Beginner's Luck

by Kate Clayborn

  It’s been miserably hot all week, so humid it feels as if it’s always either about to rain or just has rained, even though we’ve not had a drop. The walk home is a slog, and when I get there, the painter I’ve had in all week for the first floor is still finishing up, and the air conditioners inside are cranked up to Antartica, in hopes it’ll help things dry more quickly. Guess it’s going to be sweating on the porch for a while for me.

  I sink down gratefully, take a slug of the glass of water I snagged while inside. I’ve been getting home late all week, so it’s nice to sit here while there’s still daylight, even if I do feel as though someone’s taken a bat to my neck and shoulders. I idly scroll through my phone, pretending I’m not looking for a specific name.

  But I completely am.

  Since last week, I’ve only heard from Ben once, a voicemail he’d left on Monday when I was in the microscope room. His voice was careful, neutral. He let me know that I might be hearing this week from someone on the metallurgy team at Beaumont, someone who was eager to talk with me about my work, and the projects that Beaumont was working on. At the end of his message, he’d paused and cleared his throat, then said, If you think of it, maybe you could send a picture of the light. My dad’s been asking about it.

  If it seems weird that I can remember exactly what he’d said, it will probably seem weirder that I have listened to the message at least eleven times. I’ve never replied, have never sent a picture—the box with my new fixture is still sitting, exactly as Ben packed it, on my dining room table. I feel bad about the way I acted last week, my sharp response to him and subsequent cold shoulder. Even if he was wrong, I miss hanging out with him. Even after a couple of days, I’d gotten used to him.

  I shift on the stoop, uncomfortable, pissed I still haven’t bought chairs for out here. The front door opens behind me and my painter, a short, bald guy who calls himself Packy comes out, thunking his stepladder onto the floorboards. “Probably going to have to come back tomorrow,” he says. “I had to do some extra patching in the powder room, so haven’t primed in there yet.”

  “That’s okay.” We settle on an arrival time for tomorrow, talk briefly about whether I’ll eventually want to redo the paint upstairs too, which is almost entirely covered in old wallpaper. It’s a little awkward, actually—I’m trying to get Packy to weigh in, to tell me what he thinks I should do upstairs, but I mean, this guy is my housepainter, not my decorator or my friend, and probably he wants to go home. I feel my face heat and thank him. Maybe all the alone time with the microscope is getting to me.

  As he’s settling his gear into his truck, Jeff and Eric come down the street, walking their dog, and they greet Packy as if they’re all old friends, backslapping and laughing, pointing over at their house, which is probably perfectly painted all over. No one is even looking at me up here on the porch, but somehow this makes me feel even more like an intruder, the person at the end of the cafeteria table who no one’s talking to. I fake absorption in my phone, feeling relieved when I hear Packy’s truck start up with a rumble.

  “Kit, right?” calls a voice, and Jeff and Eric are still standing on my sidewalk, looking up at me.

  “Yeah—yes,” I say, standing and coming down the steps to greet them. “Hi, again.” I open my small gate and bend down to pet their dog, a fat little dachshund who’s panting with delight.

  “How’s it coming?” says Jeff, gesturing toward the house.

  “Great!” It’s too cheerful, and Jeff and Eric don’t even know me but they are not dummies. My shoulders slouch a little. “I mean, it’s—okay? There’s something new to do all the time, I’m finding.”

  “Oh, yeah. These old houses, there’s things you don’t even think of that come up along the way,” Eric says.

  “Your house is so beautiful. I stare longingly at it from my front window pretty much every day. I mean, not in a creepy way. If that sounds creepy.”

  They both laugh, and Jeff says they’re happy to know it has admirers. “Honestly we worked so hard on it, we show it off whenever we can. Actually, we’re having a few people over tomorrow evening for a little cocktail hour. You should come by! Starting at six.”

  “Oh, that’s so nice of you. But I don’t want to intrude on a party you’re having.”

  “It’s not an intrusion. We’d love to have you. A couple of the neighbors from the next street over are coming too. So it’s not just Jeff’s boring work friends.”

