Available to Chat

by Sutton, Jacy

  She was asking herself the same thing. She grabbed onto the chair spindles to angle herself better so he could drive more deeply inside her. As she tightened her grip, one of the spindles spun in her palm. And as Mike told her, “I’m coming, baby. You come, too,” Olivia tried very hard not to think about whether she’d seen the replacement spindle at Lowe’s or Home Depot.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WHEN THEY BOUGHT THE HOUSE a year before Daniel started kindergarten, Olivia had not foreseen how independently the three of them would come to live in it. Mike’s realm was his downstairs office, an homage to the outdoors. Except here, God’s majestic creatures didn’t wander placidly through cornfields and valleys; instead they looked on wide-eyed and serene, but only from their necks up.

  Daniel claimed the upstairs, made up of his bedroom and a spare room that had once been vaguely intended for a sibling. That room was painted a neutral shade of tan and held the books and clothes Daniel had outgrown, which Olivia was always on the verge of packing up and donating to Goodwill.

  Olivia ruled the main floor. The kitchen, roomy, with a large butcher-block center island that begged for not-yet-bought barstools, served as a ballast, supporting the master bedroom on the left and the bulk of the communal living on the right. The main gathering spot was a great room, where Olivia typically sat. It was an open, comfortable space with a large L-shaped IKEA chaise lounge and a big screen TV, not the monster ninety-four-inch high-def kind that Marti’s husband boasted of, but a comfortably upper-middle-class sixty-inch model. A small guest bedroom, painted periwinkle blue with a forget-me-not wallpaper border chosen by the original owner, resided behind the last door at the end of the hall.

  Tonight, a typical night, Mike had sequestered himself in his office. Daniel, after kindly refusing a game of Scrabble, had retreated to his bedroom carrying his laptop and a copy of No Fear Shakespeare, this one on Macbeth, Olivia thought.

  She settled into her sweet spot on the great room couch, legs tucked up beneath her, a cup of lemongrass tea on the walnut side table. Checking her Facebook feed, Olivia saw a link her brilliant nephew had posted, an op-ed piece he’d written about the Middle East. The story followed a recent skirmish, and from the first couple paragraphs, she was impressed with her nephew’s evenhandedness and historic background. She was so engrossed that she jumped slightly when the computer pinged.

  It was Jake, her Facebook friend of four days.

  “Hi there. How’s Wednesday?” he wrote.

  Olivia cocked her head to the side, wondering how to respond. Fine, she thought, and how have the last twenty-five years been? She could tell him she’d been surprised when he “friended” her, and possibly more startled she recognized his name instantly, a quarter century after they’d first met. But she focused on the question at hand.

  “Wednesday was busy! Worked and had a meeting for the high school swim team booster club. How about you?”

  “Good. Orthodontist appointment.”

  “Do you have braces? Or kids?”

  “Kids. Two.”

  “How old?” she typed.

  “Girl, twelve. Boy, nine. You?”

  “One son. Junior in high school.”

  Olivia remembered an article she’d read saying rekindled Facebook friendships lasted three conversations. She guessed they would run out of material quickly, but Jake interrupted the thought, asking, “Did I ever tell you about the summer before I met you, when Billy and I were working at that camp in Wisconsin?”

  Since they’d only conversed one night, twenty-plus years ago, Olivia felt confident answering. “I don’t know that story. I do remember where Billy worked. It was an overnight camp near our grandparents’ lake cabin.”

  “Yep. We were first-year staff and thought we were the biggest studs,” Jake wrote.

  “I’m sure.”

  She remembered Billy that summer. Both their families had spent the weekend at the cabin before he’d left for camp. She was no longer close with her cousin the way they had been as children. Maybe it was because Billy, just a year older, seemed so manly. He was tall and lean, already bronzed, even though it was only early June. The high school friend Olivia had brought along to the cabin spent the entire weekend mooning over him, and Olivia couldn’t blame her. Billy was a determined runner and weightlifter, fit and handsome in the full beauty of youth.

