Down on Love

by Jayne Denker

  After he draped her shawl over her, Thom rested his hands on her shoulders, and she didn’t bat him away. He was confusing her. On the one hand, she had been keenly aware of how carefully nice he was being, to win her over again. On the other hand, all the things she hated about him leaked out now and again, no matter how hard he tried to control himself.

  Maybe it was time for a little experiment, to see if he really had turned over a new leaf. She looked around at him with a bright smile and said, “Hey. Let’s ride the T.”

  His forehead crinkled in a confused frown. “What are you talking about? I drove.”

  “Yeah, but it’d be fun—just riding around for a while.”

  “Sounds like a good way to get mugged.”

  “On the T?” She’d never heard of that much crime on the subway—not enough to deter her, anyway. Why was he so jumpy about it? “Okay, then, let’s drive up the coast. We can be in Maine in a couple of hours.”

  “Maine?” Now he was looking at her like he’d prefer to drop her off at a psych hospital. “What the hell for?”

  George’s sense of well-being was eroding faster than the ice sculpture in the ballroom they’d left behind. “Be–because,” she stammered. Suddenly she couldn’t tell him she was jonesing for a clear view of a whole sky full of stars instead of just a few, for the smell of the woods, for even a raccoon sighting, or the hoot of an owl, or the cool mist on her face as she stood on the bank of a rushing stream.

  Good grief, she must have lost her mind. That’s what Thom’s expression was telling her, and it was dawning on her that Thom was failing the test—big time.

  “Let’s just go home, okay? It’s been a long day,” he said in a placating tone laced with a little bit of steel.

  That was his not-to-be-debated voice—something she remembered quite clearly. And suddenly she was weary as well. She nodded and let him lead her through the hotel and outside into the cool night. She shivered. Fall was well on its way.

  Chapter 26

  Casey knew he shouldn’t be here. He should be back at the farm, overseeing the last of the tasks on his massive “to do” list, to make the place perfect before the grand opening. Well, as perfect as it was going to get. Everything was in place—the play areas, the petting zoo (waiting for weekend visits from sheep, rabbits, goats, calves, and other cute, fuzzy critters from Shane Daley’s place), the hay bale mountain, the punkin-chunkin’ station, the pumpkin fields, the displays of heirloom pumpkins and colorful gourds (available for purchase at a slightly higher price per pound than the standard orange variety). And, if this succeeded, he had even more plans for next year. But this was a good start.

  At least he thought so in his more optimistic moments, which were disappointingly few and far between. Most of the time he worried his plans were off base—the locals didn’t need another pumpkin farm, the leaf-peeper tourists wouldn’t be able to find the place or, worse, wouldn’t bother to stop. Maybe he should have upped the artistic quotient. Maybe he shouldn’t have spent so much time creating a gallery at all. Maybe he should have stuck with his career in the financial sector.

  Maybe he needed a Prozac or two.

  He’d stayed on this street corner too long; he was feeling like a tool. He glanced up and down Main, looking for something to do. Darryl and the crew had kicked him off the farm and threatened him with bodily harm if he set foot on the property before dinner. Get some air, they said. Clear your head, they said. Relax, they said. But he didn’t want to separate himself from the farm. Because it kept him from dwelling on other things. Like what George was doing in Boston. And when she might come back.

  Quit it, he told himself. George wasn’t coming back. She’d had her fill of Marsden this summer—she’d been quite clear about it. Hell, it was a miracle she’d stayed as long as she had. There was nothing for her here, just a family that drove her nuts and a bunch of nosy neighbors who nudged her the rest of the way over the cliff o’ crazy. He didn’t know where he fell on the “bothering George” spectrum, but he was sure his insisting they could have some sort of a future together didn’t help keep her around. She wasn’t interested, she said, and there he was, pushing it, till she pushed him away. He’d spooked her, and rightly so. No matter how she’d reacted to him physically, he had to take her at her word that she didn’t want to be with him. Even if he didn’t believe it.

