“Dinner. Ben and Jo are arriving late, so just the four of us,” Selah explains.
“Oh, like a double date. Or a date with two chaperons. Very formal.”
“Who’s going on a chaperoned date?” Gil asks as he returns with their beers.
“No one is going on a date. The four of us are going to dinner without Ben and Jo,” Maggie tells him.
“Double date.” Quinn smirks.
“Not my type.” Selah laughs.
Maggie listens to their easy banter. A date with Gil sounds fun. Back in college they hung out in the group or sometimes off on their own, but never dated. She wonders what he’d be like on a real date, not hanging out as friends. Selah’s strange reaction about his girlfriend flashes in her head, and she wonders if he is unattached.
“Let’s head out at 6:30. I’m going to take a shower,” Maggie says.
“Outdoor shower?” Gil teases.
“No.” She laughs as she walks inside.
* * *
Waiting for the others to finish getting ready, Gil stops by the dining table and glances down at their Scrabble game. His eyes widen when he realizes more words have been added.
Quinn notices Gil gaping at the Scrabble board and goes over to look. “I can’t believe you two were playing dirty Scrabble without us last night!” He theatrically huffs.
“What? We weren’t playing dirty Scrabble,” Maggie says. When she sees the board, she blushes. The words from last night are switched around. Only “licks” remains the same.
Selah walks inside and joins them.
“Please, love, licks, sighs, cunt, moan,” Selah reads aloud. “Which one of you two played ‘cunt’?” She glances between Gil and Maggie.
“I didn’t play cunt,” Maggie whispers the last word. “Someone’s been messing with the letters.” She looks pointedly at Quinn and Selah.
“Maggie May saying the C word.” Gil laughs. “Impressive. I remember when you couldn’t even say ‘c-word’ above a whisper. You’d whisper it like you were saying the actual dirty word. I used to think you meant cancer. ”
“I still don’t say that out loud. I’m a lady.” Maggie defends herself, but she can’t keep a straight face as everyone laughs at her.
“I remember getting you drunk and promising to do your laundry for a month if you’d yell it in Red Square on campus.” Selah wipes her eyes.
“I hated doing laundry more than I hated that word.” Maggie laughs. “That was an easy bet to take.”
“Say it again,” Gil prompts. Maggie saying cunt is all sorts of dirty and hot.
“I will not! Unless Selah promises to do all my laundry again.”
“I send my laundry out, so that would be a no.”
“I’ll wash all the dishes for the weekend if you say it.” Gil offers.
Maggie considers his offer for a second. “Hey, you said you were doing the dishes anyways to earn your keep.”
“Damn, true. I’m a man of my word, so yes, I’ll still do the dishes even if you don’t say it.”
“We’ve apparently reached an impasse with Magpie and her cunt. Since the game has taken an interesting turn, I say let’s keep going,” Quinn says as he adds “ASS” to the board.
“Oh, this will be fun.” Selah claps, then adds “MOIST”.
“Ew.” Maggie cringes.
“What’s wrong with moist?” Selah taunts her.
“You know I can’t stand that word.”
“What? Moist?” Quinn moans “Mmm, this cake is deliciously moist.”
Selah studies the board. “I wonder if I could play
panties off of moist.”
“Gah.” Maggie flails her arms and runs away. “Stop!”
“What’s wrong with moist panties? I thought wet was a good thing for girls.” Quinn laughs.
He knows this teasing is more juvenile than sexual, but the thought of Maggie, panties and wet makes Gil heat up. He needs to think of something less enticing.
“Taint,” Quinn says aloud as he set down the tiles.
That works. Gil gratefully exhales.
Eleven
After dinner, everyone decides to walk to Langley’s historic pub, The Doghouse. The town sits above the water on a bluff. Tourist-friendly shops line the streets offering books, antiques, and art prints in addition to the mandatory sweatshirts and Orca-decorated mugs. Gil and Maggie walk behind Selah and Quinn, who are debating whale songs as music.