  “I work in banking,” says Jeff, a little dully.

  “I work in metals. And most people think that’s really boring too.” Except Ben Tucker, I think, because I can’t seem to keep him out of my head for longer than five minutes at a time.

  “You think you can come?” asks Eric.

  “Sure. Can I bring anything?”

  “Just yourself. Eric does all the food and drink for parties. He says if people bring stuff, they upset the gastronomic balance he’s trying to create.”

  “I don’t say that,” Eric says, but I have a feeling he does. They’re fun, the way they tease each other, and I figure if all their friends are as easy to get along with, this party will be a nice way to meet new people, especially some new neighbors, which has been a goal of mine since move-in.

  We say our goodbyes, and they start to move away, but suddenly I’m struck with a thought, and before I can snatch it back I blurt, “Is it—ah—cocktail attire?”

  Eric smiles back at me, looking me over. “We’re not fancy,” he says, “but I think I draw the line at cargo pants.”

  I look down at my—yeah. Cargo pants. “Right. Well, I was doing some repair work today. I have other clothes, obviously.” This is true, but we’re not fancy is really of no help in terms of giving me instructions. I don’t want to seem any more inept than I am though. I’m trying make an impression here, so I wave them away, as though I’m the type to always go to this kind of party. I am not, of course. Even when I go to conferences in my field, I only go to the social gatherings for long enough to make myself a small plate of cheese and olives so I can take it back to my room and watch cable television in my hotel bed.

  But hey, this is millionaire Kit now. And millionaire Kit can at least buy a new outfit for making new friends.

  * * * *

  Of course, millionaire me cannot buy a new outfit alone, because even I know Zoe’s the expert there, and she meets me after work to help me pick out a new pair of skinny-cut, ankle-length black pants and a jewel-green sleeveless top, silky and cut in at the shoulders, which she says makes my arms look great. Also she says the color works because I’m a “winter,” whatever that means. I hate her a little for the shoes—I don’t have a categorical objection to heels or anything, but these are the kind that feel like someone’s replaced your feet with Barbie’s.

  But at least when I walk over to Jeff and Eric’s on Thursday evening, I feel pretty confident. And I’m excited. Since last night involved me eating a bowl of cereal for dinner and sleeping next to an open window to avoid breathing in too many paint fumes, I’m treating this party as a little celebration for getting the Titan up and running. Even Todd had offered his thanks today, though I think Dr. Wagner made him do it.

  A note on the door tells guests to come on in, and I’m not even half a step into the foyer before I start gaping—it’s gorgeous in here, every detail exactly right. Beneath my feet are hardwoods polished to a high shine, a large, circular rug that manages to look modern and still suit the old feel of the house. The staircase to my left is intricate, striking, with newel caps and small, inset medallions that look hand-carved. In front of me is a huge mirror, surrounded with similarly detailed woodworking, coat hooks flanking either side; beneath it is an old steamer trunk that’s been turned into a functional bench. I resist the urge to take out my phone, snap a few pictures so that I can remember this for later, for all the times I’m thinking about how to make my own place look g
ood. To my right, similar to the layout in my own house, is the main living space, and the laughter and conversation is flowing easily.

  It’s probably rude of me, but at first I don’t even scan the people in the room. I’m too busy fixating on the fireplace, the recessed lighting, the crown molding. Holy crap. My house is a two on Zoe’s scale, by comparison.

  “Kit!” a voice booms out, and it’s neither Jeff nor Eric, but—Henry Tucker?

  He’s sitting in a wingback chair set near the fireplace, a plate of food balanced on his knee, his good hand waving me over. My first thought is for Ben—is he here? Did he know I was coming? But a quick scan of the room and I don’t see him anywhere, though I’m not sure how Henry would’ve gotten here on his own. Still, I’m oddly relieved to see Henry. While I know Jeff and Eric, wherever they are, will be great, welcoming hosts, it’s nice to feel as if I’m in with part of this crowd already.

