My First My Last My Only

by Denise Carbo

  Yeah, for you, maybe. Personally, having a tutor and skipping the drama and angst of high school would’ve been heaven for me.

  Lucinda brushes a lock of hair out of her eyes. “So you didn’t go to prom, school trips, senior night, graduation?”

  Mitch glances at her and smiles. “Nope, but don’t get me wrong, I’m thankful for the experiences I did have instead.”

  The only one of those that I attended was graduation. It was mandatory if I wanted my diploma.

  Lucinda leans towards Bobby. “Bobby, can you imagine missing out on all those wonderful experiences?”

  “Sure can since I didn’t go to any of them either.” He takes a long drink of his beer and watches the fire.

  Really? Why not? He’d been popular in school, the quarterback. I want to ask him, but he doesn’t look happy with the topic of conversation. Or perhaps he’s upset with our uninvited guests.

  “Oh, I hadn’t realized.” Lucinda grabs a piece of bread from the dish in the middle of the table, but then stares at it like she doesn’t know what to do with it. She drops it on her bread plate and puts her hands in her lap.

  Thick silence permeates the table. I lean forward in my chair. “Personally, the only one I attended was graduation, so it looks like you might be in the minority on this one Lucinda. It’s nice that you have such fond memories to cherish though.” Lucinda smiles at me and I spot the waitress carrying a platter towards our table. “Oh look, our food is ready.”

  The waitress arrives and distributes our meals. Lucinda picks up her fork and pushes the lettuce around on her plate. Bobby cuts into his steak. Mitch winks at me before twirling his fork in the pasta and taking a bite.

  I nibble at my pasta and calculate how long until the dinner will be over and how I can signal Bobby it is time to leave.

  Lucinda dabs at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Mother is planning a Fourth of July party. Mitch and Bobby, you must come.”

  “I’d love to.”

  I glance at Mitch. Mother will be thrilled. Of course, she is probably only throwing it to matchmake between Mitch and Lucinda, so if he doesn’t go, she is likely to drag him there herself.

  Bobby gives a faint smile but doesn’t respond, he keeps eating his steak.

  Is he upset they interrupted our date? He had gotten rather taciturn after their arrival. Is it Mitch? Bobby doesn’t seem the type to be awestruck by celebrities. Perhaps he hadn’t cared for Mitch’s questions, but then he hadn’t seemed to care for Lucinda’s either. I can't imagine someone not taken with my sister, especially someone she went to school with. I thought all the boys were in love with her back then.

  Lucinda describes our mother’s plans for the party. “Everything will be decorated in red, white, and blue, of course, and we’ll have a wonderful view of the town fireworks on the lake. The invitation list keeps growing. She’ll end up inviting half the town before she finishes.”

  “The important question is what are you making for dessert?” Mitch grins at me.

  “Mother prefers her parties catered.”

  His grin fades and is replaced with a frown. He reaches under the table and squeezes my hand resting in my lap.

  I jump, knocking the leg of the table with my knee.

  The table rattles and water splashes out of the glasses.

  “I’m sorry!”

  Mitch chuckles, releases my hand, and picks up his napkin and dabs at the water pooling on the edge of his plate. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Franny, I’m sure Mother would love to have you make a dessert if you want to, but she probably wants you to relax and enjoy the party rather than have to work.”

  I smile at her. I don’t bother saying that our mother has refused each time I have offered to bake something for one of her get togethers. She’s never stepped foot in my bakery either. My father has, he’ll swing by after a round of golf for a treat and whisper, “Don’t tell your mother,” in a joking conspiratorial way. I’m never sure if he means don’t mention the treats or that he visited my bakery.

  I guess I don’t want to hear the answer.

  “Mitch, describe a few of the fabulous Hollywood parties you’ve been to.” Lucinda nibbles on her salad.

  “I’m afraid I’m not much of a party person. My life is tame.”

  “Oh now, don’t be so modest, surely you must have several juicy stories to tell us about living in Hollywood and working with celebrities.”