  She could imagine Jake as he must have been then. She thought he was even a bit taller than Billy. His hair would have had those angel-kissed blond highlights that come from long spring days spent outside. She imagined him glorious and strong, making all the staff girls swoon and all the camper girls want to be near him even if they couldn’t quite articulate why.

  “The trouble,” he wrote, “were the JRs. Junior counselors. Punky high school kids.”

  “Not like you sophisticated college freshmen,” she said, keeping with his tempo of conversation.

  “We were the ones with the town privileges.”

  “Minocqua, right?” she typed.

  “Yeah. Fun town. A drive-in. Two hardware stores. Twelve bars.”

  “And a waterski team. Right?”

  “Yep. One night a bunch of the JRs went into town. Came and hung out at Mario’s, the cool pizza place.”

  “So there was an uncool pizza place?” Olivia asked.

  “Exactly,” he answered. “Where they belonged. If we’d wanted to hang out with them, we would have stuck around camp. The next day during lunch, about eight of us went and grabbed the piano in the old mess hall. And we carried that bad boy all the way to their cabin. The staff girls our age had to cover for us because it took the whole hour. Once we got to their cabin, we had to turn the piano on its side to jam it through the door.”

  “Is that good for a piano?”

  “Not at all. Fortunately, none of us were too concerned about the piano.”

  “Or the cabin door.”

  “Yes. At least we were consistent.”

  Olivia laughed out loud. “Wait.”

  “Okay. What for?”

  “Wine. I’m going to get a glass. I’d offer you one, but you’re…”

  “…a couple hours away.”

  When Olivia returned to the couch, she set down her glass of merlot, pulled the raspberry-colored afghan over her legs, and pinged Jake. “Pray continue,” she wrote.

  “All settled in?”

  “Mmmm hmmmm. Ready for the rest of the story.”

  “We’d damaged the doorjamb getting the piano in there. But we knew it would be even harder for them to get it back out.”

  “Wouldn’t it be just as hard? Not harder?”

  “Shhhh, Olivia. I’m telling the story.”

  She liked that he was doing the heavy lifting in this conversation. “I’m shhhhh’d,” she wrote.

  “The JRs tried to pretend it wasn’t a big deal, except there was a huge piano in the center of their cabin, which was already small for twelve guys.”

  “How long did it stay there?”

  “Three or four days. Until the camp director walked past one morning and saw they were using it as a towel rack.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “They were told to get it out of there. About an hour and a half later, they’d made progress.”

  “Back in the old mess hall?”

  “Progress. Not success. They’d got it jammed in the cabin door.”

  “Oops.”

  “So they go find the camp handyman. Burly guy. Mid-forties. You know the kind, never leaves home without a socket wrench. Once he was in charge, things went smoother. Just another forty minutes of shoving. Pushing. Pulling. Sweating. Swearing. And they clear…” he paused, “…the doorjamb.”

  “Hahaha,” Olivia wrote. She reached to the other side of the couch and grabbed a velour throw pillow, tucking it behind her back.

  “So now we expect to see those wimps carrying that damn piano back halfway across camp. In fact, Billy and I had even pulled up sling chairs and had our campers play Fr
isbee so we could kick back and watch the show.”

  “How long did it take them to carry it?”

  “That is…unknowable. It never happened.”

  “To this day, the piano remains on the front porch of the JRs’ cabin?” she wrote.

  “If only. No. Burly Ratchet guy leaves the cabin and Billy, and I think, ‘Hah. He’s making them do it themselves.’ But he returns a few minutes later with the camp tractor and a flatbed trailer.”

  “CHEATERS!” Olivia joined in the spirit of the tale.

  “Yep. Those punks carry the piano down two small steps and walk about four feet to the trailer.”

  “But you…” she typed, adding ellipses, hoping there was more to tell.

  “…send Billy behind the cabin to make a ruckus. He grabs a couple of big sticks and hits them on the walls so all the JRs run back in to see what the hell is making that racket. Of course, Burly Ratchet’s too smart for that, so he follows them and tells them not to be stupid. To come back out front and help him move the piano. In the meantime, however, I’ve walked past to get a look at what all’s going on.”