“The Clyde,” Gil reads the marquee of the town’s single screen theater. “Wow, I didn’t think these old movie theaters still exist.”
“The Clyde is a beloved institution around here. When they replaced the seats a few years back, people bought specific seats where they had their first dates or first kisses. Or even where they proposed.”
“Island people are a sentimental bunch. You fit right in here,” Gil says, while looking around for a bakery amongst the colorful storefronts. “Where was the bakery?”
“Over on Second,” Maggie points south, “a block over. It’s still there—just not mine anymore.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Sometimes. When I sold mom’s share to her business partner, she brought in her niece to help. They sell cupcakes now.”
“Cupcakes are everywhere. They’ve taken over.”
“They have. Mom did classic pies, cookies and cakes, mini loaves of banana bread, that sort of thing.”
“What about scones? Or is that your thing?” Gil could eat Maggie’s scones every day.
“The scones are mostly me. The one thing I can consistently bake. I’m much better writing about food than baking. Have to play to my strengths.”
“Your food is amazing.”
They catch up with Selah and Quinn at the entrance to the bar. As they walk in the double doors they can hear music coming from the back room.
“Ooh, live music,” Selah says, delighted. “Where there’s live music, there’s the potential for hot rocker guys.”
“It’s a Thursday. On Whidbey. Highly unlikely these guys will be rock stars,” Maggie argues.
“Remember when Gil was a rock star?” Quinn asks as they join the crowd at the long bar that runs the length of the right side of space.
Gil notes the pool table in the center of the room, the small tables on the left surrounded by flannel-wearing locals, pitchers and pint glasses scattered around the tabletops.
“I was never a rock star. I played bass in a college band.”
“Yes, but in a college band in Olympia when Seattle was the epicenter for grunge. Plus, you were hot enough to be a rock star.” Maggie smiles at him.
Gil stares at her. The wine from dinner has loosened Maggie’s tongue.
“It’s true. You were always much hotter than whatshisface, the lead singer of Inflammable Flannel.”
“Mark. And thanks. Worst band name ever.” Gil laughs.
“Right. Mark Jones. I fucked him,” Selah casually says.
“You and most of the fans of Inflammable Flannel.” Gil shrugs. “Mark definitely got more than his fare share.”
“Personally, I always preferred the quiet bass player types in glasses.” Maggie winks.
This surprises Gil, but he doesn’t comment.
Pitcher and glasses acquired, they make their way through the crowd to the back room. Gil puts his hand on Maggie’s lower back to help guide her down the narrow hall packed with people. His notices how his hand fits perfectly on the small of her back like it was made to be there.
A four top opens up in the corner and they grab it. Gil’s leg bumps Maggie’s as they squeeze into the crowded space around the table. He catches her eye and smiles.
Quinn pours beer from the pitcher. “Cheers.” He raises his glass of water. They all clink glasses.
“They’re not half bad,” Quinn shouts over the music.
The band is a classic four piece of a motley group of guys who look to be between mid-t
hirties and fifty.
“None of them are remotely hot, but they can play.” Selah pouts. “Certainly not as hot as Paul Bunyan.”
As if she conjured him, Selah points behind Maggie’s head. “Hey, isn’t that John?”
Gil’s eyes follow Selah’s finger to tall guy who does indeed resembles a lumberjack, or maybe the paper towel man with a full beard, leaning against the wall, drinking a dark colored pint of beer. He immediately feels territorial and drapes his arm over the back of Maggie’s chair.
“We should invite John to join us.” Selah nudges Maggie.
Gil catches Selah’s eye, and sneers at her. She laughs and winks at him.
“Maggie, invite him over.” Selah whines.
“What she said, invite the lumberjack over,” Quinn says.
The room is crowded and the music too loud for John to see or hear them. Maggie attempts a small wave, but John turns his head to talk to the guy next to him.
“There’s no room at our table,” Gil grumbles.
“He can sit on my lap. Or I can sit on his.” Selah purrs.
