I’m already swimming after her. “I can walk back with you.”
“No! No, you stay and keep swimming. I need to go home and shower. My fingers are shriveled and it’s getting late. I haven’t eaten dinner, and I should clean up a little bit.”
She’s firing off excuse after excuse as they come to mind, one after another—“Big day of cleaning tomorrow, I’m tired, I really need to call my parents”— then she’s out of the water and covering herself as she runs to gather up her clothes. She’s sopping wet yet she still tugs her shirt and shorts on rapid fire. I make it to the shore as she’s slipping her shoes on, but I don’t rush after her. I know when someone’s trying to get rid of me. She’s being smart, putting distance between us. I’m sure she saw the way I was looking at her, but it doesn’t come close to what I was thinking, the seduction I was planning in my mind. She should run away. She should scurry right on back to the shack, or better yet, all the way back to California, because the thoughts flitting through my head were filthy. Had she been a little closer and I a little more naive, I would have tugged her close and wrapped her legs around my waist. I’d have angled her face up to mine and pressed a string of kisses to her lips, her chin, her throat. That bra would have been peeled off and those panties would have followed. Nothing good would have come from it. Everything good would have come from it.
I might’ve had my first kiss underneath that oak tree, but I’d have taken a lot more than that from Meredith.
18
Meredith
The next day, I don’t bring up what happened in the creek, and neither does Jack. As far as I know, we both would rather forget the entire sequence of events, so that’s what we do. Sure, I was nearly naked, and sure, I watched him strip down to his boxers and had to pretend my heart wasn’t falling out of my butt. There are good bodies, and then there is Jack’s body. You know the sort of muscles that come from mutant protein shakes and sporadic bouts of CrossFit? Yeah, Jack isn’t like that. He has long, lean muscle that comes from years of daily hard labor. In fact, he has the type of tall, muscular frame that would make any woman feel small and delicate in his arms, like—ahem—me, for instance, just a random example.
Standing there, watching him strip, my gaze pinballed from one detail to the next: his broad shoulders, his toned forearms, his Adonis V. HE HAD THE V, HALLELUJAH—except, from what I saw with my own eyes, his should really be called the Adonis Y for reasons I’ll leave up to your imagination. All I know is that I was turned on and fidgety. I wanted to fan my face and shout Lawd have mercy with a serious southern twang.
And that was before he completed the effortless backflip into the water. I’m ashamed to admit how impressive that was. Sure, I was mostly focused on his biceps as he was swinging (eat your heart out, Tarzan), but it was pretty cool that he could just pull his legs up with his abs (heavy breathing) and spin backward into the water, especially considering I barely made it off the shore at all.
I regretted swimming with him even as we were swimming. I knew it would set us down a path that would lead to all sorts of question marks, and awkward encounters, and conversations where we avoid eye contact, and that was before I stripped off my sopping clothes back home. Now that…that was the real pièce de résistance. I stood in front of my mirror to see myself the way Jack had seen me, and I realized with a blush so strong it nearly set my face ablaze that he could totally see my entire boobs—not just a shadowy peek or a sultry suggestion, but LIKE THE ENTIRE NIPPLE AREA AND THEN SOME.
My emotions overwhelmed me so much that I had to sit down and resist the urge to dry heave. Embarrassment gave way to denial (He probably didn’t notice! I bet the sun was too bright.), denial gave way to anger (How dare he not inform me that I was flashing him?!), and anger eventually gave way to acceptance. My boobs are not bad boobs. In fact, they’re pretty great. In Europe, women wouldn’t even blink at traipsing around like I was. In conclusion: I am a cool, relaxed femme Française with no qualms about hanging out in nipple-ville with my boss.
That logic works surprisingly well, especially since I pair my newfound European attitude with a total avoidance of Jack. We’re talking zero face time for two whole days. I keep myself excessively occupied with the usual busy work around his house. I scrub toilets, tubs, showers, walls, nooks, crannies. I launder like it’s my God-given talent to make clothes shockingly clean and wrinkle-free. If I hear him coming, I find a reason to tidy the inside of the coat closet. During lunch, I leave his and Edith’s hot food waiting for them on the table and head back to the shack to eat on my own while pacing feverishly near the window, just in case I need to leap out at the sound of footsteps approaching.
