Poet?”

“Yup, and I just signed a deal to market it. I don’t fully understand, but it might get the poems out to more people. The guy with the contract, Ambrose, he seems to think it will make money.”

“It’s wonderful.”

“We should celebrate,” she said.

“We already are,” Ronan said, clinking his glass against hers. “To words.”

“To words,” she replied.

T
HE DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS EVE passed quickly. Every time Ronan left the apartment, Miranda worked at her poems. New emails kept coming from Ambrose. Sign this. Curate a Valentine’s collection. First book drops at the beginning of February. Maybe sooner. What about Mother’s Day? He didn’t sign his emails and often didn’t use complete sentences. Miranda felt herself just instinctively saying yes. Yes. And then she would pull together as much as he asked for as quickly as possible. Bravo, he always replied. Do more. Then Ronan would return from the teen center, and they would tumble into bed or the sofa or the rug in front of the Christmas tree. These delicious days passed by in a rush of words and sensations.