“Not that your mother lets all the skeletons out of the closet for air,” Laura said, “but she mentions things here and there. Like she did those times she told me about Wyatt’s death and your being pregnant. She hasn’t talked to me about Evan at all, which is odd. Maybe she thinks I’d be on your side anyway, which I am, or she thinks your grandmother would agree with her.”
“My grandmother hasn’t really voiced her opinion. And I didn’t ask because I don’t think she agrees with my mother, and it doesn’t matter. Evan and I are friends, and there’s nothing illicit about dinner with a friend. Anyway, it’s not like I could get pregnant.”
CHAPTER 41
Wear something comfortable. See you at eleven.”
Not being pregnant himself, of course, Evan had no way of understanding that nothing in my closet qualified as both appropriate and comfortable for public appearances. Even my go-to leggings left seam indentions on my stomach when I took them off. My tunics barely passed because I found myself growing boobs. An unexpected perk, though a frustrating one. Just when I finally had my dream of legitimate cleavage, it would have been beyond bad taste to display it.
I stood in my closet, eyeing my clothes like they were food in the refrigerator, and I couldn’t decide what, if anything, appealed to me.
Olivia, the Nordstrom personal shopper is neither telepathic nor can she teleport. You should have made that appointment with her by now.
The only thing I hated more than shopping for and trying on clothes was paying for clothes I’d shopped for and tried on. I had the money; I’d barely made a dent in what I deposited after selling the house. But it was time to get over my notoriety for being Scroogette of the fashion world, because the bump would soon be a basketball.
Only one alternative, and it required groveling and finesse.
I strolled into the den like a sitcom walk-on with a few one-liners, wearing my pleasant face with its carefully applied smile. My plan was to sashay to the fridge, pretend I was looking for something to nosh on, then with a casual, upbeat tone ask my mother, “Do you still have those shorts that were too big for you last summer? Would you mind if I borrowed them since mine aren’t quite buttoning anymore? No problem if you don’t.”
I didn’t remember shorts that didn’t fit her, but telling her otherwise suggested she had the body of a pregnant woman. Any hint of desperation in my voice, she’d start asking questions. I couldn’t be sure if telling her I needed them for lunch with Evan would work for or against me.
The den was empty. So was the deck. Their car was in the driveway. Presurgery, they’d power walk around the block, but not with the cane. Maybe they went to the neighbor’s; she could make that distance. But Evan was picking me up in twenty minutes, and I couldn’t wait indefinitely. I’d do a quick recon through her clothes and ask for forgiveness since I couldn’t ask for permission.
Their bedroom door was closed. My hand was on the knob, ready to open it when I heard them.
Talking? No. That didn’t sound like a conversation. But maybe . . .
I considered knocking, then my brain processed the sounds from inside their room.
Well, good Lawd A’mighty.
One of my grandmother’s go-to expressions when shocked beyond belief. But I never expected to think of it or use it because I happened upon overhearing my parents making love.
I tiptoed backward, my hand pressed over my mouth to smother my gasp. All those years I heard stories from my friends, I never believed they were true. And if they were, certainly not something I’d considered an issue with my parents.
I threw on a halter-top maxi sundress generous enough to cover my top and bottom, shoved my feet into my wedge sandals, and left a note on the kitchen table, Lunch with Evan, and dashed outside before he could ring the doorbell.
This time Evan appeared in a metallic-white convertible that glistened in the sun. An opal on wheels. A car Wyatt had dreamed of owning.
“You’re prompt this morning,” he said as he opened the passenger door for me. Watching me gather the dress at my ankles so he could close the door, he tilted his head and asked, “I did mention to wear something casual, didn’t I?”
I waited until he’d settled himself behind the wheel. “Yes, but you didn’t mention my hair would be slapping my face, and my head would be sunburned.”
“And that’s why,” he said, smiling as he reached into the backseat and handed me a pink twill baseball cap with a little crawfish logo, “I brought this.”
He placed the cap on me, curving the bill, and tucking stray locks of hair behind my ears, his fingertips traveling from my temples to my cheeks. So many months since a man touched me with tenderness, I would have taken the hat off just to have him put it on me again.
Get a grip, Olivia. This is Evan. Your friend. You are not allowed to melt because his hands brush your face, and his white V-neck hugs his muscles, and his presence softens your heart.
On our way to wherever he was taking me, I related the story about why I wasn’t wearing the shorts I thought I would be.
“Not something I wanted to hear. Especially early on a Sunday morning.” This wind-in-my-face business wasn’t what commercials promised. It was better. Much better.
“Are you telling me that this is the first time you’ve experienced that in your entire life with your parents?”
I didn’t have to look at him to know he was shaking his head in disbelief. I heard it.
“My bedroom is upstairs on the other side of the house, remember? Maybe I did when I was younger, and I had no idea what was going on. I mean, it’s strange to overhear anyone, but when it’s your parents, it borders on disturbing,” I said.
“Really? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying we should stand outside the door and applaud or give them a high-five later. But I think it’s great your parents have passion. The woman I marry won’t look the same in forty years, but I hope her feelings are the same.”