I anticipate that the weekend will present a new set of problems. I won’t have work to occupy me for eight to nine hours like I do during the week, but heaven smiles down on me because Jack is busier than ever down at the winery and restaurant. He’s hardly ever around. Edith and I go into town for dinner on Friday and then Saturday night we watch a movie in our pajamas. Jack comes home in the middle of it and I freeze, popcorn kernel halfway to my gaping mouth, hyperaware that I’ve made myself comfortable on his couch. My feet are on his ottoman. My body is nestled under his throw blanket. If he had a fancy massage chair, I’m sure I would be using that too. Sure, Edith invited me, but it’s technically still his house and I’m supposed to be keeping my distance and generally causing less trouble than I make. He strolls in, looking tired from a long day of work, tosses his keys in the bowl near the door, and then glances up. Edith asks if he wants to join us, and she even picks up the end of the blanket I’m hurriedly trying to shove off my legs.
“It’s a romance, but you’ll like it. I promise!”
He shakes his head, avoids eye contact with me, and heads for the stairs.
I don’t see him the rest of the night.
Sunday afternoon, Edith informs me that she’s invited a few of her friends over for yoga. There’s Dotty and Lisa from the bank, a few women from Edith’s book club, and Daniel’s fiancée, Leanna. She’s the closest to me in age and she has a bright, bubbly personality and curly blonde hair. She chats my ear off about her wedding next week and I sheepishly admit that I’ve been invited to go with Tucker Carroway. I expect her to be annoyed that a random stranger will be in attendance, but she throws her arms around me and tells me she and Daniel will be excited to have me there.
“And I’m so glad Tucker invited you! He’s so cute and he’s been single for way too long.”
Everyone agrees that Tucker’s a great guy. Charitable! Generous! Easy on the eyes!
“So very kind too,” Leanna continues. “Last year, my grandmother needed someone to look over her outdated will and Tucker volunteered to do it for free. Isn’t that sweet? She tried to pay him but he turned her down.”
I feel awkward with so much attention focused on my date with him considering it’s not a date at all. I didn’t even agree to it—Edith did. I try my best to turn the attention back to Leanna and Daniel’s wedding and after we spend a good hour chatting about floral arrangements and last-minute freakouts, we finally get started on yoga. There are a dozen of us altogether, and I set up class out in the yard where the ground is level and there’s a nice breeze and tons of shade. I’m nervous to lead so many women at once, but everyone is so complimentary and easygoing that I relax and we end up having a good time. After that class, we decide we’ll make a weekly thing of it. Sunday afternoons, we’ll meet for yoga, and if we happen to throw in some food and gossip afterward, well at least we got a good workout in beforehand.
* * *
I start my third week of work hoping for a few more days of avoidance from Jack, but I don’t get my wish. On Monday, I’m in the kitchen cleaning up after lunch when he walks up and pauses near the counter beside me. Then, he says the most shocking thing anyone has ever said to me.
“I’d like you to eat dinner tonight with Edith and me.”
I don’t look his way. If I did, he’d know how
much his invitation means to me.
I suppress my voice to a normal octave. “Thank you, but it’s okay. I was just going to eat on my own.”
Like usual.
“I insist.”
“It’s okay. Tell Edith you offered, but I turned you down.”
She’s the one who wants me at dinner, not him, I’m sure.
“C’mon, you’re wounding my ego here.”
I smirk. “Edith thinks your ego can stand to take a good beating.”
I finally chance a quick glance toward him and find that his dark eyes are studying me thoughtfully. Today, he looks irresistible in a red work shirt, and I have no idea what is going on in his mind, but he doesn’t seem to be playing a trick.
In fact, he pushes off the counter with his hip and declares with a final, end-of-discussion tone, “I’m going to grill some steak and vegetables. It’ll be pretty damn good, and I’d hate for you to miss out.”