The band plays a blues song and a few people dance in the small area right in front of the stage.
“Hey, this is that song from that show with the old ladies?” Gil asks.
Quinn stares at him with an exaggerated shocked face. “Um, that would be The Golden Girls. A television classic.” He looks genuinely disappointed in Gil’s description. Quinn sings along with the band for a bit. “The love I have for Betty White—she’s a minx.”
“That sounds like a future Quinn project… Betty White as a woodland creature,” Selah comments.
Quinn drums his fingers on the table. “You may be on to something, Ms. Elmore. What kind of animals are minxes? Are they where the coats come from?”
“No idea.” Maggie laughs.
“None,” Gil adds.
“Maggie, John’s waving at you,” Selah says, pointing to the far corner..
Maggie glances over her shoulder at John, who smiles and raises his beer. She does the same. He frowns, but tries to cover it when Maggie turns back to him.
Gil hears the familiar notes of “You Can Call me Al” and grins at Maggie as the band begins the song.
“Do you remember dancing in the kitchen to this song?”
Her grin tells him she does.
“Care to dance, Betty?” He gestures toward the middle of the room. Memories of laughing and dancing with her late at night flood his head, causing him to smile.
“Here? Now?” She asks, sounding shy. Selah smiles at Maggie in encouragement.
“Sure. It’s no kitchen, but we can make it work.” Gil stands up, and holds out his hand.
“Okay, Al.” Maggie grabs Gil’s hand and he pulls her to her feet.
He holds her hand as he moves through the crowd. When they reach the front of the stage, he spins her around and grabs her waist, keeping their hands linked.
Maggie laughs as they do a messy two-step in the small space. She has always been a fantastic dancer, that hasn’t changed.
Gil pulls Maggie closer, shifting his thigh between her legs and moving his hand lower on her back. He threads his fingers through hers. As she sings along to the chorus, he realizes their energy has shifted. They’ve gone from laughing to moving closer. Gil bends her back a little.
He stares down at her beautiful face, her green eyes bright with mirth, and her cheeks pink from dancing. Her hair is as long as it was in college, dangling below her head as he dips her. He feels like he’s twenty again. Transported to a beat-up kitchen in a dingy, student summer rental with perpetually-dirty linoleum underfoot, and the smell of pizza in the air—drunk on cheap beer and the girl in his arms.
Everything in the bar fades away until only they exist in a bubble, both unaware of the time or place.
The band finishes the song, and the lead singer leans into the mic. “For our last song, we’re continuing the Paul Simon love-fest… our version of “Cecilia”, folks.”
“This has always been my favorite,” Gil whispers in her ear.
He breaks away and spins her, catches her eye, and smiles down at her before pulling her back into his arms.
“Jubilation,” Gil softly sings. It’s both a statement and a wish.
He can feel her pulse quicken where he holds her wrist. When he tips his head down to hum in her ear, he breathes in her spicy, floral scent and it warms him. He spins her and joins in her laughter. The joy in her eyes makes the moment perfect. “Cecilia” isn’t the best song for dancing, but in their silliness she doesn’t seem to mind.
Gil forgets all about the others until the song ends and the band says goodnight. He’s still holding Maggie’s hand as she looks around for their friends. They’re seated at the table, only now his seat is occupied by John. He can’t decide if he’s mad the lumberjack has joined them or happy because Selah’s clearly in her snake-charming mode.
John moves to stand up when they approach. “I stole your seat, Mags.”
Maggie waves him back into the seat. “It’s okay. I’m going to go up front and grab another pitcher of beer and maybe some water.” She looks flushed from dancing.
“You certainly worked up a sweat together. You two have some moves,” Quinn says. “Grab me more water, will you? Designated driver is dehydrated.”
Maggie blushes and Gil wonders if it is about working up a sweat with him. He’s taken off his long sleeve shirt and stands in his dark blue t-shirt and faded jeans, and his hair is a little damp along the hairline. While she stares, he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, then runs both hands through his hair. He feels a little overheated himself.