  “Of course you did. Such a crazy place,” Olivia interjected.

  “Yep. Craziest of all,” Jake wrote, “is Burly left the keys right in the ignition. And that’s just where I spotted them when I walked past a second later…and liberated them.”

  “Nice work.”

  “Burly would not agree with you,” Jake continued. “Nor would the camp director.”

  “Were the keys ever found?” Olivia asked.

  “They were. Two weeks later, the morning the campers went home. Turns out they were hanging in the maintenance shed, possibly the entire time.”

  “Well who would have spied them there?”

  “I know. Must have just been overlooked. In the meantime, though, we had some rollicking, impromptu jam sessions outside the JRs’ cabin.”

  “Do you play piano?” Olivia asked, rubbing her hand contentedly along the blanket’s soft wool.

  “No, guitar. But one of the other staff loved playing. She’d just sit down and start performing, then I’d go grab my guitar or pound on some impromptu drums. Those jam sessions were awesome.”

  “You’re versatile.”

  “I sing, too.”

  “I remember,” she wrote. “I heard you sing that night at the wedding.”

  “Oh yeah. What did I sing?”

  “I don’t recall. But I know it sounded nice. Very professional.”

  “Thank you. Hey. It’s getting late. I should pack it in.”

  “Oh yes. Me, too,” she wrote, even though the house was silent and her further absence would not be noticed. Daniel had probably gone to bed without saying good night. Mike was likely still occupied at his desk. “Good night, Jake,” she typed, surprised at herself for feeling a bit melancholy.

  “Good night, Liv. Does anyone call you that?”

  “Just you.”

  “Okay, then. Bye for now, Liv.”

  “Bye,” she typed. After he logged off, she clicked over to his Facebook profile and glanced at a few pictures. There was a familiar quality about him, like someone she’d gone to high school with but hadn’t had in any classes. Maybe, on closer inspection, it was his ethereal eyes, strong chin, and longish hair; they reminded her of the kind of face she’d see on magazine covers at the grocery store. As Olivia shut the computer off, she tried to decide if he were more Bradley Cooper or Russell Crowe.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE NEXT DAY AT WORK, Olivia physically felt each passing minute, like sandbags resting on her shoulders. Nancy would arrive in thirty-three, no, thirty-two minutes, and Olivia still had to write the ad for a getaway weekend at the Suites Hotel by the mall.

  If Bob had approved her first draft, or even simply let the account executive present it to the client, she wouldn’t be so pressured. Of course, if she had worked over her lunch hour, again, and not edited a scene of the middle-grade chapter book she was writing, she would be under less pressure, too. But she was nearly done revising the book, and she hoped to begin querying agents soon.

  And there was no way she could stay late today. Nancy needed her for moral support. It was exactly a year ago Dave had passed away, and Nancy had said she couldn’t bear to visit his grave alone today.

  Have a suite weekend, Olivia wrote listlessly. She poked unconsciously at her pointed chin, a bad old junior-high habit. Make your Valentine suite, she wrote. Have a ball at the mall. She groaned audibly.

  Sarah poked her head in. “No luck, eh?”

  Olivia rolled her eyes.

  “It’s probably no help, but I loved your first headline.”

  “Me too. I’m stuck on it.” She reached into her recycled paper bin and pulled the ad out. “And your art direction was perfect.”

  Give your love life a new tryst was set in a cursive, valentine-red font above a picture of a bed made up sumptuously with a rose-colored silk comforter. A lacy black negligee lay at an indiscriminate angle near a pile of oversized pillows.

  “How does our moronic creative director not know the word tryst?” Olivia whispered, so she wouldn’t be overheard.

  “And why does he assume no one else would, either?” Sarah added sympathetically.

  Bashing Bob was a popular pastime at the agency, but since his dad signed the checks, it wasn’t a very productive one. Sarah glanced over her shoulder at Olivia’s new headlines. “You’ll come up with something else,” she said brightly, “but none of those.” Sarah gave Olivia a do-it-for-the-team shoulder pat as she turned and walked out of the undersized cubicle.

