Summer Hours

by Amy Mason Doan

  I’m not a fan of that wait-a-sec finger.

  At least a middle finger would say it directly: Go fuck yourself...for a sec.

  When I picked him up this morning, it was still dark, so as he walked toward me down the long, curving stone walkway, between rows of flickering solar garden lights, he couldn’t see my hands trembling.

  We had projects to keep us occupied: checking out the car, chuckling about the size of the gift, stowing his suitcase in the trunk. Aware of sleeping neighbors, we hushed our voices.

  Can I help?

  I’ve got it, thanks.

  The seat adjuster thingy is down there, on your right.

  Found it...

  But now I’m standing in a bright parking lot, project-less. Painfully aware of the sun on my hands, my face, my wind-whipped hair.

  I don’t know what to do with my body, where to look. Now that I’m out of the car, there are too many choices.

  I do some calf stretches, breathing in deep, pulling the briny air into my lungs like a hearty sailor. I survey the white-tipped waves, the long, dockside outdoor seating area of the restaurant.

  Then look back toward the car, a vague, no-rush smile on my face.

  He glances up at me, squinting. He’s always eschewed sunglasses, and in the unforgiving noon sun, the lines fanning from his eyes are pronounced. Ten years will stamp themselves on your skin, no matter how careful you are with the sunblock.

  But his hair hasn’t thinned since we last saw each other; he’s fared well in that department. And he works out, I can tell from the way his shoulders pull the seams of his white button-down shirt as he gestures on the phone.

  He’ll evaluate the changes in me, too. Compare the twenty-two-year-old he last saw with the thirty-two-year-old before him. Anyone would.

  A gust of wind off the ocean shoots up my pale blue T-shirt dress and I hold the fluttering hem down on my thighs just in time.

  At least it gives me something to do with my hands.

  After trying on six possible outfits for this day, I’d decided on the T-shirt dress weeks ago. Simple and comfortable. But five minutes before I was supposed to leave my condo in Dana Point this morning, I caught my reflection in the hall mirror and decided the dress was a shapeless bag. I yanked it off and pulled on black shorts and a gray tank.

  But then I decided I looked like I was trying too hard to prove I wasn’t trying too hard, and went back to the light blue bag.

  I should’ve worn the shorts.

  I wander away from the car, stretch my arms over my head.

  “Sorry about that!” he calls.

  I whirl around. Here’s where we could finally get serious. Real.

  Like that irritating slogan from The Real World: here’s what happens when people stop being polite and start getting real!

  Finally, he could say. Finally, we can catch up. I want to hear everything!

  He strolls toward me, slipping his phone in his shirt pocket.

  “Sorry,” he repeats. “You know how it is.”

  “I do. I get it, no problem.”

  He joins me in my casual stretches on the dockside walkway. He’s doing back twists and I’m using the do-not-feed-gulls! sign for balance as I pull my ankles to my butt.

  It’s like we’re warming up for a 10K.

  “Nice place,” he says politely as we walk down the dock to the outdoor host stand. “Have you eaten here before?”

  “No, but they’re supposed to have amazing scampi, and I requested a table by that side window there, so we can keep an eye on the gift.” I give him a self-deprecating smile. “I know it probably sounds paranoid.”

  He returns my smile. “Not at all. It sounds organized. You can’t neglect your third passenger.”

  “No.” I laugh. A little too loud.

  We walk in silence, looking anywhere but at each other, squinting into the sunlight dappling the water. As we approach the restaurant, he knocks dock posts with his left hand, as if he’s from quality control and just here to test the wood.

  “Well, I’m starving,” he finally says.

  “Me, too.”

  We’re early, and our northside, two-top corner table with partial views of water and parking lot is not ready.

  The hostess asks, “Would you like to wait at the bar?”

  “Sure, that’d be—”

  “I don’t think—”

  “What were you saying?”

