by Cathy Lamb
There was only one other car there. A teenage girl was leaving the clinic, cradling her cat.
I ran around the truck, trying not to cry, and grabbed Sundance. He was panting, making choking sounds.
The teenage girl, Tari, ran for the door and held it open for me, her cat in one arm, elongated like a cat rubber band, as she struggled to hold him and the door. The cat had a disgusted look on his face, as if he couldn’t believe this undignified thing was happening to him. I ignored it. I had an emergency.
“Thank you,” I said.
Gayle wasn’t there, but I could see Marco in the back of the clinic.
“Marco!” I called out. He saw my face and came running, opening the door to the reception area.
“Let me have him,” he said, and gently took Sundance out of my arms.
He took a limp Sundance into an exam room and laid him on the table. He was gentle, and efficient, and Sundance lay quietly, with only a few whimpers.
“I think he’s swallowed something,” he said.
“Oh no. Will it kill him? Can you get it out?”
“Let’s X-ray him.” On the X-ray he saw something that shouldn’t be there and induced vomiting. It wasn’t pleasant, poor Sundance. Marco pulled something out of his mouth.
Oh dear.
And there was the evidence.
So embarrassing.
Sundance had eaten one of my pink lacy panties.
I groaned.
Marco laughed.
“I think you’ll need new underwear.”
“Oh dear.”
“Let me know if you’d like me to buy it for you.”
For heaven’s sakes. “Why did you have to say something so sexy?”
“Ah. Was that sexy?”
“Stop that sexy smile.”
He tried to frown. He looked intimidating, intimidating but so sizzling hot, darn him, then he laughed. That man turned me on so much I wanted to lie down on the grass outside and catch my breath while fanning my flushing face.
“I don’t know what to say to that one,” I said.
“Say yes.”
I rolled my eyes at him, then turned toward Sundance, who bounded right over to me with his three-legged wobble as if to say, “There! You can have them back now!”
“Have you had dinner?” Marco asked as I pet Sundance and told him never to do that again.
“I haven’t even had lunch,” I said. “The bookstore was busy today. I had a group in for their monthly meeting, and I joined them. The Scientific Nerds group. They were discussing new research in genetics, and it was interesting. It appealed to the nerd in me.”
“I heard about them. There’s a number of retired scientists and tech people living here, isn’t there?”
“Yes. Anton Husk lives here, too.” Anton was, apparently, famous in the nerd science world. “Have you met him? He walks around in red pants and a black hoodie most days. He wears sunglasses even on overcast days because he has social anxiety and he says it helps him to stay calm if people try to talk to him.”
“I’ve met him. We went fishing together on my boat. His father was a fisherman, and he worked with him for years in Alaska. He definitely relaxed when we were all out on the water.” He pet Sundance again. He was a gentle man, but tough, too. “I’m hungry. Want to come over to the house and have dinner with me? Sundance can come with us. He seems a lot better.”
“Oh no. I couldn’t.”
“Why? I mean.” He put his hands up. “I’m sorry. No pressure. I haven’t eaten for hours, and I actually have turtle soup.”
“What is turtle soup?”
“Mrs. Gradenni made it for me. I healed her Persian cat. There are no turtles in it. Vegetables. Chicken. I think. I’m not sure. But definitely no turtles, so don’t ask why it’s called turtle soup. It does have a green color to it. . . .”
Soup sounded delicious. I knew Mrs. Gradenni, and she made amazing soup. But could I eat with Marco? Could I control myself? There was, for sure, a bed in that house. “Thanks. Yes. I’ll have some soup and eat you.” Oh, Lord. “I mean, I’ll eat some soup. By you. With you. Turtles and soup, but I realize there are no turtles in the soup.”
Please shut up, please stop talking.
Marco smiled at me, his eyes indulgent, amused, friendly.
“Great. Let’s go.”
“Yes. Let’s go and eat turtles. Uh. Well. Turtle soup.” I laughed as if I’d deliberately made a joke. But I hadn’t.
