“You big jerk!” She grabbed the end of his bathrobe tie and flipped the end back at him teasingly. “You, you’re just a big jerk, that’s all. You could have let me know a long time ago and saved me all that agony.”
“And waste all that good guilt?” he cried. “No, ma’am. If I had, you might not have brought me muffins.”
“It was funny that you moved in next door,” she said thoughtfully. “Assuming it really was a coincidence.”
“I gotta tell you, honey,” he said—and there it was again, that “h” word. “If I’d have known, I wouldn’t have dared. You fucking hated me for years now.”
She nodded. “Anyway, I was sure you’d be married with a handful of kids by now.” She clucked her tongue, tsk, tsk, tsk. “I can’t believe there hasn’t been one female, in all the world, who could manage to wrestle you into settling down.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “I got spoiled, early on.” He fingered the edge of his robe a little too nervously. “It’s not my fault you’re such a damn hard act to follow.”
Ava blushed, looking down at her lap. At that moment, she wasn’t a grandmother of over sixty; she was a young girl who’d just told a young soldier to ask her to dance.
She’s every bit as pretty as she was on that day, Buddy realized. No, prettier, because I know what’s inside now.
“So,” he cleared his throat. “Just to confirm . . . since we’re forgiving each other, my tree-camouflage days are over? I can stop jumping behind the bushes every time I hear the squeak of your front door?”
“My front door does not squeak! I put WD-40 on it myself, thank you very much.” She tapped her foot indignantly. “It’s yours that sounds like a rabid bat every time you step outside for a smoke—which you seem to do a lot lately.” She looked at him expectantly, clearly waiting to be told it had been her alluring presence that drew him.
“Well, it wasn’t just for you,” he had to admit. “You can be flattered without feeling stalked. It’s Brandon. He kicks me out every time I light up.”
“How in the world,” she asked, bewildered, “does a young boy kick a grown man out of his own house?”
He opened his mouth to answer and then promptly snapped it shut.
“Now that you mention it, I’m not quite sure. He tells me what to do, and then I just find myself doing it.” He leaned forward and whispered, “I think it’s because he reminds me of my mother.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.” She smiled at him. She felt . . . what was the word? Aflutter? That was it. Like she was walking on champagne bubbles, but without the booze. “By the way,” she told him, “I’ve already put down your name for some of the activities at the rec center. I hope you like volleyball and the luge.”
“The luge?” He hoped she was kidding, because the mental image on that one wasn’t pretty. “At our age, that game should be called Pick-up Sticks. I think I’d rather join you in the chorus of The Grandma of La Mancha . . . I used to do shows in high school, you know.”
She looked up at him hesitantly, almost nervously. “Do you think we could, Buddy?”
“Do I think we could what?”
She glanced down at the French tips she’d been picking at, and realized she’d completely ruined them, before looking back up at him.
“Have fun again. Together. You and I, that is.” She covered her eyes. “I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to talk to me again. There’s so much water under the bridge, and it’s all so polluted.”
“And you’re thinking you did most of the polluting?”
She shifted in her chair guiltily. “Well, if you have to spit the words right out . . .”
He laughed again, letting his eyes caress her face, suddenly wishing he could reach out and stroke her cheek the way he had a million times in his daydreams.
“Oh, my Ava,” he said fondly, “when I heard from time to time that you were still cursing my name to the gods—people just love to be the bearer of crappy tidings, you ever notice that? Someone you barely know will call you up to tell you that someone said something just awful about you and then say something like, ‘I just thought you should know.’ Boy, does misery love company. Anyway, I’d remember all of our times together. Doing the books together. Going to flea markets, looking for stuff to decorate the restaurant. Taking you to plays, because Jimmy couldn’t stand them. Those were some of the best summers of my life. I kept those memories right here.” He tapped his forehead. “There was the time we went to see A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, remember?”
She looked at him, startled. A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum? She hadn’t seen that play in years, although she dearly loved the score and kept meaning to look for it online with Molly’s help. The last time I saw that, she realized, was probably when he took me. For a woman who saw all the musicals she loved at least five times, this was a very big deal. Maybe in some way, buried in the back of her brain, she had been trying to keep that one experience singular, special. She uttered a small laugh—the secrets you could keep from yourself were truly mind-boggling.
“You sang along with the whole score,” Buddy went on, “even though people around you offered you money to stop. I didn’t watch the show, I watched you. Your face was so full of life, full of joy; that was better than any play could ever be. I kept that one right here.” He tapped his chest. “So, to take a long way around to get to the point, yes. Yes, I certainly do think we could have fun again. If you just give me half a chance.”
