Duet in September (The Calendar Girls)

by Gina Ardito

  Next to the clock sat my cell phone. Should I call or just bolt and blame my lateness on traffic?

  Both.

  I grabbed a brush and elastic tie from my dresser and pulled my hair into a ponytail. My shortie pajamas served as underwear as I yanked on a pair of loose workout pants and an overlarge t-shirt. Sliding my feet into cheapie flip-flops, I swept up my cell. I dashed downstairs for my purse and keys, then raced out the door, the phone to my ear.

  The phone on the other end barely rang before it was answered. “I knew you’d forget.”

  Since she couldn’t see me, I screwed up my face at Miss Know-it-All. I knew you’d forget, I mouthed, acid scorching my tongue. I dove into my car and used the subterfuge of starting my engine to sigh out of Nia’s earshot. God, sometimes my sister could be more uptight than a boa constrictor.

  “I didn’t forget. I just overslept. I must have lost power during the night, and my alarm clock got all screwed up.” Why waste a perfectly good traffic excuse when she wouldn’t believe me anyway? “I’m on my way now.”

  “Uh-huh. Terrific.”

  I didn’t have to see her face to know her expression when she hung up seconds later. No doubt my sister paced in her foyer, teeth clenched, fists at her sides, mumbling my list of faults: unreliable, flighty, careless. Which was so not true. Normally.

  Okay, in all fairness, she had every right to be furious with me. I would have to do some major league mea culpas to atone for all the bad juju she’d experienced the last few days. And I had a pretty good idea how to go about my penance.

  As I drove past the sign post at the corner of Moby Lane and Seawatch Court, I smiled. First Annual After Season Clambake blared at me in bold red print. The Chamber of Commerce had announced this event at the last town meeting. After the frantic months of summer tourists, the clambake—for locals only—was intended to drum up support for the village politicians, although they claimed it was a chance for the community to create stronger ties. I had no clue who planned to attend this shindig—except for one very important police chief. Sam would be there to represent the town’s law enforcement community. Therefore, I had to convince Nia to make an appearance. Get these two together in a social situation. Let the music of the night take over. Or, in this case, the music of the quahogs.

  Not an easy task with my sister’s current attitude toward my ideas. Still, I thought as I took the left that would bring me to her house, not impossible. I’d have to use a little finesse, maybe a bribe. Worse come to worst, I wouldn’t discount a bit of subterfuge. After all, my evildoing was for the greater good.

  I pulled into Nia’s driveway and spotted her on the porch, standing beneath the hanging basket of petunias. I was surprised the poor flowers didn’t wilt from the steam coming out of her ears. She practically flew down the steps as my car crept toward the house. I hadn’t even come to a full stop before she yanked open the passenger door and jumped into the front seat.

  I attempted an apology, but she held up one hand while buckling her seatbelt with the other.

  “Save it,” she growled. “Just drive.”

  Yes, Your Majesty.

  I drove out of her driveway and off her block, allowing her time to cool off. Then, I decided to open with, “Francesca called me last night. She said Terri’s okay, just a few cuts and scrapes and the broken nose.”

  “Yes, I know. I got the same phone call.” Nia kept her gaze pinned out the passenger window while I pulled out and headed for Main Street.

  “Sam thinks Terri needs help. And that we’re doing her more harm than good by putting up with her drunken antics.”

  No answer. Ouch.

  My air conditioning was no match for the heat of her anger, and in no time, perspiration beaded beneath my t-shirt. I squirmed against the leather carseat and drummed my fingers on my steering wheel. On the radio, the same song that had played when Terri blew her gasket yesterday—Sexy on the Dance Floor—drifted from my speakers. I quickly changed the station to something less volatile, but the best I could find was political talk radio. Hardly soothing.

  Once again, I passed the sign at Moby and Seawatch. I took a deep breath before diving into the abyss of my sister’s rage pool.

  “I was thinking we should go to that,” I said as casually as I could create when barely awake and facing a sibling firing squad without benefit of caffeine. A totally inhuman condition, by the way, that I do not recommend as the harshest punishment. Even Death Row inmates got their choice of last meal, for God’s sake.