Try not to fall more in love with him, Evie. Try.
And close your mouth.
* * *
“Tell me more about your life growing up with a father in the military,” Marco said. I told him I was born in Portland, Oregon, how we lived in the Middle East for three years when I was a toddler, then four years in Germany, and four years in Washington, DC, and Georgia before moving to the island.
“My father worked for the military, for the government . . .” I paused because I didn’t quite know when my father’s job switched from military to a different sort of job within the government. “And he traveled a lot, but my mom and Jules and I were here.” He had a lot of questions, but they didn’t seem nosy to me. They seemed . . . interested. Kindly interested.
It had never been lost on me that my beloved father was a military man . . . as was Marco. But they shared many of the same characteristics that any normal woman looked for: Kindness. Intelligence. Humor. Protectiveness. Maturity and insight. Experience. Courage. Dedication and a strong work ethic.
We ate the turtle soup with no turtles in it in his kitchen as we chatted. Marco had a rustic yet modern open home with views that spilled out everywhere toward the ocean, as I’d imagined. His four dogs, all rescues, hung out with us, too, Sundance having made a miraculous recovery. They were fairly well behaved, one more naughty than the others. One tried to sit in my lap. I let him.
“You were brave to serve, Marco.”
“I was proud to serve, still am. But it was tough.” He hesitated, then said, “After I served, I know I told you this already, but I had a hard time for a while. I still do. I still struggle. But it was years ago and it’s better now. When I got out of the military, I traveled. I went to Vietnam, Thailand, Laos, parts of Africa.”
We talked about his travels and I, the island hermit, lived vicariously through his adventures. “Why did you become a vet?”
“I like animals. They’re innocent. They are not dangerous like humans are. The wild ones may eat other animals, but it’s nutrition based, right?” He smiled. “I like healing them. I wasn’t interested in being a vet until I served in the military. I planned on going to medical school. But then I saw too much death. Too many horrific injuries. I have seen enough human pain to last forever. Some of it, even though I try, I’ll never forget.” He looked away for a minute, and I could tell he was trying to get control of his emotions. He sighed, blinked, and I knew he’d gone to the battlefields and come back. I wanted to hold his hand, because I wanted to comfort that hurting, courageous giant, but I didn’t have the guts.
“I have always liked animals. There were stray dogs in Iraq. It was pathetic, the condition they were in. We fed them, tried to help. But some had rabies and had to be put down.”
“That’s terrible.” I meant it. Tears came to my eyes. I hate hearing about sick or hurt or unloved animals.
“It is. It was. So after my service I traveled then became a vet in Portland, then I came up to the island on a bike trip with my brothers”—he smiled at me—“and it was beautiful. I had a vet practice in Portland, but I was tired of the noise and the traffic and all the people, and I wanted to live closer to nature. Then I met someone in a bookstore called Evie’s Books, Cake, and Tea, and thought she might want to be friends.”
Whew! I felt myself blush. Lord, I am way too old to blush, but there it was. I remembered the day Marco and his brothers trooped in as if it happened this afternoon. They were all in their bike pants and shirts, tall and rangy and masculine, and
right from the start I was attracted to Marco. He had smiled and I was done in. He walked toward me and I wanted to get naked in my own bookstore. He towered over me and I wanted to hug him.
We stood and stared at each other, smiling like fools, his brothers snickering in a friendly way behind him. I finally muttered a “Hello. May I help you find a happy?” Which was ridiculous. And I coughed and said, “May I help you find a book?”
“Yes, thank you. You can help me find a happy and a book.”
Marco was as handsome as a sexy devil, and he was pure man. Pure male.
He asked about nonfiction books I liked, and I stumbled all over myself and showed him my favorites. He bought five books, which was funny, as his brothers quietly laughed, because he was biking and didn’t have much room for the books, but he took them anyhow.
He came in twice more for books on his trip, buying five more books each time. I offered to mail them to his home in Portland. He said yes, and I mailed them off. He e-mailed me a thank-you later, and I responded. It was friendly banter back and forth, a couple of phone calls, but I started to draw back, not answer his e-mails.
