Just Like That

by Nicola Rendell

  It’s not Photoshopped. He really is that perfect, as I know full well: from my kitchen, and my bed, and my shower, and my bedroom floor. And of course he dives. He’s probably got some unbelievably hard-core SCUBA certification and a wetsuit that fits him like a glove, showing off all his man parts under the neoprene.

  Idiot!

  I click back a page to the Google results. His internet presence is carefully maintained, every detail of his life well-controlled. Not like me, who has three Pinterest accounts because I can’t remember the password ever. Not Russ. No Pinterest, no Instagram. No Facebook, no Twitter. Not even a LinkedIn account. I go back to the tab with his website and click on the “Investigative Services” part of the menu. It’s divided up into sub-categories: corporate espionage, information brokering, financial histories, tax fraud, insurance fraud. Maisie scooches over to sit next to me, leaning into the screen as I read aloud, “Macklin Investigations specializes in information gathering and brokering, either through direct inquiry or as a disinterested third party.”

  “Maybe he’s a spy!” Maisie says, pummeling my arm with her fist. “Maybe that accent is pretend! Maybe he works for MI6!”

  But before we get too far down into her fantasy rabbit hole, I read a bit further. “Private Investigative Licensures in California, Florida, Massachusetts, New York, and Texas allow our investigators to move across state lines as needed during an investigation. We are fully licensed and bonded, and guarantee 100% discretion to our clients.”

  I don’t know how a business blurb can be sexy, but it is so sexy. All no-nonsense and manly and to the point.

  Next I click on “About Our Associates” and brace for impact. The top one is, of course, him. Big Man on Campus. Large and in charge.

  Russell T. Macklin, founder of Macklin Investigations, served in the US Army for 22 years. He received the Bronze Star for valor 2012, and retired from military duty in 2014.

  “Valor! He’s not just a romance hero. He’s an actual hero,” Maisie says, zooming in on a photograph of him shaking some politician’s hand. In the photo, he’s clean shaven, and I get an even better look at that jawline and the very faint dimple on his chin.

  “And hang on one sec!” she says, pointing at the air. She types Seducing the Rake into the search bar. Up pops an image of him in his kilt. “See!”

  His chest is greased, and his kilt is about to flap open in the breeze. It’s absolutely magnificent. “Not helping. At all.” I force myself to look away from the pleats around his waist, every little plaid ripple whispering my name, and focus hard on the shelves across from me—on the stacks of paper shopping bags and the spare rolls of receipt tape.

  Seducing the Rake aside, everything else we’ve found makes sense. Yes, it’s sexy. Yes, it fits him. But I don’t like it. He told me he was one person, when he’s another. “I feel like I reached for my tea and got my orange juice instead. I won’t stand for it.”

  “Pen, I don’t know. Maybe you should give him a chance,” Maisie says, moving over to Google Images. I glance at the thumbnails and see a headshot from the Army. He’s not in fatigues but in the full uniform. There is an explosion of little multicolored ribbons on his chest. LTC MACKLIN, says the nametag.

  I look up the acronym with a few keystrokes. A lieutenant colonel!

  But whatever else I am, I’m a Darling first. Our unofficial family motto, which my grandma put into a needlepoint pillow that I still have in my closet, is Fool us once, shame on you. Fool us twice, watch out! So I slap down the laptop screen and look at Maisie. “Nope. No way. Not doing it. Story over. Mission ended. I’m getting back on the Wagon as of right now.”

  Maisie looks back and forth from my left eye to my right one, as if looking for any flicker of uncertainty. Finding none, she crams her wad of gum into her left cheek and says, “All right. I’ll go sprinkle birdseed all over his car and let the seagulls take their revenge. Meet you back here in half an hour. Stay low.”

  I swallow hard. It’s tempting to give her the go ahead, because hell hath no fury like an overfed seagull on an unblemished paint job, but I’m not just upset. I’m really heartbroken. I might have only known him a few days, but it’s time to admit it. I like him, a lot. It doesn’t feel like a fling, and it never did. And serious feelings require serious measures. So it’s time to batten down the hatches and put plywood on the windows. “Start unlocking the locks. I’m going to go home and kick him to the curb.”