  Nia whirled toward me, her expression baleful. I’d never seen “baleful” before—from Nia or anyone else—but I’d certainly read the description in books. Whenever I stumbled over the word, I always translated it as exactly the way Nia looked right now: frigid, furious, and joy-sucking.

  “I already told you,” she said, though I never saw her lips move. “I’m done with this thirty day nonsense.”

  I swallowed hard. Courage, dear heart. “This isn’t about the challenge.”

  Her eyes hardened to flint. “No?”

  “No,” I imitated with an edge, then flashed a quick smile to ease the tension between us. “I just thought it would be fun. And good for the community.” Oh, I was on a roll now. “Good for business, too.”

  “Maybe for your business. Not mine. So you go.”

  “I intend to,” I lied. “But not by myself. I’d feel…” My mind scrambled for the right description to drum up empathy. “…adrift.”

  She cocked her head, but her expression didn’t soften. “Adrift?”

  “You know what I mean. It’s not the same unless we’re together. We’ve always been Nia and Paige, one entity. If I show up without you, it’d be like…I don’t know…showing up missing a leg. Everyone’s gonna stare and ask why you didn’t come too. And then the rumors will start. ‘Why didn’t Nia stop by?’ and ‘She thinks she’s too good for us, I guess.’”

  Okay, so according to Sam, I was the one everyone thought acted high-and-mighty. What had he called me the other morning? The perfect Princess Paige? Even now, the insult stung. That particular nickname popped into my head at weird times. In bed at night, in the shower in the morning, sometimes at my office when I was on hold or deep in thought about something entirely unrelated. What a crummy thing for him to call me. And if he called me that, did everyone else, too? Why? I mean, I didn’t think I came across that way. Evan Rugerman didn’t give me any kind of attitude problem. And his dad loved me. Maybe it was just Sam who thought so harshly of me.

  “You’re not even listening, are you?” Nia’s sharp question popped the bubble of my self-consciousness. Thank God.

  What were we talking about? Oh, yeah. The clambake.

  “Would you at least think about going with me?” I pleaded.

  Nia harrumphed and folded her arms over her chest. “Maybe.”

  I’d kinda hoped for more enthusiasm, but I’d swallow this dish in small bites. I had until the end of next week to convince her. A lot could happen between now and then. In the meantime, I’d dream up other ways to get my sister and Sam together as often as possible.