I was surprised—no, shocked—when he decided to move to the island and let me know he was coming. I got him in touch with a competent realtor, suggested places he might like to live. He said to me, “I’m looking forward to seeing you . . . and how about dinner when I get there?”
And I had to tell him that I wasn’t dating at that time. That was true. I don’t date. But the reason I couldn’t date him specifically was completely different from why I don’t date in general. Completely different and completely tragic.
It was awkward and I felt horrible, and Marco was polite and kind, and still moved out to the island anyhow, so I knew he did love it here.
He was engaging and funny and interesting when he came into the bookstore to see me or when we accidentally met in town or when I saw him as a vet. He was never overbearing. He wasn’t pushy. He was his gorgeous and sexy and understanding gentlemanly self.
About a month after he came to the island, he tried to take me out again. “I know I have asked you before, but I thought I would try again. We can be friends. No pressure. Just dinner. Or fishing. Or we can read books by the ocean and I’ll bring cake.”
He knew I liked cake. My heart squeezed as I stared into those dark, soft eyes. I wanted to eat cake with Marco! “No, thank you.”
“All right. Well, if you change your mind.”
“I’m sorry, Marco. I can’t date you.” I winced. I shouldn’t have said “you.”
“Would you like to tell me why?”
“I’m not . . . I can’t . . . I’m not into dating right now.”
“Okay. Would you be into dating later? Say in a month or two or a year?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I understand.”
He didn’t. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. I saw that he was disappointed, I saw that he was hurt.
How could he possibly understand the reason I couldn’t date him? What I saw, clear as a lightning blast, that first day I met him in my bookstore, handing him one nonfiction book after another?
“Well. If you would like to go on a hike or out on my boat in a nondating situation, as friends, would you let me know?”
“Yes, I will.”
There was more silence.
Dang. Double dang. I wanted to cry. I thought I might have seen a wet sheen over his eyes, too. I made a choked and inelegant sound in my throat.
“Evie?”
“Yes.” I was trying not to sob like a fool in front of him that day. I am not a pretty crier. I get all red in the face and my eyes swell up and I often start to hiccup and then that can cause me to wet myself a little bit, I have no idea why. So I’m a wet mess all over.
“Please bring your animals to me when they’re sick or hurt,” Marco said. “I do want to help them, heal them. I don’t want this to be awkward between us. I’ll pretend I never asked you out if you pretend the same thing.”
“Okay. Let’s do that. And I’ll probably see you soon.” I sniffled ingloriously.
“I’d like that.”
* * *
I tried to forget that I couldn’t date Marco as we talked for three hours that night at his home, the conversation flowing and funny and deep, all at the same time. It was so easy to get lost in him, lost in us. He was a man in all senses of the word. You could trust him. You could rely on him. He was confident, but never arrogant. He had a history that had hard things in it, so he didn’t expect other people to come perfect with no history.
He wouldn’t want to know all of me, though, would he? The often anxious, obsessive, now and then depressed and worried person that I am who would find being a hermit to be a pleasant occupation? The woman who had a lot of animals she talked to as if they were people, who slept with three dogs and four cats, who had to be alone a lot to keep her head on straight, and who had a passion for books that was an inch from hoarding? Plus, the other stuff . . . groan.
I wanted to take my blue summer dress off my head and throw it behind my shoulder and jump the man.
Do not do that, Evie, I told myself. No. Keep clothed. No bopping-about nudity.
I longed for Marco.
I wanted to be with him. I wanted to hold him, and kiss him, but I remembered that chilling, bone-rattling premonition that day in the bookstore when he first walked in. I see what happens to him.
I cannot risk it. He cannot risk it.
Chapter 10
“We made a bouquet today in the shape of a pig’s face using pink roses,” my mother said. “It was about three inches tall and twelve inches wide. I used black-eyed Susans for the eyes and red carnations for the bow on her head. We put it right up on Facebook and our web page, and everyone loved it. We had many pig-loving people write in saying they wanted the same bouquet delivered to them or people they knew on the mainland, but you know we only deliver to the islands.”