  Mitch sets down his fork. “I’ve never lived in Hollywood. I have a place up the coast.” He shrugs. “Celebrities are just people. They all have their quirks, the same as everyone else. The only difference is they are on display for the public to see. I don’t have any exciting stories to share.”

  Pushing my food around on my plate, I break off a tiny piece of the freshly made egg noodles and scoop a bite full of the sauce onto my fork. My appetite fled around the time Mitch and Lucinda arrived. But I don’t want to call attention to myself or my predicament by not eating anything. The savory sauce is flavorful and I’m sure on another occasion I would enjoy it, but it sticks in my throat and I have to guzzle half my water glass to get it to go down.

  Lucinda glances around the table. She is trying to engage everyone in conversation, but we aren’t cooperating. Bobby’s limited responses dissuade her from continuing the nostalgia route. Mitch isn’t giving her much either. I cast around for a safe subject to broach, but I am coming up empty.

  The waitress refills my water glass and I run my fingers through the cool condensation gathering on the glass. “Has anyone heard the weather report for the next couple of days?”

  Ugh, there it is, my old standby.

  “I think it’s supposed to be sunny.” Lucinda chimes in and I smile and a glance at Bobby.

  “Bobby, that must be good for business. It must make things difficult for you when it rains.”

  He looks up to meet my gaze.

  I drop my hand, hoping this will start a conversation to alleviate the awkward silence that has descended over the table.

  Instead of my hand landing on my leg as I intended, my palm hits the edge of my plate, toppling it off the table into my lap.

  The pasta covered in thick sauce lands on my thigh and then slides to the floor with a loud splat to join the wobbling plate before it settles. A long noodle trails down my leg like a snake.

  I stare at the mess in horror.

  How am I going to joke this one away?

  Mitch jumps up and squats next to me with a napkin and starts wiping my leg. The dress I’m wearing is black, but there is no way even the dark color can hide this disaster.

  “I…I got it, thank you.” I grab my own napkin and attempt to clean up the mess I made, but my hands are slow and unsteady. My leg is hot from the sauce, but my face and neck are on fire.

  Lucinda calls over the waitress who takes over my fruitless efforts. She arrives with a handful of napkins and a busboy who disappears with the plate and a pile of napkins after efficiently cleaning up the mess.

  I stare at the shiny spot on the floor.

  Mitch tosses a handful of folded money on the table and grabs my hand. “Come on Franny, my apartment is right down the street. You can get cleaned up there.” He glances at Bobby when he stands. “You can make sure Lucinda gets home, can’t you?”

  He doesn’t wait for an answer but tugs me to a stand and starts walking.

  I glance at Bobby and mumble, “I’m so sorry!”

  Trailing after Mitch with my face on fire, I stare at the floor in front of my feet. I had asked for divine intervention to end the dinner, but hadn’t counted on my own clumsiness rearing its ugly head.

  But then again, here I am heading for Mitch’s apartment with him rather than enduring a painful dinner with him and my sister.

  Perhaps my clumsiness is a godsend.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Mitch holds my hand in a tight grip and strides through the restaurant. Luckily, my legs are long, and I can kee
p up. He gives a short nod or wave to the few people in the restaurant and waiting area who are brave enough to approach him, perhaps for an autograph or picture. Mitch is usually courteous and accommodating to fans, but tonight he appears on a mission to get me out of the restaurant.

  Once we leave the inn, he turns toward the sidewalk rather than the parking lot. I spot his truck out of the corner of my eye.

  “What about your truck?”

  “I’ll get it later.”

  Okay, what is the all-fired hurry? Yes, my leg is wet from the heap of pasta and sauce and my dress has a wet spot that resembles medusa and her head of snakes, but I’ve done worse to myself with my clumsiness.

  “Where’s the fire?”

  He glances over his shoulder at me, tiny lines appear between his dark eyebrows. “What?”