  She’d been gone almost a month, with no phone calls, no e-mails, no texts. He’d thought about contacting her, of course, but how could he, when it was obvious all she wanted was to be left alone? So he’d focused on the farm, figured out how to post updates of their progress on the blog she’d set up for him—and when he did, he couldn’t resist stopping by George’s blog, searching for . . . what? Some hint of how she was feeling, what she was doing, probably. And although she updated Down on Love regularly with other people’s submissions, she hadn’t dropped one hint about what was going on in her personal life.

  He took a deep breath. The early evening was cool now, a tang of dying vegetation and burning leaves in the air. Fall was coming on fast. It looked like it was going to be a picture-perfect season for the pumpkin farm—not too damp, not too warm, ideal for romantics who wanted to spend the day out in the country in their expensive, designer versions of Wellington boots and barn jackets, collecting gourds and trinkets and bundles of Indian corn and photos of the brilliantly colored mountains when the leaves peaked.

  Yeah, he wanted a piece of that action, and in his more confident moments, he knew he had the goods that would draw the tourists in. He could make something of Bowen Farms. Finally. He just had to hold on to his original vision. And he was sure that meant he should be spending every available moment at work, instead of standing around looking like some sort of punk-ass—

  “Hey, stranger.”

  He knew that voice. Celia was coming down the street, her workday over. He smiled at her. “Hi. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “I hear you’ve been busy.”

  “Kind of.”

  “How’s the big project going?”

  “Really well. You coming to the grand opening?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, good.”

  “Casey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What are you doing, just standing here?”

  He took another deep breath and decided to take the leap. Might as well. There was nothing stopping him, after all. “Maybe I was waiting for you,” he said with a smile. She smiled back, albeit a little dubiously. “What are you doing for dinner?”

  So this was what it was like to be an all-powerful being, Casey thought. Kind of like an alien on Star Trek, who could make people’s heads explode just by looking at them. Or, apparently, even just walking by. Because Casey could do that now—everywhere he went, he inadvertently left a trail of destruction in his wake, all without lifting a finger. It was kind of going to his head. But, he realized pretty quickly, it wasn’t a whole lot of fun.

  All the whispering and pointing, all the text pings going off all around him after he’d walked past someone who was quick on the draw with a smartphone—it was unnerving. No wonder George had run screaming.

  And he’d just broken Cardinal Rule No. 1: No more thinking about George.

  He had turned over a new leaf, faced up to his life and his responsibilities and his reality, and none of those things included George. In fact, he was about to wade a little deeper into that new reality of his right now.

  Celia was waiting for him at an outdoor table in front of Café Olé—on the whole, a daring move. She must have been feeling pretty confident. Then again, she had no reason not to. They’d had four “dates” now, all brazenly out in public for everyone in town to see. Of course, each one had ended with a chaste peck on closed lips, so the progress was questionable, but Celia wasn’t turning him down. How he felt about it was another matter. He was Jekyll-and-Hyding it, during the day telling himself dating Celia with an eye toward a future together was right a
nd proper and only to be expected, and late at night thrashing around in his bed (alone), agonizing over how completely wrong it felt. And missing She Who Must Not Be Named.

  At the moment he retained his mild Jekyll persona, smiled at Celia, kissed her on the cheek, and sat down. Brianna Carroll, Nate’s eldest, was over to their table like a shot. “Hi, Casey. Hi, Celia. Nice to see you.” Oh, that was always a loaded statement. It never just meant the person saying it was pleased to run into Casey and Celia, but always carried the subtext of “Nice to see you together.” Casey wondered what Brianna’s father, who had been the coordinator of the Team George camp, would think of his teenage daughter’s defection. Then again, not his problem.

  “Hey, Brianna. How’ve you been?”