  I wade through the guests, giving polite smiles as I go, and reach Henry, leaning down a bit to shake his hand. “It’s nice to see you again,” I say, smiling wide at him as I take in his outfit—he’s wearing a faded plaid shirt tucked into—hey, wait a minute—cargo pants, his big black boot covering one leg. “You’re lucky. They said I couldn’t wear my pants like that.”

  “Sexism!” Henry cries, his eyes bright with laughter. “No, Jeff and Eric are good people. But two changes of clothes in a single day is probably a bit too much to ask of my son, so I think they’re giving me a pass tonight.”

  “Oh,” I say, my face heating. “Is he here?”

  “Out back,” he answers, lifting a crab cake to his mouth. I look up, through the dining room, trying to get a glimpse of Ben out the back window, but I don’t see him. “We did the materials for the patio they’re having built, so Ben’s checking on the progress. I’d do it myself, but guess who’s already used up almost all his allowed weight-bearing minutes today?” He pauses and then jerks a thumb at his chest. “This guy.”

  “Bummer. How’s the food?”

  He takes a surreptitious look around, lowers his voice. “Honestly I thought these crab cakes had dirt in them. Eric says that’s the mushroom oil he puts on top. Also I wanted a beer and he gave me this.” He lifts a light green bottle that he’s tucked between his hip and the arm of the chair. “He said it was beer, but it tastes like lemons.”

  I have to laugh at his honesty. “It’s a pretty fancy party, I guess.”

  “First time here for me. But I’ve known Jeff since he was a kid, and he’s bought so much stuff from me over the last five years I figured it was time for me to see the results.”

  “It looks wonderful. I wish you could show me every single thing that came from the yard that’s in here.”

  His smile is so similar to Ben’s that I straighten, only to look up and meet the eyes of the man himself. I don’t miss that his graze tracks down for the barest of seconds, tracing my mouth, my shoulders, my chest. In spite of myself, I feel a spark of pleasure at his attention. “I didn’t know you’d be here,” he says, and it’s almost an apology, as though he’s embarrassed to find himself here. “I promise.”

  “No—I—well, I’m a late addition to the invitation list, I guess. I didn’t know you’d be here, either.”

  “Good lord, you two,” Henry says. “One of you get me another one of those dirt cakes, will you?” He holds up his plate, and Ben takes it before I can reach out. “Get the lady a drink while you’re at it.”

  Ben and I smile at each other, a little shyly. Henry gives good icebreaker, that’s for sure, and when Ben holds out his arm to gesture me ahead of him, I follow. “Listen,” I say, once we’ve passed into the dining room, where the table is laid with an assortment of platters, all the food looking professionally prepared. I turn and set a hand on his forearm briefly, then snatch it back just as quickly. The sleeves of his blue button-up are rolled up, the skin on his forearms warm, tight over the muscles beneath. I only meant to still him, I tell myself. I’m not going to go around touching him just for the sake of it. He looks down at where my hand rested, then back up at me. “Listen,” I say again, regaining my bearings. “I’m sorry about before, last week. I overreacted.”

  That dimple, right on his left cheek there. I’d like to lick that dimple. “Hey, no. I’m sorry. I was having an off day.”

  “You were just doing your job.” I shrug, and the dimple disappears. His smile is replaced by something blander, less inviting, but still, technically, a smile.

  I turn and we load up two plates, one for me and another for Henry, and Ben pauses at the buffet that’s set under the back window to pour me a drink. We’re quiet, feeling each other out, some new tension between us. I’m grateful when Jeff and Eric come through from the kitchen, greeting me warmly. Before I know it, Ben and I are pulled away from each other, Jeff introducing him to a lithe, glamorous blonde from his office and Eric leading me through an abbreviated tour of the house, with frequent stops to introduce me to other guests, all of whom seem perfectly nice and interesting.

  But I’m having trouble focusing on any of it, because my eyes keep seeking out Ben, who’d returned to deliver more food to Henry, the blonde having followed. It seems he’s leaned in that same position, against the mantel, for the entire hour I’ve been here. At some point I’m pretty sure I agree to serve on a neighborhood community board, but it barely registers. Because the thing is—I think his eyes keep seeking me out too. More than once, our gazes have tangled, and I’m always the first to look away.