  Maisie shifts her gum to the other cheek and grabs a piece of paper from a stack of invoices. On the back she scrawls CLOSED DUE TO EMERGENCY. She pinches off a small chunk of gum from her wad, sticks it to the sign, and slaps it onto the door. “Not alone, you’re not.”

  31

  Russ

  As soon I see the Hertz brochure on her seat, with the door still open and dinging, I realize what’s happened. She’s found me out, because of a goddamned rental car contract.

  Fuck.

  I set her iced tea and my coffee on the roof, instinctively checking my phone to see if she messaged even a fuck you. But she hasn’t—and I wouldn’t have gotten the message even if she had. Goddamn it. I knew I should have told her last night, I knew it. But I didn’t. I let those pretty blue eyes talk me out of it. I don’t want to talk about work, not right now. And now here I am, with a vanilla scone in my pocket and no Penny to give it to.

  You dumb motherfucker.

  I have no idea where she’s gone, either. I scan the mostly empty street for her, but I don’t see her sweet smile, or her beautiful face, or her long dark hair. Down the block I see the sign for the Visit Florida office, so I lock up the Suburban and go take a look, pressing my face against the glass door of the building. It’s dark and empty. Her desk is an adorably controlled chaos, a kind of explosion of pens and markers, and a million different colored Post-its everywhere. Above her monitor is a thin strip of corkboard with dozens of photos thumbtacked along it. Guppy, the mayor, her Uncle Tom, an old guy holding a trout, with a T-shirt that says WORLD’S BEST GRANDPA. And for one second, I wish with my whole fucking heart that there was a picture of us right there in the middle of it.

  Us.

  I wish so fucking badly there could be an us.

  But I’ve fucked it up, and there can’t be anything until I find her and explain myself.

  Right then, there’s a tap on my shoulder. Ka-whump goes my heart in my chest. But when I turn around, it’s not Penny. And it’s not Sonny Bono either. It’s Dick Goddamned Dickerson in a whole fucking explosion of golf plaids. It’s hard to even look at, like when ESPN sportscasters wear checked suits on high def. Kind of makes me want to puke.

  “Peeking in windows while you eat pastries isn’t what I hired you for, Mr. Macklin,” he grumbles, nodding once at the scone in the Starbucks bag poking out of my pocket. “I can do that shit myself. For free.”

  Come the fuck on. Not this, not now. “I gotta say, Dickerson, your vendetta against the mayor is starting to look more personal than professional. And I don’t get involved in personal pissing matches.”

  Dickerson sniffs, and I notice some man-boob sweat dampening his plaids. “Do your job. Get your fee. I know people who know people, Macklin. You don’t want to let me down.”

  Whatever. I’m not about to get into an I'll-fuck-you-up-more debate with the Plaid Santa here, not when I’ve got way more important shit to do.

  “I’ve been here two days,” I say, jamming the scone deeper into my pocket, and turning my back on him. “Don’t call me. I'll call you.”

  Back in the Suburban, I gun the engine and peel out, tearing down the empty street. But before I can get even a block, a red light stops me, and a milky brown cascade pours down onto my windshield. Her iced tea and my latte.

  I hit the wipers, and for one second let my forehead rest on the steering wheel. Fuck.

  * * *

  From halfway down Beach Point Drive, I see my suitcase poking out from between the mailboxes. Standing by it is the girl from Surf�
�s Up, the one with the green smoothie.

  The best friend.

  As soon as she sees my Suburban, she puts her hands on her hips and levels me with a stone-cold stare. You can tell a lot about the way a person stares at you when they’re gunning for a fight. If they’re brave, or stupid, or fundamentally chicken-shit. Whatever else she might be, she’s not chicken-shit. She glares at me hard, like she wants to punch me right in the throat. Or knee me in the nuts. Or both.

  I put the Suburban in park and get out. Before I can come around to face her, she’s marched over to my side and intercepted me at my door. She looks just a little crazy in the eyes.

  “I’m Russ. I need to see Penny.”

  “I’m Maisie, and you can take your shit and go.”