Snapping out of his Maggie-induced stupor, he realizes she is introducing him to John.
“John, this is Gil, another friend from college.” She gestures at Gil standing next to her.
Gil holds back a frown at the “another friend” label, but what else can he expect? “Gil, my best friend until we had sex and I broke his heart” is a mouthful even if it is the truth.
“Hey.” Gil wipes his hands on his jeans and then holds out his hand to John. He’s pretty sure John sizes him up before shaking hands with an overly firm grip.
Fucking lumberjack.
“Hey, good to meet another one of the old gang.” John sounds friendly enough.
Gil fights the urge to establish himself as the alpha dog because he doesn’t have any claim on Maggie other than old friend.
Quinn interrupts Gil’s thoughts. “With the way Selah was flirting with John here I was going to request the band play Mrs. Robinson next, but they ended their set.”
Everyone laughs, even Selah. “Hardly. Wasn’t she twenty years older than Benjamin?”
“True, but in reality Anne Bancroft was only older than Hoffman by a few years when they filmed,” Quinn adds.
“The king of pop culture would know that.” Gil grabs the empty pitcher. “I’ll help you carry the beer and water.”
Maggie follows him to the front of the bar. Now that the live music is over the place is clearing out. The crowd waiting for drinks thins to only one or two people deep. She stands in front of him when they get to the bar. As she leans forward to give their order, he doesn’t resist the urge to check her out, and says a blessing to whoever designed skinny jeans.
Someone bumps into him and he loses his balance. Reaching out, he grabs her hips to steady himself, and she turns around to look at him. She covers one of his hands with her own.
“Don’t think I didn’t catch you checking out my ass,” she teases as she leans back into him.
Keeping his hands on her hips, he leans forward. “It’s a very fine ass, and I won’t deny looking. You don’t seem to mind the compliment.” Gil gives her hips a squeeze. Flirting is good. Flirting with Maggie is the best.
“Thanks for not qualifying that comment with ‘for a forty-something’. Me and my ass thank you.”
“Yo
ur ass has only gotten better with age. Must be all the running.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Dr. Morrow.” She wiggles her butt.
He moves her hair to whisper in her ear, “Everywhere is where I want to be.”
In the infinite perfect timing of the universe, the chatty bartender chooses this moment to come back over with their pitcher and four glasses of water.
Maggie is tempted to pour the water over her head to cool herself off from Gil’s sexy banter. Instead, she downs one of the waters and puts the empty glass back on the bar. Gil isn’t acting like he has a girlfriend and she makes a mental note to ask him about her, but not now, not tonight. Why spoil the fun with reality?
“That’ll be fourteen dollars, Maggie.” The bartender refills her glass.
Reaching for her wallet, she realizes she left her bag back at the table. Before she can say anything, Gil is already putting a twenty on the bar and telling the bartender to keep the change.
John’s still at their table when they return, but his chair is now much closer to Selah. Gil grabs an empty chair and drags it over to the table. He drapes his arm across Maggie’s chair again, and plays with a lock of her hair, twirling it around his fingers. He did this back in college—a gentle, sensual, toe curling, yet slightly teasing habit Maggie remembers.
Beers poured, they settle into friendly conversation. Maggie looks around the room, seeing a few familiar faces, but no one who qualifies as more than an acquaintance outside of the group at her table. Even though she’s lived here full time for years, she hasn’t established her own social network outside of John. She considers maybe she has cloistered herself away more than she admits.
Selah pulls out her phone and reads a text. “Ben and Jo are in Oak Harbor. Does this mean something?”
“It means they’re about forty-five minutes away, give or take.”
“They’re tired and going to drive straight to the house,” Selah continues.
“Should we head back and greet them?” Maggie asks the group.
“The sooner I can offend Ben, the better. I say let’s go,” Quinn says, partly teasing.
“See you tomorrow, John?” Selah puts her hand on his bicep, giving him a small squeeze.
Geoducks are for Lovers Page 8