  Twenty-eight minutes later, Olivia emailed three passable options to Bob and copied the account guy, hoping his influence might help push one through. She shut down her computer and made her way out of the office to find Nancy parked illegally at the curb.

  The two didn’t talk much on the drive. Nancy likely lost in memories, and Olivia moody about her stormy job and the stormier weather, which was perfectly cast for their cemetery visit—solid gray sky, cold blustery breeze. At the gravesite, the two stood close together. Nancy laid the arrangement of pinecones and evergreen branches at the base of the headstone as Olivia gently rubbed her back.

  “I’ve been through everything once now,” Nancy said.

  Olivia nodded.

  “My birthday. Dave’s birthday. Our anniversary. Christmas.”

  “New Year’s. Thanksgiving,” Olivia added.

  “Memorial Day.”

  “Groundhog Day,” Olivia said, watching Nancy, who looked brave and melancholy all at once. “And you’re still here. You’ve done it. And you’ve done it quite well, actually.”

  “When I think back,” Nancy said, touching the corner of the headstone, “I only remember good stuff. It’s as though he never did a thing that bothered me.”

  “You know how he always used to call you and ask you to grab something from the store just as you were on your way home? That drove you crazy.”

  “Olivia,” Nancy said, turning toward her, “I wasn’t asking for reminders.”

  They both laughed, Nancy not quite as loudly. “I do think Dave likes to hear me laugh when I come here. I always try to remember something funny.”

  “Like those cookies I brought to the hospital,” Olivia said.

  The day had been hectic, and she’d been rushing to bake something. Somehow, maybe while Daniel was asking her for a ride somewhere, or five dollars, or who knows what, she’d inadvertently substituted salt for sugar.

  Lying in his hospital bed, Dave had taken one bite and said, with all the indignity he could muster, “What the hell are you trying to do? Kill me?”

  Nancy smiled briefly and then she said quietly, “I didn’t love every minute with him. But I did love him.” She knelt down to adjust the pinecone arrangement an inch or two to the left. “He’d like this. It’s outdoorsy. It doesn’t smell like it came from a spray can.”

  Nancy stood back up. “Good night, Dave.” She
blew a kiss. “I love you.”

  Nancy and Olivia turned and walked slowly to the car, their arms secured around each other’s waists.

  At the funky, just-this-side-of-downtown bar Dave had always loved, Olivia and Nancy sat on tall, red vinyl stools sipping hot Irish whiskeys. They’d ordered Dave’s favorite appetizer, salt and vinegar chicken wings.

  “We’ll make this our tradition,” Nancy said. “You’ll come here with me on the anniversary of Dave’s death every year, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” Olivia promised, lifting the warm mug of hot whiskey between her still-frigid hands. “He always liked to sit at the piano bar. He’d drink a beer and hold your hand.”

  “Yes. Hold my hand.” Nancy nodded her head, slowly repeating Olivia’s words.

  They were silent for a time. They had known each other long enough that the quiet was companionable, never awkward.

  “You look lovely tonight, Nancy,” Olivia said, studying her friend’s face. “You look younger to me.”

  “It’s losing the weight,” Nancy said. “And the Botox.”

  “It’s working.”

  “I feel confident these days. Isn’t that crazy?” Nancy asked. “Here I am, for the first time in twenty years, not a wife, not a mother to little children. No rock to hold on to.”

  “You’re reinventing yourself.”

  “I am. I’m getting used to it, too. Some days I even like it a little bit,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Last night I went on a date.”

  “A date? With a man?”

  “Yes, that’s the persuasion I’m interested in.”

  “I didn’t know you were even thinking about dating yet.”

  “It happened fast. My neighbor has a second cousin in Chicago she’s always telling me about. On Monday, she called to say he was coming into town for a quick business trip, and.…” Nancy trailed off.

  “How was it? Where did you go?”

  “He took me to the café down by the river in that old restored carriage house.”

  “I love that place. It’s so romantic.”

  “Yes,” Nancy agreed.

  “Tell me about him.”