  I look over her shoulder for any sign of Penny, any sign of movement, maybe even her face at the frosted window, but there’s nothing. Guppy isn’t there either. I make a move to push past Maisie, but she stops me with an angry palm to my chest. She rises up on her tiptoes and gets right in my face. “Listen, Mr. Macklin. I don’t know why you’re here or what the hell you want with Penny, but her heart is about as soft as cream cheese. I’ve got no patience for assholes with fake names, and neither does she.”

  She might be a foot shorter than me, but this woman’s not screwing around. She’s also working on her bubble gum with a goddamned vengeance. Reminds me of a professional baseball player, working their way through a mouthful of chew.

  “I get it. You’re protective. I respect that…”

  “Protective,” she snarls. “Protective is when I stick a banana in your exhaust pipe. Protective is when I leave a rude note on your windshield. Protective is when you have to go through the carwash ten times because of the seagull shit. That is protective. You haven’t been here for three days and you’ve got her in tears already. Protective isn’t the word, you got me? Take your slick website and your military heroism and your Boston apartment and your diving records and your investigations and get the hell away from her. Go seduce someone else, you rake.”

  Whoa. Shit.

  The shoe is on the other foot—normally I’m the one with the information—and it’s really fucking disorienting; she just shot me down with my own dossier without even stopping for a breath. Everything she said is true. All together, it’s damn near the sum total of my existence. It’s neat, it’s respectable, it’s got sharp corners and clean lines, and it’s also totally fucking empty. “I need to see her. Five minutes. That’s it.”

  “Yeah? Planning on staying? Planning on giving up apartment 4A and your—” Here she inserts air quotes. “—100% guarantee of discretion?”

  Jesus, she’s ferocious. She’s also foaming a little bit because of her gum. But I give her huge props. If only we were all so fucking lucky to have a friend like this one.

  I look past her toward Penny’s house, to the vines and the planters and the warmth that spills out of the place from every window and door. Every inch a home. A real home. A real life.

  If only we were all so fucking lucky to have a life like this.

  I take a step back. “All right. I hear you. Point taken. I’m going.”

  “I’m glad we understand each other,” Maisie says. She walks around the back of my SUV. I’m expecting her to wheel my suitcase around, but she doesn’t. Instead she pushes it along, fabric to the asphalt, like she’s shoving a boat out to sea.

  She slaps the roller arm handle into my palm. “This broke off while I was wheeling it out here. Have a good visit, Mr. Macklin. And unless you want to roll the dice with me, a cup of sugar and your Hertz catastrophic insurance policy, I’d say you should stay as far away from East Beach Point Drive as is humanly possible.”

  32

  Penny

  Maisie said getting rid of him would be as easy as waxing our legs at home—one-two-three, hold your breath and gone. Easy for her, maybe. But not for me. On the bed, the outline of his body is still visible in the rumpled sheets, and I forgot to put his toothbrush in his bag. His stands side-by-side with mine, next to the sink, a heart-pinching reminder of how nice it was to play house.

  That is all it was, though, I force myself to repeat. Just house. Just playing house.

  After eating two slices of banana bread and two cookies, I hear my phone buzz. I lunge for it, hoping against hope that it’s Russ. But it isn’t. It’s a message from Grandpa, on Skype, that says:

  * * *

  Tried to call you at noon like we planned.

  I'll be here!

  * * *

  And so on top of everything, I stood up my grandpa. This day just gets better and better.

  Cramming the last bite of cookie into my mouth, I open up Skype. One ring, two, and then the bloop-bloop of connection noise fills the room. Grandpa’s face lights up my screen. He’s in his big bifocals, and there’s a tiny piece of toilet paper stuck to his cheek where he nicked himself shaving.

  “There’s my lucky Penny! I was wondering why you didn’t call this morning.”

  I slump down into one of the chairs at my kitchen table. “I’m sorry about that, Grandpa. I totally lost track of time.”