“Oh, my.” Ava put her hands to her cheeks, which were completely flushed, and then cleared her throat. “Well, isn’t that too bad, that all these years you’ve had nothing better to do than obsess about an old lady like me.” She waited expectantly for a moment, then leaned forward to whisper, “Here’s the part where you’re supposed to tell me I’m not an old lady.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” he countered. “Most women don’t like to be told they’re old, because to them, old are those who’ve had all the life sucked out of them. But you’ve logged the same sixty-plus years I have, and by our life-expectation grid, that makes you an old lady. But, looking at you,” he gestured to her, “I see all the things that young girls have—the sparkle in their eyes, the color in their cheeks, the way they carry themselves, straight and proud. The so-called old ladies let that stuff go, so it shows. But you,” he whistled, “it’s a matter of how you think of yourself—probably a matter of what you think of life in general, if I can get a little corny about it. What can I say? The world will always have pretty young girls; it’s easy to be pretty when you’re young. But when those girls age up—then we’ll see whether they’re truly beautiful.” He planted his cane on the step and struggled to his feet. “So, yes, my dear, you are, in fact, an old lady. But you’re one of the few who makes ‘old’ look smokin’ hot.”
She stared at him, flabbergasted, wondering how in the world she could top such a comment, which was far and away the best compliment she’d ever heard in her life. When in doubt, she reasoned, let your body do the talking. She dipped her head down to her shoulder, smiling happily at him, letting her eyes shine at him. After a moment, she turned her smile coy, tossing her hair over her shoulder. After all these years, her flirting skills bubbled up naturally to the surface. If anyone had asked, she’d have assumed they were long gone, but apparently it was just like riding a bike.
“You’re starting to talk like Brandon,” she said, her breath catching slightly. “He sure has a way of making an impact, doesn’t he?”
Buddy watched her and shifted his weight again. She caught it this time and knew what it meant: time to go. All this was a lot to absorb, so she should probably head home and let him get about doing so.
“Well, listen to you. You’ve made me all flustered.” She fluffed her hair out, smiling at him. “But it’s nearly nine, so I’d better get to my meeting.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” He looked concerned. “I mean, did I say anything wrong? Somet
hing that makes you want a drink?”
“My wanting a drink is pretty much the norm,” she said evenly. “I’m not going to have one today—and probably not tomorrow either. But being a drunk generally means that I always want one. So, no, it’s not you at all. Some meetings are more fun than others. This is my morning ladies’ group, and I hate to miss it, unless it’s an emergency.”
“So, those meetings.” He spoke gingerly, not wanting to offend. “They work out for you, then?”
She laughed, and touched his arm. A spark of electricity charged from her hand to his, and she nearly gasped. Oh, my. She thought, well pleased and quite surprised. Well, isn’t that nice.
Composing herself, she said, “They help. Oh, there are some wonderful people there, some people who are just like family, who are always there for you. And then there are some assholes who stand up week after week, whining about their lives because they’ve got a captive audience. But . . .” She stopped, struggling to think how to describe the feeling to a non-drunk. “Just sitting there,” she went on at last, “even if you’re not talking, for some reason, this strength sort of washes over you. So then later on in the day, when you invariably do want a drink, you’re strong enough to fend it off.”
“I see.” He nodded, and she thought he actually might, as much as any normy ever could.
“Well, thank you.” She retreated a few steps toward the path to her house. “Thank you so much. For . . . for just, well, everything.”
“You, ma’am,” he assured her, “are more than welcome.”
“I’ll go inside and call Brandon on his cell phone, so he can come with me,” she said. “Molly says he wakes up better to a ringing phone than to an alarm clock.”
“Does he?” Buddy glanced toward the house, where the young man lay practically unconscious. “Well, that’s the odd life of the young. I could pound on his door if you like. That’ll get him up.”
“Oh, no, that’s okay. But thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome,” he said evenly; his voice, a moment ago so soft and sincere, was back to the Buddy she knew. The Buddy she’d always known. There was something he wanted to say, she could practically feel it, but his mouth remained shut. His mouth says no, but his eyes say yes, she thought with dismay. She’d learned by watching her forensic shows that you couldn’t count on the signals the eyes sent out. After all, the observation she’d just made was also the same phrase often invoked by date rapists. She took a few more steps, when an idea hit her, and then turned back again. “By the by,” she said brightly, “I really hope you enjoy the muffins. I tried to make them as good as the ones we used to get from Denny.”
“Oh, you’ve always been such a great cook, I’m sure they’ll be just fine. Delicious.” He looked down at the plate and then back up at her. He seemed about to say something, but in the end, he didn’t.
C’mon, big guy, she thought, willing him to speak. You can do it. Just go for it. I’m right here.
She kept smiling again for a minute, standing there. He smiled back, until they both felt like a couple of idiots. It was official—time to let the moment go.
“So . . .” she trailed off. “Have a nice day!”
“I’ll try,” he called back, giving a little half wave. “You too.”
She sighed and officially gave up. “Well,” she said, dejectedly, turning toward her door, “bye.”
She had just lifted her foot to climb the first step when Buddy called out, “Ava, wait.”
She twirled around and strode back to him, exhilarated and exasperated all at once.
“Well, it’s about damn time!” she retorted, eyes blazing. “Look at me, I got two thirds of the way there. I was practically over the threshold of my house, which was obviously the point of no return! I was about to be the girl that got away twice!”
“Twice?” Buddy asked, bewildered.
“But no matter,” she beamed, taking his hand. “You finally stopped me; better early than late, but better late than never, so go ahead and ask me out.” She patted his arm gently, but firmly. “Trust me. It’ll be easy. I’ve got a yes all ready and waiting.”