  “You’re not planning on breaking into a jog or anything, are you? Because I tried it once, and only once. Unsurprisingly, it was a disaster. My feet somehow tripped over themselves and I fell, twisting my ankle and leaving a nasty scrape down the length of my arm where I hit the pavement.”

  Mitch slows his pace and shakes his head. “Better?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  His thumb rubs the palm of my hand in a lazy circle while we stride down the sidewalk.

  The outside lights of The Sweet Spot shine ahead. Only a few buildings separate my bakery from the inn.

  Climbing the stairs to the apartment, nerves build in my system. What will happen behind that door? Will he hand me another pair of sweatpants and hoodie and then drive me home? In the truck he left back at the inn?

  Miserable and reeking of skunk the last time I was here, I hadn’t looked around much.

  The interior of the apartment isn’t much different from what I remember. Considering I had planned on living here, I have imagined the space many times. I want to paint the worn oak cabinets in the kitchen white. It is a small kitchen, approximately the size of my mother’s walk-in closet, but it’s enough space for one, maybe two. The counters are a brown and tan Formica and the sink is a basic stainless-steel model on the small side, but again enough to accommodate a single person living here. I will change out both though when I move in.

  He hasn’t painted or changed anything in the living room except to add a couch and television. The brown rug and cream-colored walls are the same. It’s rather spartan, and much cleaner than I envisioned a bachelor’s apartment to be. There are no dirty dishes lying in the sink or on the counter even.

  He hasn’t let go of my hand and continues through the living room towards the bedroom and bathroom. The same cream walls and brown rug decorate the bedroom. A king-size dark wooden bed and dresser dominate the room.

  My gaze is riveted on the bed. It’s made. Was it made last time? I can’t remember.

  Who makes their bed unless they’re expecting company? My mother does, of course, and expects me to. I’ve been chastised more than once for not completing the task. Does a single guy make his bed and clean up the apartment if he’s not expecting company? He had been on a date with Lucinda. Had he planned to bring her back here?

  A sick knot forms in my stomach.

  “Here’s a T-shirt. It’ll be long, but…” He shrugs and opens another drawer and snags a pair of shorts and hands them both to me. “I’m fresh out of sweatpants and sweatshirts.”

  Of course he is, I still have both sets from my previous disasters. I should have washed and returned them. Instead, I sleep in them.

  “I’ll wait out in the living room.” He jerks his thumb in its direction, then smiles. “Unless you need any help?”

  I slow blink. Is he flirting with me?

  What would he do if I said yes? Swap plans with one sister for another?

  A chill passes over me.

  “I think I’ve got it.”

  He points towards the bathroom. “You can wash up in there.”

  I stare at the door he closed behind him. Had he planned to seduce my sister, but now is flirting with me? Was I crazy and reading more into everything than what is really there?

  I start to sit on the bed but halt halfway. I don’t want to get sauce on his bed.

  Carrying the clothes into the bathroom, I set them on the vanity and shut the bathroom door. There aren’t any bottles of aftershave, lotion, or even toothpaste on the beige countertop. I am tempted to peek in the drawers of the oak vanity but I restrain myself.

  There’s the same shampoo and shower gel from my last visit on the shelf in the shower.

  Jerking the dress over my head, I roll it into a ball and set it aside. The poor dress is past saving at this point. I slip off my sandals and nudge them aside.

  The scent of garlic and Italian seasonings fill the small space. Hopefully it’s the dress and not me. Plucking a cream-colored washcloth from a shelf over the toilet, I run the water until it is warm and then wet the washcloth adding a bit of soap to clean my leg. I might as well rinse the area on my dress while I’m at it, in case there’s a possibility it can be cleaned.

  Rolling it like a long tube, I place it on the other side of the vanity and inspect the clothes he’s given me to wear. At this rate, I’ll have my very own Mitch drawer of clothes.

  The white T-shirt ends at the top of my thighs. I momentarily wish I was a confident woman who could sashay out in just the T-shirt. What would he do or say? Would he ignore it, being used to women dressed in so little? Would he find me attractive? Or would he act uncomfortable and ask me where the shorts are?

