“Fine. I won’t try to set you up. But I can’t vouch for anyone else. The ladies of Seaside are a pushy bunch. Once they find out you’re single, they won’t rest until they’ve married you off to one of their underachieving, mouth-breathing offspring.”
I lift my brows. “Sounds like the dating pool here is swimming with winners.”
I get another one of her dramatic sighs, this one accompanied by a toss of her head. “I’d move to Portland, but it’s overrun with real estate agents. I like being a big fish in a little pond, even if that pond has a serious lack of hot men.”
“What about the super cute building inspector?”
She turns practical, not even having the decency to look chagrined. “He’s a foot shorter than me. When I said he was ‘cute,’ I meant in a ‘look at the cute little fella’ way.”
“You were gonna set me up with a man who’s eye level to my belly button, weren’t you?”
She keeps a serious face for a split second, then breaks down laughing. “My mother keeps telling me I’m too picky and should look on the bright side: I’d get to set my drink on his head if there wasn’t a cocktail table nearby.”
“Wow. I think I love your mother.”
“Oh, yeah, she’s a character. Eighty years old and she can drink the rest of us under a table. Now go put on a dress and some lipstick. I can drive over. I’ll wait for you in the car.”
I look down at my jeans and David Bowie T-shirt, then back up at Suzanne. “I don’t own a dress, and I don’t wear lipstick unless I’m going to church. Which I haven’t set foot in since I was married.” I lift my arms. “This is as good as it gets.”
Suzanne’s pursed lips aren’t quite a pout, but they’re not not a pout either. She eyes me up and down. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you’ve got coffee stains on your shirt, dirt stains on your jeans, a smudge of something that could be bird poop on your cheek, and your hair’s a little…funky. You look like you might’ve recently been living under a bridge.”
Inevitably when someone starts a sentence with, “I don’t mean to be rude,” they’re about to be rude. She’s lucky I’m tired, or I’d be inclined to give her a hard shove and watch her topple over on those skyscraper heels of hers.
“If you’re one of those super girly-girls who refuses to go out of the house without an hour’s worth of prep, full makeup, and a bra, we can’t be friends.”
Suzanne isn’t fazed by my disdain. “I am, in fact, one of those ‘super girly-girls’ because I like to look my best—which isn’t a crime, by the way. It’s called being put together—and when you have thirty-eight double Ds, going out of the house without a bra is like getting into a car without a seat belt: careless, dangerous, and something you can get in trouble for.”
All the cleavage she’s baring is dangerous too, but it’s none of my business how much skin she likes to show. Truth be told, if I had boobs like hers, I’d probably be showing them off too. They’re pretty spectacular.
Sometimes I feel sorry for men, having to try to maintain eye contact while two of their favorite things in the world are smiling up at them from the open neckline of a woman’s blouse.
“Okay. You win. I’ll go change and brush my hair, just for you. Feel honored, because I wouldn’t do it for anyone else. And they better have delicious fried things at this so-called party, or I’m walking out.” I make my way out of the kitchen and down the hallway toward the stairs.
She calls out after me, “You can’t walk out, I’m your ride!”
It occurs to me that a town this size might not have decent taxi service, but it wouldn’t be much of a problem anyway. I’m accustomed to taking long walks alone in the dark. It’s one of the only things that’s kept me sane the past few years.
When I enter the master bedroom, I notice a handprint on the sliding glass door I hadn’t seen earlier. It’s backlit by the setting sun, so it glows against the glass like it was breathed there by a ghost. It strikes me as oddly compelling, so I cross the room for a closer look.
It’s big and surprisingly detailed, as if the person who made it however long ago pressed his hand there with the fingers spread wide and stood unmoving for a long time, looking out at the ocean. The ridges, lines, and whorls seem strangely intimate. I feel like I’m looking at a clue someone left behind. A secret moment in time marked by skin.
The lifeline that runs down the center of the palm is broken in half right in the middle, as if part of it was erased.