I arch a challenging brow. “You’d ‘hate for me to miss out’? Who are you and what have you done with the real Jack?”
He goes right on ignoring my taunts. “It’ll be ready at 7:30 sharp. If you want to make yourself useful, you can set the table.”
And just like that, I’m a dinner guest.
It’s quite a coincidence, because today, I’m also starting a new beauty routine that definitely has absolutely nothing to do with Jack inviting me to dinner. I wrap up my workday and rinse off in my newly tiled bathroom, taking extra effort with my conditioner. Then, I blow my hair out until the dark strands are silky smooth. I apply makeup because you know what they say: it’s important to look your best on Monday nights after work for no particular reason.
I peruse the two sundresses I bought at the thrift store and tug on the less fancy of the two. It’s white and the material is soft, hanging loose around my legs. The spaghetti straps are perfect for a summer evening in Texas.
True to his word, Jack is manning the grill when I stroll from the shack (which no longer even closely resembles a shack) to the farmhouse. He takes me in from head to toe and I think I catch the shadow of a smile on his lips before he turns back to the grill. My new nightly not-for-Jack beauty routine was clearly worth the effort.
Inside, I tell Edith I’m going to pull down the good china, the stuff they never use, because tonight is a special occasion. She laughs and says she always figured it wouldn’t get used again until her funeral wake. When Jack heads in with the steaks and vegetables, Edith is sitting at the table and I’m arranging the plates and cutlery. Everything is set except for my water glass in the kitchen. I run back in to grab it and don’t watch where I’m going because I know the route by now with my eyes closed…aaand I trip right over a sleeping Alfred and go crashing to the ground along with the fancy heirloom. The good crystal glass shatters into a thousand good crystal shards, but my attention lies elsewhere. The incident throws me so quickly and so vividly into a memory of Andrew that I lose my breath. It feels like déjà vu, but worse.
Nearly a year ago, Andrew was sitting at our dining table while I brought in dinner. He’d had a bad day at work and started in on me as soon as he walked in the door. He was starving and annoyed dinner wasn’t ready, and I was so worked up that on my way into the dining room, I accidentally dropped one of the serving platters gifted to us at our wedding. Food went everywhere. Ceramic shards cut into my hand. All the first instincts you’d expect a picture-perfect husband to have—Are you okay honey? Don’t worry, I never liked that ugly dish anyway, honey—were nowhere to be found. Instead, he shot to his feet and berated me for bleeding on the rug, for ruining dinner, for not appreciating nice things.
“Meredith, leave it.”
I remember the exact tone of his voice when he told me to clean it up, like I was an animal—no, worse.
“Meredith!”
Jack’s voice rattles me back to the present and I realize with a start that I’m down on my knees, picking up individual glass shards and depositing them in my open palm.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I mumble as I start to cry. I’m so embarrassed. “I can’t believe I broke this. I shouldn’t have pulled these glasses out in the first place.”
“It’s nothing.” He’s tugging on my arm, trying to get me to stand.
I know he’s just saying that to make me feel better. Andrew would be screaming his head off right now. I could tell the glasses were really nice when I got them out, and I’ll have to figure out a way to replace it.
“Meredith! Stop.”
His voice is gentle but direct as he bends down to hook his hands underneath my arms and lift me to my feet. He deposits me away from the mess just as another glass shatters at the head of the table. I jerk my attention toward Edith to see her hand still outstretched, having just finished tossing hers down as well.
“Grandma, what the hell?” Jack asks incredulously.
She shrugs, trying to be nonchalant, but I can see the emotion in her eyes, the empathy she feels for me in that moment. “What? There’s nothing special about those dusty old glasses. I’m glad to be rid of them, honestly. This yoga kick has been making me more mindful, less occupied with material possessions.”
We both stare at her, stunned silent. To Jack, she may as well be speaking Greek.
“Don’t believe me?”
She shrugs, casually reaching out and nudging Jack’s glass to the edge of the table.