  I tug on the navy blue shorts. He gave them to me to wear after all, and I’m not brave enough to test his response. When it comes to my baking, there is no self-doubt, but everywhere else in life I am a churning miasma of uncertainty.

  My reflection stares back at me from the mirror. My wild hair is tamed into a French braid and the makeup I sparingly applied for my date with Bobby is still miraculously in place. I tend to forget when I wear makeup and by the time I do remember to look in a mirror, my mascara is smudged under my eyes and my lipstick is half chewed off.

  I open the bathroom door and shuffle into the bedroom with my dress in my hands. The bed creaks when I perch on the edge to put on my sandals. Cringing, I glance at the door. A cabinet opens and closes in the kitchen, so he hasn’t gone to get his truck. What is he planning?

  Open the door and find out!

  I swing it open as he walks out of the kitchen with a mug in his hand. “I thought you could use a cup of tea to warm you up. It’s decaffeinated so it won’t keep you up late.”

  “Thanks.” I’m not much of a tea drinker, but it is thoughtful of him.

  “Do you want to sit?” He signals towards the couch with the mug.

  Taking the mug from him, I nod and amble over to the gray couch and sit. The cushion is deep and soft, so I scoot back and rest my back against the corner, cradling the warm mug in both hands.

  Mitch goes back into the kitchen and returns with a mug of his own and sits next to me.

  “Do you always keep your apartment this clean?”

  He glances around and shrugs. “I guess. My parents were strict about cleaning up after myself, and then once I got well known I learned to put away anything remotely personal or it might get stolen or show up in a tabloid picture or something.”

  So, not a planned seduction of my sister? The night is looking up and up.

  “People have really stolen your stuff from your home?”

  “Yup, from my hotel room, trailer on the set, some people have no boundaries.”

  “I’m sorry, that’s terrible.”

  “I’m not in the public eye much anymore so I haven’t thought about it in a while, it’s just become a habit.”

  “What do your parents think of you buying a place here?”

  “They didn’t get it at first, but they’ve always been supportive of me no matter what I did. They plan to visit at the end of the summer. I’m hoping the house will be far enough along by then for them to stay there.”

/>   “That’s nice. I have to admit I only have a vague memory of them from the summers you spent here.” The tea had cooled enough for me to sip at, so I blow lightly over the top and take a swallow. There is a hint of mint and lemon.

  “Yeah, they were going through a rough patch at the time, they didn’t socialize much when they were here.”

  “They obviously worked it out.”

  “I think that last summer saved their marriage. My mom had been struggling for years with infertility after she had me. She had had another miscarriage that year and it had sent her into a depression. My dad took us here hoping to change the downward spiral they were on.”

  “That must have been hard on you. I had no idea.” Holding the mug with my right hand, I rub his shoulder with my left hand.

  Mitch takes my hand from his shoulder, laces our fingers together, and rests them on his thigh. “I wasn’t aware of all the details back then, but I knew something was wrong.”

  Our arms brush against one another. His skin is warm and too irresistible not to lean against. “Your mom had no more children after that?”

  “No, they decided it was too painful and didn’t want to put any of us through that again. Now she keeps waiting for me to settle down and provide her with grandkids to spoil.”

  “And how do you feel about that?”

  “I’d like a few, eventually.”

  “A few?”

  He chuckles. “Yeah, I bought that big house. It would be nice to have kids to enjoy it.” He takes a sip of his tea and rests the mug on his opposite thigh and then looks at me. “What about you? Do you plan to have kids?”

  I take a swallow of tea, and then another. How did I feel about kids? “I don’t know. I mean I guess I always assumed I would have one or two someday, but I’ve never really thought about it too much.”

  “You haven’t planned out your future with Bobby?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Good.”

  “Good? What does that mean?”

  “I don’t see him in your future.”

  “Oh? You’re a psychic now?” Although after the fiasco the date ended in, he is probably right. Bobby isn’t likely to ask me out again even if I promise to make him raspberry turnovers.