I lift my hand, spread my fingers, and hover my palm over the ghostly print on the glass. When a gust of wind rattles the glass, I jump, sucking in a startled breath.
Then I scold myself for being an idiot, wipe the print off the glass with the sleeve of my shirt, and go get ready for the party.
3
Because I’ve perfected the Don’t Give a Shit approach to my personal appearance, I’m ready in under five minutes. Suzanne attempts another pout when she sees me reappear in a clean pair of jeans and another Bowie T-shirt, but she smiles instead when I arch a warning brow.
Only Mr. Spock from Star Trek has a brow arch full of more threat, suspicion, or withering disdain than me, a fact I take great pride in.
The drive to Suzanne’s friend’s place is only another few minutes across town, then we pull into the driveway of a brightly lit Craftsman. It’s blue with white shingles and has white lights wound around the trunks of two towering palm trees in the front yard.
“At least let me carry the wine,” I say as Suzanne leans over to get a wrapped bottle from the backseat. “I can’t walk in empty-handed.”
“If I let you carry the wine, I’ll be walking in empty-handed.”
“Yeah, but they already know you. You can get away with it. They’ll think I’m some kind of freeloader with no manners if I do it.”
She scrunches her face and looks at me. “Are you always like this?”
“Disarmingly honest? Yes.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of worryingly odd.”
“Oh, yeah,” I say, nodding. “But there’s no need to worry. I’m harmless.”
She taps her long acrylic fingernails on the steering wheel and shakes her head, looking me over. “Harmless as a bear trap, I’d say. I can’t wait to see the expression on Mike’s face when he sees you.”
“Who’s Mike?”
When she smiles, I warn, “Two percent, Suzanne. Don’t forget our deal.”
“Oh, keep your panties on. But you can’t blame me when half the men drop dead when you walk in and the other half instantly file for divorce. Even in boyfriend jeans and no makeup, you look like a supermodel, you bitch. If I didn’t make so much money off you, I’d hate your guts.”
She hands me the bottle of wine and exits the car, leaving me smiling. Though we’re pretty much opposites, somehow I think Suzanne and I are going to get along just fine.
The front door of the house opens to Suzanne’s brisk knock, then I’m looking up—way up—at a young man with a mop of curly dark hair and a shy smile. He’s in his early twenties, tanned, lanky, and adorably bashful, gazing at Suzanne from under long, curving black lashes that have no right belonging to a male.
“Hey, Suzanne,” he says softly, toeing the floor.
When she says, “Mike! Hiya, handsome!” and kisses him on the cheek, he blushes so furiously, I’m worried he might pass out.
Suzanne is either oblivious or accustomed to Mike’s obvious infatuation. She turns to introduce me as if the poor guy isn’t about to faint from the mere sight of her. “Mike, this is Megan Dunn. She bought the Buttercup Inn, so I brought her as my date.”
Mike turns his big brown eyes to me, then exhales a long breath that contains a lot of vowels. His cheeks darken to the point he looks sunburned, and now I understand that Mike is a virgin with a capital V who also has a vivid imagination, the raging hormones to fuel it, and not enough social graces to land himself a girlfriend to assist him with his predicament.
I remember bein
g that young and desperate. Growing up is a special kind of hell.
“Hi, Mike. Nice to meet you. I love your shirt. Queen’s one of my favorite bands.”
He gazes at me like I’ve just descended from the heavens on a golden chariot. “No way.”
I nod seriously. “Way. I mean, they’re no Bowie, but who is?”
After a moment wherein he simply stares at me with his mouth hanging open, Suzanne takes charge. “Always great to see you, Mike.” Smiling, she grabs my arm and pushes past him, dragging me along into the foyer of the house.
“God, the poor thing,” I whisper as she guides me into a living room that looks like something out of a Martha Stewart book. “You should be trying to set him up, not me.”
“That would be inconvenient, as he’s decided to enter the seminary.”
I almost trip over my own feet. “He wants to be a priest? Does he know they’re not allowed to have sex?”