“You know, maybe this is one of those situations where the issue isn’t the issue.” I turned to look at Evan. “The issue isn’t what they’re doing. We’re two grown people living with our parents again.”
He nodded and laughed. “Good point. Guess maybe it’s time we moved on. Again.”
I knew what my options were, but Evan hadn’t talked about his plans. I didn’t ask him. I wasn’t sure I was ready to know the answer.
Riding in a convertible was sensory overload. Especially the sounds, which were almost all noises. Tires swatting over the asphalt, eighteen-wheelers’ brakes squealing like an off-key choir, Kanye West booming from someone’s radio, horns beeping, grass-cutting tractors on the side of the road. The smells coming from the barbecue restaurant were as inviting as the ones coming from the paper factories were acrid.
The wind devoured our words as soon as we spoke them, making conversation challenging. I didn’t mind the quiet. I was enjoying being immersed in the experience. Until, that is, Evan passed at least five restaurants that were lunch possibilities.
“Hey”—I tapped his shoulder—“where are we going? You didn’t tell me I needed to bring a snack.”
“You’re getting to be high-maintenance, Kavanaugh,” he semi-shouted. “I already ordered lunch to go from Camellia Bend Café.”
“To go where?”
“We’re going to Crescent City Park. We can watch the barges and the steamboats and see the city. You need some outside time. And after lunch, I want you to see my weekend job.”
“Don’t you already work weekends?”
“Yes, but this job is actually every other Sunday.”
Next time, assuming there would be a next time, I needed to remember to ask more specific questions about his plans. He might think roller-skating would be fun when I’m eight months pregnant.
Evan pulled into the parking lot of the café, and I pulled into my delusions. Olivia, what are you thinking? As if Evan won’t be dating someone or several someones soon or maybe already is? And, even if he isn’t
, you’re PREGNANT.
I pulled off the cap and ran my fingers through my damp hair, then pulled down the visor to put it back on again. I watched Evan as he left the restaurant, a brown bag in each hand, and I allowed myself to feel happy.
I told my guilt I’d give it equal time. Later.
CHAPTER 42
From the promenade of Crescent City Park, the city of New Orleans looked like a silver-and-glass Legoland spreading along the Mississippi River. The view wasn’t far past the dog run where two honey-colored Labrador retrievers and their owner played fetch, though for the brief time we watched, the human fetched more than the dogs.
We detoured along an asphalt walking path that cut through meandering gardens until we found a picnic area and a table close to a tree that offered some shade. Even in September, the sun didn’t give up easily. It wasn’t the relentless suffocation of August, but the word breeze wasn’t in the weather forecast yet.
“Oh, for the record, in case it comes up in conversation with my mother, don’t tell her I was sweaty. She’ll be mortified. I glistened.”
“I doubt your mother and I have a reason to talk about you sweating, I mean glistening. But if I’m desperate for something to say, I’ll do my best to remember.”
While we ate our wedges of muffulettas and shared a pasta salad, Evan played Name the Building, a game at which I volunteered to lose, and we watched barges pushing ships on the river. Even a cruise liner passed, dwarfing everything around it.
On the way back to the car, Evan said, “We’re running ahead of schedule, and I’m feeling guilty not being more specific about today’s plans. Let’s stop at the mall, a boutique, or wherever you shop, and you can find something more comfortable to wear.”
“This is a first. I don’t think I’ve ever had a date who offered to take me shopping.”
He looked at me with such smug satisfaction, if we had been anywhere else, I would’ve turned to see if someone was behind me. “What’s that look?”
“So this is a date. When did you change your mind?”
“Don’t make me want to knock you into tomorrow. I didn’t change my mind. I meant ‘a date’ generically. As in all the dates I have ever been on. And since dates have never taken me shopping, and you’re taking me shopping, it would follow that this is not a date.”
“I think the wrong person in this car went to law school.”
Except that I would’ve rather been wrong. Who knew Evan would morph into this person who sat across from me? When we dated in college, we were like schools of fish traveling from one bar or restaurant to another, always surrounded by people. Or when I worked, he’d sit at the bar with his books. Maybe groups brought out his alpha maleness. This Evan probably wouldn’t enjoy hanging out with that Evan.
We went to Nordstrom, and I made him promise not to look at any of the sizes I pulled off the hangers. He reminded me we were on a time deadline. With five minutes to spare, I found a pair of navy shorts I could button and a simple white peplum top. I asked the sales clerk to cut off all the tags because I was wearing them out of the dressing room.
“Hey, that looks great and much more comfortable than what you were wearing.” He looked at his watch. “We need to get moving. Remember?” He walked toward the escalator.
“Evan, I have to pay for these. If I’m arrested for shoplifting, it’ll take much longer to get there.”
“I already paid for them,” he said.
“Well, you’re going to unpay for them.” I headed to the cash register holding my credit card out like a sword.
He dashed to catch up with me, closed his hand over mine, and said, “Olivia, I can’t be late. You’ll understand when we get there. I’m not going to argue with you about the money, especially here. You can pay me back, okay? But we really do need to leave now.”