  I flashed a beaming smile in Nia’s direction. “That’s all I ask.”

  ~~~~

  Nia

  From the storefront window, I watched Paige drive away. Questions buzzed in my head. What bizarre game was she playing now? And what inspired her new obsession with the town clambake? Only a week ago, she and I had laughed ourselves silly during our morning coffee, joking about the obvious political manipulation. Now she planned to attend? And wanted me to go with her? Why?

  When her tail lights disappeared over the hill in the road, I turned my attention to getting the shop open. With the lights on and the sign flipped to “Open, Come In Please,” I dug in my tote bag for the piece I’d designed the other night. I placed the glass gourd on a shelf adjacent to the window, then stepped back to scrutinize the setting. Morning sunlight, resembling dew at dawn, streamed inside and sparkled on the rich golde
n orb with its thick, brown vine and dark green leaves. Perfect. I could picture two full shelves, like a miniature glass farm stand, lined with all kinds of fall décor: pumpkins, jack o’lanterns, Indian corn, apple pies, maybe even a black cat if I could figure out the dimensions and shaping.

  Creative juices flooded from my brain to my fingertips, and I strode to the counter with my imagination zipping from one idea to another like mile markers on the Autobahn. Once I’d tossed on my apron, I pulled a sketchpad from the lowest shelf and settled down on the stool behind the register with a pencil. I wanted to jot down as many of the images as I could before they disappeared from my consciousness. I started with the cat, drawing an arched back, erect tail, and stretched haunches. The face stayed blank for now; details could be enhanced later. I then moved on to apple pie, right down to the little vents in the top of the crust.

  I don’t know exactly how long I perched there, my hand flying over the pages. I only looked up when the bells on the front door jangled to announce someone’s arrival. After putting the finishing touches on a scarecrow, I rose from the stool and tossed the sketchpad where my butt had been. “Good morning. Can I help you?”

  Only after I’d spoken the greeting did I focus on my customer. I stiffened.

  Aidan Coffield stood in the store, a cellophane-wrapped vase full of lavender roses, eucalyptus stalks, and English ivy in his hands. My jaw must have dropped, or maybe I gasped or something, because he hefted the bouquet a little higher and shrugged. “I have trouble seeing you as a standard red rose kind of girl. Now, purple, in my opinion, says you’re a little complicated, but in a good way.”

  If he’d wanted to get technical, I could’ve told him lavender roses signified love at first sight. But I kept that translation to myself. I didn’t move toward him or the flowers. I simply stood, aloof and unapproachable. “What do you want, Mr. Coffield?”

  “To apologize for starters,” he replied. “I was pretty hostile to you the other day. You didn’t deserve that.”

  My icy reserve thawed to a nonchalant cool, but I stood my ground. “Okay, fine. Apology accepted. If there’s nothing else, I’m rather busy.”

  “Really?” His gaze swept the empty store.

  “Not everything I do here revolves around customers,” I retorted.

  He inched closer and placed the flowers on the counter next to me. I had to admit, the bouquet enthralled me. I’m a girly-girl, and a man who brings me roses—particularly unusually colored roses—will always make my heart melt. Once again, Aidan Coffield turned my insides to goo. Even in faded jeans and a well-worn dove gray t-shirt, the man exuded sex appeal. Of course, he also radiated arrogance, which should have minimized my attraction. Too bad my heart refused to heed my head’s advice.

  I could feel myself crumbling into itty bits of want. I wanted to like him. I wanted him to like me. I wanted to hear him say my name. I wanted to push that stray wisp of hair off his forehead. I wanted to cook him breakfast.

  I wanted the roses, too. And the ittiest bit of me wanted to believe he’d known their color signified love at first sight when he chose them for me.

  “That’s new.” He gestured to the glass gourd on the shelf to my right. “When did you make that?”

  “How did you…?” No. I wouldn’t let him know he’d surprised me. Again. “I finished it yesterday.”

  “It’s incredible.” He strode to the shelf and stretched out a hand. “May I?”

  I nodded, granting him permission to handle the piece.

  His fingers delicately traced the lines of the vine and leaves. “Such beautiful detail,” he said, his voice husky with appreciation. “Exquisite. Almost delicious in its perfection.”

  The words wrapped around me like a naked embrace, seductive and heady. I couldn’t breathe. The air grew dry, and I licked my lips. He didn’t even turn in my direction, yet the heat of his gaze warmed my flesh.

  “You’ve got quite a talent.”

  “Th-thank you.” With my knees wobbling, I backed up and attempted to use the stool for support.

  Thunk. The sketchpad slid off the top and fell to the floor. I scrambled to pick it up.

  “You okay?” His voice came from above. Like a god’s.

  Crouched on my haunches with the book of drawings in my hand, I looked up. He’d transferred his attention from my glass sculpture and now leaned over the counter, his arresting gaze totally fixated on me. My knees gave up the fight, and I landed on my butt on the floor.