“It’s a pity, right? He’s so cute. I feel sorry for whatever population of elderly nuns he’s going to traumatize.” She lifts a hand in greeting. “Sunday! Hi! I brought you a present!”
A woman wearing a flowing, bohemian-type dress turns to us from where she’s standing chatting with several people in the living room. She raises her hand in greeting, and her armful of gold bangles twinkle in the light.
“Hi, Suze! Who’s your friend?”
We stop in front of the group, and Suzanne introduces me like I’m some kind of rock star while everyone politely smiles and tries not to be too obvious as they look me up and down and judge my outfit.
“This is Megan Dunn, the woman who bought the Buttercup Inn. She’s incredibly smart, incredibly funny, and, as you can see, prettier than a thousand-dollar bill. I’ve decided not to hate her because she also happens to be cool.”
I’m starting to get that Suzanne has no filter.
“Megan, this is Sunday, Mike’s mom.” She points at the woman with the bangles, and we nod and smile at each other. “And this is Chris—Sunday’s husband—Tina, who owns the best beauty salon in town, and Colleen, who teaches at Seaside Elementary.”
“Hi. It’s nice to meet you all. Sorry for crashing your party, Sunday, but Suzanne didn’t leave me much of a choice.”
Sunday tosses her hair over her shoulder and laughs. “No worries. I know how excited Suze gets when she has the opportunity to be a matchmaker. Has she already told you about Doug?”
I look sideways at Suzanne. “If Doug is the short building inspector, then yes.”
Everyone laughs. I notice Sunday and Tina looking at my wedding band. They share a glance, and it’s obvious I’ve been a topic of conversation in this town long before I ever arrived. I wonder how long they’ll wait before they try to pry the story out of me.
“Oh, you brought wine! Thank you so much, you didn’t have to do that!”
Sunday takes the bottle of wine from my hands while Suzanne stares sourly at my profile, and I try not to smile. “I didn’t want to walk in empty-handed.”
“That was really thoughtful. Let me introduce you around.”
Sunday takes one of my arms, and Suzanne takes the other. Then I’m paraded around like a prize hog and introduced to approximately fifty people whose names I promptly forget. My face starts to hurt from forcing a smile for so long.
Doug, the building inspector, turns out to be the kind of guy who tries to make up for his lack of height by being aggressively obnoxious. He talks too loud, interrupts everyone, and stares at my chest the entire time I’m standing in front of him. I can tell Suzanne thinks it’s hilarious. I decide to get myself invited over to her house so I can replace all her shampoo with hair remover.
I extricate myself by asking where the restroom is. I hide in there for as long as I can without it being weird, then head into the kitchen, avoiding eye contact as I go.
The kitchen is as cheerful and bright as the rest of the house, and blissfully empty. Coolers overflow with sodas and beers on ice, and a selection of wines and liquor stands ready on the island beside rows of glasses. It’s obviously a self-serve setup, which suits me since I won’t have to interact with anyone for a few moments.
I find parties draining. Socializing in general is draining now, after so many years of self-imposed solitude.
I grab a Coke and lean against the counter as I drink it, watching the rain fall outside through the sliding glass doors that lead to a covered patio.
It was ninety-eight degrees the day I left Phoenix. The only time it ever rained there was during the monsoon season, and then it was thunderstorms and lightning, nothing like this gentle, melancholy mist, scented of the ocean.
Seaside was Cass’s idea. It was his dream to open a B&B near the beach when we retired, and this was the town he decided it should be in. We spent hours hunting the internet for weather stats and demographics, real estate prices and tourism information, until we winnowed down the choices of cities.
We knew the moment we saw the pictures on the internet that the Buttercup was what we’d been looking for. Decrepit yet hauntingly beautiful, it spoke to us on a visceral level. We flew out one weekend to look at it and fell in love even more. Our plan was to buy it and spend every holiday and vacation coming out to work on it, a little at a time, until all the work it needed was finished, then move here and open it up as a B&B again.