  He says, apologetically, half to me and half to the hostess, “Oh. I was just wondering if we could get it to go and eat there?” He points at the row of concrete benches by the parking lot.

  They’re for the food carts in the neighboring alley. Commander Shrimpy and Killer Korndogz.

  “Of course,” the hostess says.

  To me, he asks, “Is that okay? We still have that stop and I’m kind of anxious to get up to the hotel so I can hook up my laptop.”

  “Sure!”

  “Work’s insane right now.”

  “I totally get it, let’s not waste any time!”

  So we eat in the parking lot. Batting away gulls, scarfing pan-seared grouper sandwiches from white sacks. On a bench shared with a cranky Sacramento family on their way to Disneyland. The Bevins clan.

  Instead of jazz we listen to four-year-old Katy Bevins wailing that her Polly Pocket has taken a header into a storm drain. Instead of a tablescape swept free of every unsightly grain of flour, we eat over our laps. We might as well have gone through a McDonald’s drive-through for Filets-O-Fish.

  But we have an excellent view of the car. And he’s polite, cheerful, taking an interest in my life.

  “So how many are on your team?” he asks, referring to my job as West Coast content officer of newzly.com. News You Can Choose!

  “Nineteen right now. It should be more but we’re in a hiring freeze because of the downturn.”

  “I get it. That’s impressive, though. Nineteen.”

  “Thanks. So how do you like your iPhone? Tech support’s issuing them to us next week.”

  Everyone in the Newzly office was aflutter when we got this news. The BlackBerry stowed in my purse, coveted and cutting-edge only three years ago, is already out.

  “I love it,” he says. “It saves me so much time.”

  We both nod enthusiastically.

  He sets his sandwich down on the to-go bag between us and takes his phone out of his pocket to show me how sleek it is, how thin and light. How you can drag and drop “apps” around the screen.

  When I point at a bright weather icon, I accidentally brush my bare wrist against his. I twitch away and busy my hand, smoothing the bag on my lap. “I can’t wait to get one. It’ll make it so much easier for me to work when I travel.”

  “Why don’t I drive the next shift so you can check in at the office?” he offers.

  I’m tempted, but not because I want to check in. After a morning folded into clown-car position in the driver seat, the passenger side, with its precious extra inches of pedal-free leg room and opportunities to do spine twists, would feel like first class.

  But this trip was my idea, and I’ve witnessed how slammed he is. I promised he could work on the road. “No, it’s fine. The car’s pretty fun to drive and I can see how busy you—”

  His phone chimes. “Excuse me,” he says and scoots away a foot, to the end of the bench. As he listens intently, he turns and we make eye contact. I’m sorry, he mouths.

  I give him a dismissive, casual wave—no problem, I get it!

  I wait for a little more from him. An eye roll, maybe. But he’s already looking through me, picturing whomever he’s talking to.

  I smile at Katy Bevins in front of me. The mourning period for the lost Polly Pocket is over and she’s shyly showing me an impressive case of other Pollys, their plastic pets and accessories
. “Which pet do you like best?” I ask her. She hands me a koala the size of a pencil eraser. “I think this is my favorite, too. But the raccoon is cute, what’s its name...?”

  Being with him again isn’t what I imagined. He’s so upbeat, fielding his work calls. So smooth, so in his element. Seeing me for the first time in a decade hasn’t affected his productivity in the slightest.

  I didn’t expect a sappy reunion, but I didn’t imagine this...casual efficiency, either.

  I prepared for awkwardness, tension. Not loneliness.

  I thought we’d hug this morning when I picked him up. Maybe not for long.

  But I thought we’d find a way to acknowledge who we used to be to each other. Try to hold those past selves in our arms for a minute before letting them go.

  I didn’t know that our ghosts would get in the way.

  * * *

  I spend the rest of our lunch chatting with Mr. and Mrs. Bevins. She’s a health-care consultant and he’s in copper rain gutters. They’re grateful for my Disneyland tips, but I’m distracted. Trying not to eavesdrop on his work call.