My mother and Aunt Iris and Aunt Camellia and I were eating four-cheese garlic pizza on the deck of Rose Bloom Cottage, pink and red roses ready to bloom off the trellis, their scent light and sweet. Pizza is part of a healthy diet, so I made sure to have an extra slice. Lord knows I could die tomorrow, perhaps eaten by a whale, and I’d definitely want to make sure I had another piece of four-cheese garlic pizza in me before I headed up the golden staircase.
“I saw it,” I said. “I heard about it from a customer. It was a sweet pig, personable.”
The bouquet was labeled “Check your meat! Make sure you are getting your bacon from farmers who are kind to their pigs! Oink!”
“The other bouquet that was particularly popular,” my mother said, “was the one Iris made. She used a piece of plywood, then glued fake grass over it and spelled out ‘Tina Sorbel Sucks’ with tiny glass vials and daisies. It was exquisite. Inspired!”
“Please tell me that you didn’t put that one on Facebook or your website,” I asked, dreading the answer and the possible defamation. The tulips were blooming, row after row of flower bliss. Iris had been busy photographing them, straight into the petals to that luminescent mystery in the center, from the stems up, in bunches and singles, upside down, at odd angles, and odd designs. They were almost like tulip people.
“Oh, yes, we did,” my mother said, her shoulders squared. “For business and marketing reasons.”
“We did it because of Karma,” Aunt Camellia said, waving her arms. “What goes around comes around. Karma drifts around people like the wind.” She moved her arms wildly. I think she was trying to imitate blustery wind and not a seizure.
“And we posted it because we’re vengeful,” Aunt Iris said, “when our friends are hurt.”
“Who was the bouquet for?” I asked. There was a reason for this mean bouquet, by golly.
“It was for Kora Liponski over on Lopozzo Island,” Aunt Iris said, her disgust apparent. “Her husband left her last week for that manipulative dragon. The lout. The spider.
The worm. Her sister ordered Kora the bouquet to show sisterhood bonding.”
“And the manipulative dragon who seduced the husband was Tina Sorbel,” I said.
My mother and aunts nodded. I groaned. Poor Kora. Tina was prissy. Awful. Manipulative. She was a piece of work. However, she could be a sexy piece of work for a man dumb enough to fall for the vulnerable act she had perfected over the years, where she pretended that she needed protecting. Tina needed protecting about as much as a rabid viper.
“She did wrong,” my mother said. “Taking another woman’s man!”
“Hopefully her intestines will twist,” Aunt Camellia said. “I don’t like to get violent about people’s intestines—I believe that one should wish for happiness and peace for all—but Tina deserves it. Kora and Vance have five young kids. Five. Tina has a black soul poisoned by her selfishness, and Vance has the brain of a skunk, but Vance was Kora’s skunk and Tina shouldn’t have taken the skunk. The skunk was Kora’s to shoot, not Tina’s.”
“Tina Sorbel doesn’t even seem like the type of woman who would like sex, so it’s hard to picture a torrid affair here,” I said. “She’s too concerned with keeping her lipstick on straight and her hair brushed. She looks like an overgrown Barbie.”
“I don’t think she took Kora’s husband for the sex,” Aunt Iris said.
“She took him for his horses,” my mother said.
“You’re kidding.”
“Oh no,” Aunt Iris said. “Those horses are racing horses. He takes them off the island a couple of times a year. She loves traveling and wearing those fancy, silly hats to the horse races.”
“Those hats don’t compare with ours,” Aunt Camellia sniffed. “We make our hats with the intent to bring smiles to others, to make them laugh, to bring creativity and color to their day.”
“No comparison,” my mother sniffed, too. “We make our hats with love.”
“We will never make Tina a hat, or a bouquet. We will not even sell her one daisy,” Aunt Iris said. “Can we agree on that simple, rational solution?”