His urgency was much more serious than my “Hurry, it’s the last day of the season. We have to get to the snowball stand before it closes” desperate pleas ever were.
“Deal. But only because you look frantic,” I said. And you held my hand in the process.
The surprise, for me, wasn’t so much what he was doing, but the fact that it was Evan doing it.
We had arrived on time at a small park in the city. Really, it was just a one-block stretch of grass with a few twigs masquerading as trees. Evan steered me to a sliver of shade under two large beach umbrellas close to the driving range, but far enough away to avoid a trip to the ER.
Five children, who looked like they were in elementary school, sat cross-legged on the grass. When they spotted Evan, they started chanting, “Ev-an, Ev-an, Ev-an,” their golf clubs in two-fisted holds above their heads.
He introduced me to the boys: the twins Quentin and Quincy, Darrell, Andre, and, standing a head taller than everyone else, Cedric.
Quentin, a kid with a faux Mohawk, asked me if I played golf.
“Gracious, no,” I said, exaggerating only my voice, not the truth. “I’d have to wear a helmet.”
“Maybe if Evan teaches you, he’ll have to wear a helmet.”
The boys, Evan included, laughed. A lot.
After a moment of getting over myself, I joined them. I had to own that he was right.
For the next hour, I forgot the heat already reddening my arms and legs, even with the shade, and watched Evan interact with these kids. His patience in showing each one the proper swing. Praising them and, when necessary, reminding them they were there to learn golf, not sky gaze.
As time went on, their enthusiasm waned, which I understood since I was glistening like a sky full of stars. But when parents showed up with ice chests, even Evan—whose shirt was more wet than white by now—was distracted.
The boys dropped their clubs where they stood and headed to the promise of a cold paradise.
“Stop. That’s not how we end.” Evan spoke with authority. And without whining or pouting faces, they picked up their clubs and placed them in the golf bag Evan had brought with him.
They stood next to one another, Cedric in the center, and they repeated, with genuine gusto, everything Evan said.
I promise to love God.
I promise to respect my parents.
I promise to do my best in school every day.
I promise to be a leader, not a follower.
I promise to say no to drugs.
I promise to say yes to golf.
After we all rehydrated and sampled one of each kind of ice cream bar, the kids, their parents, and Evan and I walked back to our cars.
There had to be something Evan wasn’t telling me. I’d never witnessed such a compelling change in one person in such a few years.
CHAPTER 43
When we reached his car, Evan grabbed a clean T-shirt from his trunk.
“I don’t want to sit in the car wearing this sweaty shirt, and I doubt you’d want me to either.”
He pulled off his shirt while I pawed through my makeup bag, searching for lip gloss, finding it, then continuing to search and keep my head lowered so I could sneak peeks at Evan.
The show of abs didn’t last long, but I still would’ve given it a standing ovation. I pulled the visor down to apply my lip gloss as he buckled his seat belt.
“I spotted the keys on your seat. I didn’t think you’d mind if I started the car.”
“Not at all,” he said and patted my hand. “Remember in college after Hurricane Katrina when we didn’t have electricity? We all took turns sitting in one another’s cars just to be able to turn on the air-conditioners. It was usually the best time to sleep.”
“I don’t know how it’s possible, but I actually had forgotten about that,” I said. “It’s strange to think that those kids you taught today weren’t even born then.” I took my cap off and ran my fingers through my hair plastered to my head, the cool air helping to revive me.
Evan pressed a button, and the roof of the car dutifully slid into place over us. We sat in the quiet. The cool quiet. A comfortable silence, where no one reac
hed to turn on the radio to fill the void of no conversation. The only sounds were a soft hiss as the air blew through the vents, the swish of cars moving past us, and the occasional ga-lump of the tires over a pothole.
When Wyatt and I rode in the car, we’d let the silence sit with us like a familiar friend, and one of us would reach for the hand of the other. A gentle squeeze conveyed our contentment. I didn’t reach for Evan’s hand, though I wanted to because I felt the same swell of satisfaction.
I watched out my window as the city flicked by like a film on an old projector. Tattered and torn shotgun houses, some still branded with the Katrina crosses used by search-and-rescue teams, were eerily reminiscent of Passover. Blocks of empty lots where lonely concrete foundations waited for families who would never return. Then, like debutantes at their coming-out parties, renovated shotgun houses and Creole cottages appeared, anchored by stately antebellum homes with massive white columns and wrought iron balconies.
New Orleans restaurants had fascinated Wyatt. Their histories, their menus, even the eclectic ones and the bistros and food trucks seduced him with possibilities. He had wanted to live in the city. I’d been raised in gated communities with country clubs and walking trails. Moving to an area where a murder or a party could be around any corner frightened me. I wanted security, the predictableness of a neighborhood, an ordinary life.
Wyatt conceded and we bought a home in the suburbs over an hour away from work. I told him when we moved that he’d have the best of both, traveling to the city to work, then back home to what he called our Stepford-family life.
That didn’t work out well for either one of us.
I shifted in my seat to face Evan. “What led to these every-other-Sunday golf lessons?”
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