  “Whoa. Easy there.”

  My cheeks burned. Both sets. Could I be more of a klutz? I managed to pull myself up, but by the time I got to my feet, he was beside me. He had one hand on my arm and the other in the small of my back. Nice. He smelled good, too. Soapy and clean. Which, naturally, sent my imagination into Sexual FantasyLand, where I pictured him stepping out of the shower, wet, draped in a towel, leaving a tantalizing peek of muscled golden skin.

  “You okay?” he asked again.

  “Unh.” Words stuck in my dry throat.

  “Are you always here by yourself?”

  I understood what he was asking and why. He’d only come to my store twice, and both times I was alone. But with my current vocal handicap, I couldn’t wrap my tongue around the explanation that Iggy and I took turns opening and closing the shop. I settled for a shrug.

  “Someone should take better care of you.”

  Annoyance sizzled through me, and I yanked myself out of his hold.

  “Uh-oh,” he remarked with a crooked grin. “I screwed up again, didn’t I?”

  I simply glared at him.

  He stuffed his hands into his back pockets. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ So you tell me. How do I get a second chance with you? I know you probably don’t believe this, based on our track record, but I’m a nice guy—honest, hardworking. You want character references? I’ll get them. A note from my fourth grade teacher? A credit report? Want to strap me to a lie detector? Whatever you need, name it.”

  “I’m not making the grape lamps for you, no matter what you offer.”

  Eyes wide, he laughed. “Grape lamps? You think I’m here about grape lamps? God, no. And before you mention it, I’m not here about your car, either.”

  “Then what do you want, Mr. Coffield?”

  “Well, for starters, I’d like you to call me Aidan. But more important, I want you to consider going to dinner with me.”

  Dagnabbit, he took me by surprise again. “Dinner?” I croaked.

  “Yes, dinner. Traditional first date stuff. Or lunch, if that makes you more comfortable. I’d settle for a twenty-minute coffee break, but I’d really prefer at least an hour in your company, if you can spare it. Just name the day, time, and locale, and I’m yours.”

  I stole a glance at the beautiful roses on my counter, then gazed up into his face. For the first time in all our interactions—few as they were—I had the upper hand with Aidan Coffield. I had never before considered myself power hungry, but this particular shift boosted my confidence. I casually flipped through the pages of my sketchpad, seeing nothing, but determined to draw out this delicious moment.

  “Nia.” My name came out of his mouth on a whisper of warm air that melted any resolve still left inside. “Please.”

  The “please” did me in. “Okay,” I said with a sigh of surrender. “Next Friday is my first day off.”

  He beamed as if I’d just told him he won the Irish lottery. “Then Friday night, it is. What time should I pick you up?”

  Oh, no. No way did I intend to transfer control into his hands by putting myself in his passenger seat. “I will meet you at the Beach House. It’s a restaurant in Amagansett. I’ll be there at seven.” I said a silent thank you to the fates that I’d already arranged with my insurance agent for a rental car until mine was repaired. I wouldn’t want to have to borrow Paige’s. She’d want a reason, and no way did I intend to tell her about Aidan Coffield. Another reason for this rendezvous to occur outside of Snug Harbor: I’d be
less likely to run into someone I knew.

  His expression shifted slightly, as if he fought an inner battle against attempting to change the rules. Tough luck, buddy. He’d ceded all the decisions to me, and I wasn’t about to give an inch on this. To reinforce my position, I folded my arms over my chest and kept my gaze steady on his. I didn’t blink until my eyes stung.

  Thankfully, he looked away first as he nodded. “Okay then. Friday night. The Beach House. Seven pm. I’ll see you then.”

  Before I could gloat over my victory, he leaned forward and kissed me. Full on the lips. And not a quick peck, either, but mouths parted, our breath mingling. No tongue, thank God, since I wasn’t ready to play tonsil hockey with a man I barely knew. He probably realized he’d gotten as much out of me as he was going to, at this juncture. When he pulled away, he drew a finger down my cheek, sending pleasure rippling through my bloodstream.

  “Enjoy the flowers,” he murmured in my ear.

  “Uh-huh,” I said stupidly. I was amazed I managed to say anything at all. Intelligence had fled from my brain.

  Only after he’d left my store on the jangle of bells did I return to my senses. My first coherent thought was I’d somehow managed to continue the thirty day challenge, by agreeing to a date with Aidan Coffield. Next came the realization that Friday night was the night of the town clambake. Paige would have to muddle through that fiasco without me. That thought kept me smiling for the rest of the day.

  The memory of Aidan’s yummy kiss, still tingling on my lips, was just a bonus.

  Chapter 9

  Paige

  After dropping Nia off at her store, I considered my options. Going back to bed was out of the question. But if I planned to forgo my usual Saturday morning routine in favor of an early start to the day, I would need coffee. Stat.