“Actually,” said Buddy, trying to adjust to this new change in development, “I was just going to tell you to wait while I put the muffins in a basket, so I could give you back your container. But, well,” he eyed her warily, “are you absolutely sure about this ‘yes’ you’ve got waiting?”
“I’m sure,” she said firmly, “but the offer expires at midnight, so you’d better get cracking.”
“Okay. Wow.” He drew a deep breath and realized he was trembling, just a little. Silly, after all these years! “I didn’t think this would be so hard. Look, my knees are knocking, and my armpits are all clammy.”
“What an incredible turn-on,” she deadpanned. “Clock’s ticking, Buddy-boy.”
“Buddy-boy.” Why, he thought in wonder, she hasn’t called me that since . . . Gee, not since the night I was going to propose. They say time always came back around to itself. Well, he thought happily. What do you know about that? “Okay, okay.” He stood up straight and gave a slight bow. “Miss Ava, would you do me the honor of letting me escort you on an outing Friday night?”
“Friday night?” She frowned. “What’s wrong with tomorrow? What are you, dating someone else and squeezing me in or something?”
“No, of course not, I . . .” he stammered, then saw that her eyes were twinkling up at him from under her mascaraed lashes. “Boy, you really love to knock a guy off his game, don’t you? Okay, fine. Let’s start this again.” He stood up straight, offering his hand this time. “Miss Ava, would you do me the honor of letting me escort you on the outing of your choice,” he emphasized, “tomorrow evening?”
“Tomorrow evening?” She raised a hand to her breast with feigned surprise. “Oh, my, this catches me right off guard, Mr. McKinley. I’m just going to have to check my social calendar.”
“I thought I had a yes I could take to the bank!” Buddy cried.
“Well,” she conceded, “now that I think of it, I just might . . . yes, I do believe I’m free tomorrow evening.”
“Well, fine then.” He looked at her with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. Suddenly he was desperate to get inside, take some deep breaths, wash off all this nervous sweat. Then he’d get Brandon’s opinion on what he should wear. He might have some shopping to do. He should probably get a haircut, and it had been a while since he’d gotten any new shoes. This could turn out to be quite a project. “I’ll see you right here, right at the bottom of your steps, at sunset, then, all right? We’ll have a twilight picnic, if that’s okay by you.”
“That’s just fine by me,” she agreed, and then turned to walk gaily to her house. This time her steps were light and giddy instead of hesitant. Halfway there, she turned back again, and for a moment his heart sank.
She’s changed her mind, he thought sadly. She thought about it, and it was just too weird for her, being that I was Jimmy’s best friend and all.
“Listen, Buddy,” she began, and he winced. The last time she’d used that phrase, he’d gotten dumped. “I just think we ought to get something clear, right up front.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not trying to replace Jimmy in my life.” She looked at him softly, but firmly. “I’ll always love him.”
“So, I guess that means you want to be friends?” He grinned, trying not to show how crestfallen he was. Friends, he supposed, was better than nothing . . . But just now it felt like freezing cold comfort on a bitter winter evening indeed.
But Ava surprised him yet again. “Just friends?” She gave her throaty laugh. This time, that laugh spelled relief for Buddy. “A life without romance is a life that’s over. I like to think I’ve got a few more miles in me yet.” She put her hands on her hips, posing haughtily for him, before growing serious again. “But, I didn’t want you to think that I was using you to feel closer to him. You were his best friend, after all.”
&nb
sp; “Never, ever, would I try to fill that man’s shoes,” Buddy promised. “I know what you had will always be sort of . . . Well, it will always be.” He smiled gently at her, wanting to take her in his arms right there, but still not quite daring to, not yet. “I can live with being second runner-up.”
“And you know what?” She smiled as she walked up the path for the third and final time that morning. “I bet he’s up there somewhere, looking down on us after all these years and getting a real kick out of this.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Buddy agreed. “No, that wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”
EIGHTEEN
Witches, witches, everywhere, and lots of brew to drink, Suzanne thought, amused, looking around at the women who filled the store. Some were dressed like they’d just come from work, some were more casual, and some looked like they were getting ready to star in a remake of Hocus Pocus or maybe The Craft.
“Officially, the store is closed and this is just a reading,” Laura said, as she poured papaya juice over the dry ice in a huge wrought iron cauldron, “but there’s no reason we can’t sneak a little promotion in here as well, is there?”
Suzanne laughed. “You can take the girl out of Columbia Business School,” she noted, “but you can’t take Columbia Business School out of the girl.”
“Law School,” Laura corrected. “And yes, you can. It’s called an exorcism.”
Suzanne took in the animated scene before her. The bookstore was filled to nearly overflowing, and while some didn’t dress to display their “religion” (Suzanne still found it hard to refer to witchcraft as a religion), there were also plenty dressed in garb that shrieked, “I’m a witch/ecogoth/pagan-at-large!” There seemed to be no happy medium. There were capes, long, flowing dresses cut so low you could actually see a navel ring or two, triple the amount of jewelry you’d see on any other person, hair glitter, overdone makeup. They wanted to stick out, and boy, did they.
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