  Trying not to be disappointed that we’re dining in a parking lot.

  “...I should be checked in by four, I’ll pull it up right away...” He laughs. “Yeah, I’m with a friend...”

  I draw on Mrs. Bevins’s Disneyland map, showing her how they should boogie immediately to the rear of the park, Frontierland or Mickey’s Toontown, the second they’re through the gates, then work their way back toward Main Street, USA. in a reverse commute.

  But my mind’s on friend.

  When coworkers have asked me if I’m taking a date to this out-of-town wedding, their voices and eyebrows floating up, mischievous, I’ve quickly corrected them:

  No, I’m going with an old friend. The bride invited each of us, it’s a long story.

  “Can you circle the ride you were talking about, the tree?” Mrs. Bevins asks.

  I mark her map. “It’s not really a ride. Swiss Family Robinson island. Sorry, Tarzan’s Treehouse, they call it now. You have to take a boat over, but she’ll love it. It’s one of the oldest attractions.”

  “We really appreciate it,” Mrs. Bevins says. “You know, we couldn’t afford to stay inside the park so we want to make the most of...”

  I smile at her, but I’m listening to him on his business call. “I know, the timeline’s brutal, I get it...”

  I get it.

  We’ve said this to each other at least ten times, in our emails leading up to the trip and today.

  Three syllables meant to convey pure empathy.

  Do you get it? I want to ask.

  The Bevins family leaves and I call, “Have fun!”

  He waves to them. A distracted goodbye, but I store it up as another small, consoling sign. At least he waved to the Bevinses. At least he called me a friend.

  But the second they’re out of sight, he’s back to talking stats and jump reports and quarterlies. I notice a big drop of red-pepper aioli oozing from his sandwich, clinging to his focaccia roll for a minute, shivering, attenuating.

  My hand jerks out to catch it with my napkin, but I pull back.

  I crumple my napkin and watch as the pink glob breaks free and lands just above his right knee, melts into his expensive linen pants. Spreads into a peach-colored, thumbprint-size stain.

  “Sorry about that, ready to hit the road?” His call over, he’s standing, stretching.

  “Yep, all set.”

  I don’t point out the stain.

  14

  Boondoggle

  August 7, 1995

  9:55 a.m.

  Hotel Del Coronado, San Diego

  The boondoggle was at the Hotel Del, as everyone called it. A sprawling California castle in San Diego—white with red tile funnel roofs, right on the sand.

  Attendance at the boondoggle was mandatory.

  “Derrek Schwinn’s coming to the breakfast meeting so we need bodies,” Stephen told me.

  Derrek Schwinn was the money behind The Sexiest Search Engine in the Valley. That was what Forbes had called his company in an article I’d read twice, trying to understand data scaffolding. He’d been on the cover of that issue, not looking especially sexy. A pale man with lashless mole eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses, thinning strands of black hair pasted to his skull.

  The article hadn’t deciphered data scaffolding for me, but it had given me an excellent primer on “data sorting,” the technology that first earned Schwinn big money. Schwinn was apparently the sorting king of Silicon Valley.

  I dressed carefully that morning, in a narrow black skirt, ivory blouse, and black blazer I’d bought full price at Macy’s. It ate up a whole paycheck—my only splurge this summer besides Wag Dos—but I wanted to look mature, professional.

  And yes, pretty, in case a certain other body showed up. A body that had vanished since our lunch.

  I’d been scanning the conference room for an hour, helping Stephen set up, but though I recognized Derrek Schwinn, Cal wasn’t there.

  Stephen stationed me on the wall in front of a blasting air-conditioner vent, between the door and a table of Danish, then bustled off importantly to help with the projector. Two long, white-clothed tables were arranged like a giant equal sign in the red-carpeted room. Derrek Schwinn took the seat reserved for him. The best spot, a chair closest to the projector screen at the far table.