  “Good, thanks. What can I get you to drink?” She placed glasses of water in front of them and straightened the condiments. “Something hot, maybe? Kind of chilly out here.”

  Casey turned to Celia. “Want to get a table inside, instead?” His chivalry would be noted, Casey realized.

  “No, this is fine.”

  “Some wine, then, Brianna.”

  After they’d settled on what kind (cabernet), bottle or glass (bottle, which would also be noted), Casey and Celia settled in for a nice dinner, studiously examining the menus and avoiding eye contact with Skip and Rachel Dwyer, who’d also opted for an outdoor table. Casey had to put forth a supreme amount of effort to keep from stealing glances at Skip’s choice of footwear. He was curious to know if Skip let his cross-dressing tendencies out in public. Nope. Work boots. Casey wondered if he’d caught a glimpse of pantyhose above the tops of Skip’s boots and smiled to himself, remembering the letters sent to George’s blog, and how much she’d fretted they were actually from Marsden residents. And she had been right.

  “What?” Celia asked, seeing his grin.

  He hesitated. He wasn’t sure how she would feel about hearing salacious gossip about her neighbors—that wasn’t really her style. And besides, this was something he wanted to keep between him and George. “Nothing. You look really nice.”

  “Casey, I’m just in my work clothes.”

  “You still look nice. We hitting that movie after dinner?”

  “Sure.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, perusing the menus, and Casey was keenly aware of Skip and Rachel practically leaning sideways toward them, listening for some bit of information they could take back to everyone else. Sheesh.

  “So,” Casey began, in a slightly louder voice, so the Dwyers wouldn’t miss a word, “about the wedding . . .”

  Confused, Celia frowned delicately. “What wedding?”

  Casey rolled his eyes toward their neighbors, hoping she would catch on. The puzzled look stayed on her face. Come on, Celia, he said to himself. You’re cleverer than that. Jump on in.

  “Casey?” she prodded. “What wedding?”

  “I was thinking of asking Paulie if we could have it in his grape arbor. You know, rustic, romantic—”

  “I—I don’t . . . what?”

  Might as well go for broke. He took her hand, turning to her so the Dwyers couldn’t see his wink. “It’s time, don’t you think?”

  Finally Celia tweaked to what he was doing. “You are awful,” she whispered.

  “Just giving the folks what they want.”

  “Don’t feed the trolls.”

  “What are they doing now?”

  She leaned around him a little. “I think Skip’s texting under the table. At least, I hope that’s what he’s doing.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Casey, you can’t keep playing with these people. They’ll get angry when they find out—”

  “Find out what?”

  “That . . . that you’re not serious.”

  He was still holding her hand. He gripped it a little tighter. “I could be.”

  Celia’s smile was gentle. “No, you can’t. And it’s all right.”

  “I really like you, Celia.”

  “And I like you. But that’s the extent of it, isn’t it?”

  Letting go of her hand, Casey rested his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes. “I wish it weren’t.” Celia waited. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “You’re incredibly practical, aren’t you?”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Can we still play with them for a while?”

  “It’s not very nice.”

  “They weren’t nice to George.”

  “They didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Even so, she’s gone.”

  Celia sat back and studied him placidly. “Casey,” she said gently, “tell me about George.”

  George stared out the window of Thom’s condo. Updrafts between the buildings wafted some withered leaves into her line of vision. In a few days Bowen Farms would hold its grand opening. Although she was looking at the buildings across the street, she was imagining the pumpkins standing out bright orange against the dirt, the neighboring farmland brilliant gold with dry cornstalks, the surrounding hillsides aflame with color. Boston had its own pretty version of autumn, but somehow this year it wasn’t going to be enough to satisfy her. She just had a feeling.

  Thom snaked a glass of water over her shoulder. “Thanks,” she whispered, taking it from him.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been standing there for ages, fogging up the window.”