  “Not to worry!” he says, and he situates his phone next to the stove. It gives me a view of the present I bought him when I went to visit to learn to become a marmalade whisperer—before Russ, before the madness, before the nonsense and tingles. The apron says, I CAN BECAUSE I CAN, with a smiling jar of pickles underneath. I hear the simmering and sizzling of the canning pot, and the rattle-rattle of jars under the water. “Making some strawberry preserves. I’m a bit concerned about the texture, though,” he says, peering down into the water and fogging up his glasses. “Like it won’t quite set, you know? Like when you put too much water in Jell-O and it never quite firms up? Wobbly? Like that?”

  Oh geez. I’m familiar with the situation. “I’m sure it’ll turn out perfectly.”

  “So how are you, my dear? Situation normal?” He takes off his glasses and crouches down to his phone, cleaning off the steam with his apron.

  I usually tell him everything, but I don’t know if I can even explain this. I run it through my thoughts and find it sounds a little…insane: So there was a man whose suitcase I stole, and who I almost poisoned, but who also loves Dickens and who was really such fun and so easy to be around and so utterly…

  Full of shit.

  “I’m okay. Maisie is forcing me to go to the Tangerine Festival today.”

  He scrunches up his nose, and brings his face closer to the phone. “I’ve heard people sound happier about funerals. Get excited, Penny! Tangerines! Carnival rides! The boardwalk! The mayor in the dunk tank!”

  It’s true, I should be excited. I love the festival and always have. But today, it all just feels so sad. Russ Macklin has knocked the wind from my sails and I’m feeling pretty much adrift.

  “You okay?” Grandpa says when I don’t answer.

  What would make me feel better right about now is a good game of Scrabble with Grandpa, and a lesson on the finer points of knowing which cucumbers make the best spicy dills. “I wish you were here.”

  He puts his glasses back on his face, and they steam up all over again. “Me too, sweetheart. If only to cheer you up.”

  * * *

  I hurl a wooden tangerine at the dunk tank, missing the paddle by an inch. The mayor hoots, “Come on, Penny! I can’t dunk myself for the Humane Society, can I?”

  Almost in spite of myself, I start to smile. His joy in the face of embarrassment is downright contagious. For as eccentric as he can be, he takes the punches as they come. Nobody likes to be roasted more than the mayor, and nobody likes to be dunked more, either. But I’m way off my game and my second throw is also a miss. The mayor gives me Fonz snaps to egg me on, and I put my hand out for my third tangerine.

  Maisie, acting as pitching coach, places it in my palm, but before she lets it go she mutters, “Uh-oh.”

  My heart takes off in a sudden wild gallop as I search through the cr
owds. I scan all the slightly sunburnt faces. I look everywhere for those broad shoulders, that beautiful body, that rugged stubble and gorgeous smile. But I don’t see him. What I do see, unfortunately, is a vision of plaid. Plaid shorts, plaid shirt, plaid pageboy cap. Plaid shoes, even.

  Dickerson.

  I look to the mayor, who’s spotted him, too. In fact, the whole crowd has spotted him—he’s impossible to miss, like a chameleon with a very serious camouflage malfunction. Also, every single Port Flamingoan hates him.

  “Turd,” I hear the mayor growl.

  Dickerson strolls in like he owns the place, which he doesn’t—not yet. The mayor scrambles off of the dunk tank platform and marches over to him, popping his polo collar to say he means business. In the background, out of the painted flaps of the Sundown Saloon comes my Uncle Tom, wringing a dishtowel in his hands. Everybody goes silent. We’re three guns short of a beachside reenactment of the shootout at the O.K. Corral.

  “Get the hell out of here, Dickerson,” Mayor Jeffers says. “You’re not wanted. And you look like a sofa.”

  Dickerson adjusts his pants, which are really very unfortunate around the FUPA and crotch areas, and I try to avert my gaze.

  “You heard the man,” says Uncle Tom. “Get going, Dick.” Uncle Tom straightens his sheriff’s badge and then cracks his knuckles. A couple of the guys who run the teacup ride loom nearby. They brew beer with Uncle Tom, and they’ve got matching Florida Department of Corrections ankle bracelets. I’ve never asked, but judging from the way they’re looking at Dickerson, something tells me they weren’t in jail for some minor tax evasion.