  Despite my distraction, though, this is a pretty good showing for me at a cocktail party. I’ve done some champion mingling, if I do say so myself. But the introvert in me is starting to cry out in distress, or maybe that’s just my feet in these shoes. Either way, I make my way to Jeff and Eric, offering my thanks and compliments before heading over to Ben and Henry again. The blonde smiles politely as I approach, and before I can say anything, Ben speaks up. “Jennifer, this Ekaterina Averin. She works as a research scientist at the university. Kit, Jennifer’s an accountant at Waterfield’s.”

  “Hi,” I say, shaking her hand. “I’m really a lab tech. Ben’s overstating it.”

  “No. I’m not,” he says, his eyes on me, his voice serious. Jennifer looks back and forth between us, and seems to pick up on something, politely disentangling herself from our little party. This whole evening—it feels strange, uneasy. At this point, I don’t even care if Ben wants to talk about Beaumont again. I just want things to go back to the way they were before.

  “You get that light hung yet?” asks Henry, and my eyes break from Ben’s. Did I say I’m happy with this top Zoe picked out? Because right now it’s sealing in every nervous drop of sweat that’s forming between my breasts.

  “Ah—unfortunately, no. It’s been a really busy week. But I will, I promise. And I’ll make sure I send a picture.”

  “Why don’t you ask this knucklehead to hang it? I guess he’s terrible at conversation when it comes to you, but he can get that light hung in under an hour.”

  “Dad,” Ben says, shaking his head in embarrassment, that same joking resignation that’s part of their dynamic together every time I’ve been around them.

  “Oh, I don’t want to trouble you all anymore.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Ben says.

  Henry grunts as he leans forward in his chair, and Ben reaches to grab the four-point cane that’s in front of the fireplace. To watch Ben lean down, offer his arm for his father to grip as he lifts himself, stiffen his body against the weight—it’s hypnotizing. When Henry is up, good hand braced on the cane, Ben stays right as his elbow, one hand cupped underneath it, but not touching Henry at all. He’s watchful, prepared, careful. It makes my heart clench to see the way he does this, the way he’s so attuned to Henry’s care. I walk out with them, following behind, and we’re all quiet as Ben helps Henry descend the steps to the walk, Henry’s brea
thing growing more labored with the effort.

  “Holy hell,” he says, once he’s at the curb. “That was hard! Wasn’t worth the dirt cakes and lemon beer, I’ll tell you what.”

  “Told you,” says Ben, opening the door for Henry.

  I’m not really needed here at this point, but it feels strange to walk away. I don’t want Henry to get the sense that I’m in a hurry, and I also don’t want him to feel that I’ve turned his slow pace into a spectator sport.

  And I don’t want to leave Ben.

  My phone rings from the clutch I’m carrying—I thought I’d set it to silent, but at least it hadn’t rang inside the party. I use the opportunity to look away while Ben helps Henry into his seat, buckling him in. “Oh!” I exclaim, catching sight of the screen, my voice high and excited. “It’s my brother!”

  Ben looks over his shoulder at me, the corner of his mouth hitching up, that dimple showing again. “I have to take this,” I say, even as I’m swiping across to answer. “He doesn’t always have reception.”

  “It’s all right,” Ben says, closing Henry in.

  I pick up, say a quick hello to Alex before asking him to hold on, lowering the phone to my side. I don’t even think—I just talk. “Ben,” I say. “I really could use help with that light, sometime. If you’d still want to.”

  Full dimple. I know what it means now, when books talk about “swooning.” I’m about to swoon right into that dimple.

  “I’d still want to.”

  “Okay, then. Call me tomorrow?”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I wave at Henry, putting the phone back to my ear. Alex has called, finally! Right now, everything feels so good—well, make that almost everything. I balance the phone between my shoulder and ear, lean down to slip off these truly maniacal shoes. And then I’m tiptoeing across the street, Alex’s voice in my ear, Ben’s laughter soft behind me.

  Chapter 10