  Inside the equal sign, the chief marketing officer paced, psyching herself up for what Stephen called her “preso.”

  “We’re just about to get started, so load up on those pastries while you can,” she deadpanned, and everyone laughed.

  I forced a smile, feeling like part of the show because of my proximity to the Danish. He wasn’t coming. I’d been so sure he would.

  Someone dragged the curtains shut, the first slide appeared on the screen, and everyone turned to watch.

  He sailed in a second before the lights went out.

  Sailed—there was no other word for it.

  Unhurried, smiling, smooth, gliding across the front of the room. Not ducking, though the projector beam covered his suit in logos: CommPlanet’s little chomping globe, the fat red N for NoozeButton, a dozen other focus-grouped images that, with hard work and luck, would become huge.

  He claimed the seat at Derrek Schwinn’s left. Clapped Schwinn on the shoulder as he settled into his chair, reached to pour coffee from a thermos, shifted his body to the right to watch the screen.

  So this is how he acts in a meeting. This is how he sits in a gold hotel chair.

  I watched him. No boyish tilting back today, like during our courtyard bite. But the ease was the same.

  He listened attentively, taking in CommPlanet’s “global branding reach...its highly scalable, customizable utility...” And my old friend, “scaffolding.”

  No one would guess that he mocked such jargon in private. He seemed as comfortable with the billionaire beside him as he was with the gate attendant at The Heights. He seemed not to care what anyone thought of him.

  Was that the secret, not caring so much?

  There were thirty-one slides in the presentation; it was identical to the packets I’d compiled with Stephen around the conference room table. On the tenth slide, as my mock-up article on pet spas flashed on the screen, he poured more coffee. On the twentieth slide, Schwinn whispered to him. On the twenty-fourth, he knit his fingers, rotated his hands, and stretched his arms high above his head.

  On the twenty-fifth, he looked my way.

  I smiled at him.

  He didn’t return my smile, as people say. Because mine was a discreet greeting, one corner of my mouth barely curving up. Yep, it’s me. Manning the pastry table in a power suit.

  What he returned was a brilliant, surprised grin.

  And then his face changed. Surprise fel
l away, and I caught the faintest of head shakes. Look at these poor souls, his expression said. As if he was telling me something that only I would understand, sending the private message over every other attentive-but-clueless head in the room.

  I dared myself not to look away.

  * * *

  When the lights came on and everyone stood, I lost him.

  “You should head back now, Rebecca,” Stephen said, impressing the out-of-town partners standing nearby with the fact that he had an underling.

  There were more activities planned—a bocce ball tournament on the lawn with mimosas, a luncheon in the four-star Hotel Del restaurant—but apparently they were for VIPs only. My body was no longer needed to impress Schwinn or anyone else.

  Irritated, I followed the hotel’s network of thin outdoor boardwalks and narrow, red-carpeted halls to the front lobby. I took my blazer off and slung it over my shoulder; the AC in Wag Dos was busted, and now that I didn’t need to look professional I wanted only comfort.

  In an alcove by the gift shop I spotted flickering grayish light and bodies packing in. Impulsive, curious, I ducked into the standing room–only space: it was a film about the hotel’s history, played on a loop.

  I’d missed the beginning, but I caught the section about how Some Like It Hot had been filmed at the Hotel Del, and how the ghost of a murdered woman supposedly haunted the halls. Much more entertaining than the Global Branding Opportunities show I’d just watched.

  Take that, Stephen. I’ll make my own boondoggle.

  When the lights came on and we filed out, I found myself wedged in the middle of a pack of bodies. A German tour group, a family with two whiny toddlers.

  And Derrek Schwinn. “Did you enjoy that?”

  I assumed he’d recognized me from the presentation and answered with salesy brightness. “It was really interesting!”

  “Have you seen the movie? Some Like It Hot?”

  He pronounced the title too slowly, too academically, and if his eyes weren’t roaming down the neckline of my blouse as he asked the question it might have been funny.