He lurches forward and grabs it before it falls. “Jesus woman! I get it. Now can you throw the rest in the trash instead of flinging them around the whole damn ranch?”
I whip around and find the dustpan in the kitchen so I can get to work cleaning up the mess. Jack steals it out from under me and tells me to go sit down. His voice isn’t exactly harsh, but it still leaves no room for argument. I take a seat beside Edith and she tugs at my hand to take a look at it. There’s a small cut, but nothing that really needs attention. I close my palm quickly, wanting to hide the traces of my clumsiness. I’m embarrassed that I not only broke a glass but also had a weird flashback like that right in front of them. It’s not like I was in a war; I shouldn’t have PTSD.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, unable to meet her eyes.
“At my age, I don’t have to do anything,” she declares with her usual matter-of-fact tone. “I wanted to do that. Hell, I’ve been wanting to do that for years. Now, Jack, will you finish up and sit down so we can get back to dinner? This steak smells amazing and Alfred here is about to leap up and eat ’em if we don’t beat him to it.”
I try to get up to make new glasses of water for us, but she keeps me seated right beside her, insisting Jack can do it. He serves dinner as well, making sure to ask which of the steaks I want and heaping up a mountain of homegrown vegetables on my plate. I expect him to sit across from me, on the other side of Edith, but he takes the seat right beside me, so I’m sandwiched in between them. We don’t talk about the glass at all, even though I know they’re probably both wondering why I had the bizarre reaction that I did. Edith carries the conversation for the pair of us, but even so, I hardly listen.
By the time dinner is over, I’ve only eaten a quarter of the food on my plate and I’m ready to dart back to the shack and bury my face in my pillow. I want a few minutes of peace and quiet to process what the hell just happened and try to figure out how to stop it from ever happening again.
I finish loading the dishes in the dishwasher—a task neither of them could talk me out of—and then Jack finds me in the kitchen with some Neosporin and Band-Aids.
“Can I see your hands?” he asks, but it sounds more like a demand than a question.
I wave him off. “It’s nothing. I don’t think I need any of that.”
“I don’t believe you,” he says, his voice gruff and full of all the annoyance he harbors for me.
I hang the dish towel and offer up my best version of a reassuring smile. “I appreciate your concern.”
He ignores me, steps forward, and takes my
hands in his, turning them palm up. I want to yank them away, but I don’t want to look like a petulant child. Besides, I’ve caused enough drama for one night.
He holds my hands like they’re delicate little birds, and the gentle touch cracks my chest wide open. There’s something about a man capable of such strength choosing tenderness instead. I can’t remember the last time Andrew touched me like this—I’m not sure he ever did.
“You’re right, it doesn’t look too bad,” he says, sounding relieved.
I nod and try to pretend my throat isn’t growing tighter.
I turn my head away and blink back tears.
Finally, he releases my hands, and I take the ointment and bandages from him with a quick nod of thanks. Then I’m out the back door as quick as my feet will take me.
* * *
The next day, Edith and I meet outside for our yoga session.
“I got something in the mail for you this morning,” she says as we roll out our mats.
“Oh yeah? What was it?”
“Flowers from your ex-husband. Yellow roses.”
Wonderful. I guess he got the ranch’s address from Helen.
“You want me to trash them?” she asks.
“Yes please—or better yet, isn’t there a burn pile out back?”
“I brought the note that came with them in case you want to read it.” She’s holding out a tiny white envelope. I take it and rip it open. Now that my eyes are open to his insidiousness, the words are almost comedic. The same artfully contrived remorse that might’ve fooled me before rings utterly hollow now.
“Want me to trash that too?” she asks with a pragmatic tone.
I hand it off to her. “Please.”
I love Edith. I love her because she takes that envelope and doesn’t bring up the flowers again. I love her because she understands exactly what I need before I even work up the courage to ask. I love her because she never asks me to open up to her and never demands my secrets. Still, she offers hers. While we’re out there under the oak tree that day, Edith confides in me that before she met Jack’s grandfather, she was in a rotten relationship, one she didn’t think she’d ever make it out of.
Beach Reads Box Set Page 84