He loved to plan things in advance like that. He was always looking toward the future.
We were so young. We didn’t know yet that the future isn’t guaranteed.
After Cass was gone, the dream seemed pointless. I figured the Buttercup would sell to someone else, but it never did. I’d check on the listing every few months, and, sure enough, it was always available.
Some part of me felt like it was waiting for me. One day, I decided I’d made it wait long enough.
I hear people approaching from the living room and know I won’t be able to make conversation because of the damn rock in my throat. I leave the can of soda on the counter, cross to the sliding glass doors, and slip outside into the night.
The patio is covered, its roof supported by several large brick columns. There’s a wrought iron table and chairs in the center, a built-in barbeque off to one side, and terra-cotta flower boxes overflowing with hot pink and red geraniums all around the perimeter. The backyard lawn stretches into darkness past the low lights that line the patio edge.
After the warmth of the house, the rain beckons to me. I cross the patio and step out on to the grass. It’s springy beneath my feet, pleasant to walk on. I go about ten yards out, past the reach of the lights, then stop, close my eyes, and lift my face to the rain.
I open my mouth to catch a few cool, sweet drops on my tongue. I hear muffled laughter and music from inside, the sound of voices floating to me on the night air. Then I hear the words that haunt me the most, the thing Cass used to whisper into my ear every night before we fell asleep in each other’s arms. The last thing he said to me before he died.
I love you, sweet pea. I’ll love you till the end of time.
How long will it be until I can no longer remember the sound of his voice? How many years does it take to forget the love of your life? Will I wake up one day and the memory of his kiss will have vanished, trampled to dust by the relentless forward march of time?
“Babe,” I whisper, my heart twisting. “I miss you so much. Why did you leave me?”
A tingle like a mild electric shock zings up my spine. From one heartbeat to the next, I realize I’m not alone.
My eyes fly open. I swing around and look back toward the house. I’m momentarily blinded by the lights, but when my eyes adjust, I see a figure in the shadows leaning against one side of the columns that support the patio.
It’s a man. A big man with wide shoulders and long legs. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his black raincoat. The hood of the raincoat is pulled over his head, but even in the shadows, I can see the glint of his dark eyes.
He stares at me wit
h an unblinking gaze, his expression grim.
Theo.
As if he heard his name in my mind, he straightens. He pulls his hands from his pockets and stands there staring at me with his hands flexed open like some kind of psychopath about to pounce on me and wring my neck.
That doesn’t scare me so much as piss me off. I call out, “Lurk much, pal?”
When he doesn’t respond—because, oh yeah, talking isn’t his thing—I take a few steps toward him. Simultaneously, he takes a few steps back. When I stop, he stops. Then we stare at each other while I try to decide if I should find a rock to throw at him or calm down and act like an adult.
I’m embarrassed he caught me standing alone in the rain, talking to myself, but it isn’t his fault I’m strange.
When his gaze sweeps over me, snagging on my chest before flashing back up to my face, I realize several things at once.
One, I’m not wearing a bra. Unlike Suzanne’s double Ds, my B cups don’t require scaffolding to hold them up. Two, I’ve been standing in the rain in a white T-shirt, which means, three, I’m probably giving this nontalking Theo quite a show.
I hunch my shoulders, grab my shirt, and pull it away from my stomach, trying to make all that look nonchalant.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t look away. He just stands there, staring, his jaw like granite and his black eyes burning holes into my head.
The tingle in my spine increases until it feels like an itch.
“There you are!” Suzanne’s voice rings out over the patio as she pulls open the door and spots me on the lawn. “What’re you doing standing in the rain?”
“Nothing. I’m coming.”
I glanced away from Theo for a second to look at Suzanne, but when I look back to the place he was standing, he’s gone. I catch a glimpse of moonlight reflected off a slick surface around the side of the house. It’s Theo, striding toward an open gate, his shoulders stiff beneath the raincoat. He disappears through the gate and melts silently into the night.
Midnight Valentine Page 3