  George knew he was more concerned about the state of the window than her state of mind. He hadn’t really tried to find out what was bothering her. She liked to think he simply hadn’t noticed because she was adept at hiding her emotions, but she knew Thom just plain old didn’t care what was going on in her head.

  She hadn’t told him about Casey, and she never would. She wanted to keep the memory of him to herself; she knew if she told Thom, he would try to get her to forget him by joking about any details she shared. Belittling it all. She didn’t want that. She wasn’t going back, but she wanted to keep her memories clear and clean, so she could remember everything just as it was.

  And she wondered why, if the memories were so precious, she was trying so hard to stay away from the person she was cherishing.

  She took a sip of water and refocused on the view of Brookline. Boston was her home. She’d spent years convincing herself of that fact; she wasn’t about to change her mind now. Stubborn Down girl that she was, anyway.

  Thom moved away from her, and she let out a relieved breath. She heard him settle on the sofa and turn on the TV as he said something about weekend plans.

  “Maybe we could get out of town, go to a farm market or something,” he said.

  Oh God.

  “Yeah,” he went on, not noticing that she hadn’t responded. “We could get some apples.” He laughed a little. “You still owe me that pie, you know.”

  Before she could stop herself, she growled, “I’m not making you a goddamned pie.”

  “What?” Thom sounded a little taken aback.

  “Nothing.”

  God, that was childish of her. She really didn’t like how she behaved around this guy—either completely complacent, or . . . this. Whatever this was. She’d call it surly and rebellious, but she was hardly a teenager; she shouldn’t act like it. She found herself wishing she could just go into the next room and find Sera and Jaz, and talk to them about her problems, like when she was in Marsden. There, the house was full, and warm, and . . . okay, full of moody women and tantrums as well as clutter, but it was also full of love, however imperfect it may have been. It was a damn sight better than this frozen tundra Thom called home.

  Well, she knew another way to sort out her feelings when she didn’t have anyone to talk to. “I’ve got to do some work on my blog,” she said briskly, heading for the guest room.

  “Don’t forget what I said about changing it!” he called after her.

  She stopped short and whirled around. “I’m not changing it,” she sn
apped. “It’s perfectly fine the way it is.”

  Eyes wide, Thom didn’t say anything more. Well, all right then. She went into the guest bedroom and slammed the door.

  Whose idea was it to meet at Nora’s for Sunday brunch, anyway? . . . Oh yeah. His. He must have been out of his mind when he’d suggested it. Casey wanted to meet with Celia, just to talk about her possibly taking photos at the farm’s grand opening, or if she wanted to relax and enjoy herself at the party, she could recommend someone he could hire. He was already thinking of making sure the county newspaper received some photos to publish (since there were all of three people who worked on the paper, it was hardly a sure thing that one of them would make it to the party).

  But meet at Nora’s? On a Sunday morning? For brunch? Insanity. He opened the door, the bell jangling, stepped inside . . . and that was as far as he got. He found himself mashed up against Artie Packer’s back and unable to move another inch. The diner was absolutely jammed, the hungry townspeople in the waiting area eyeballing the lucky diners who already had tables, silently willing them to hork down their eggs and Belgian waffles faster and give up their seats.

  Casey craned his neck, looking for Celia. She wasn’t there yet.

  “What do you need, sweetpea?” Mrs. Rousseau called from her prime seat at the front of the waiting crowd, on the end of the padded bench closest to the cash register.

  “Hey, Mrs. Rousseau. I’m good. Just waiting like everybody else.”

  “Hogwash,” Mrs. D’Annunzio declared, readjusting her grip on the voluminous purse that filled her lap. “He’s got a date, I can tell.”

  Her husband, the deli owner, looked around eagerly. “Is George back?”

  “No, silly. I’m talking about Celia.”

  Mr. D’Annunzio huffed. The D’Annunzios were a family divided, he on Team George and she on Team Celia. From what Casey heard, things had gotten pretty ugly at the dinner table once or twice.