by Marci Nault
Joseph stood and extended his hand toward her. “It’s nice to meet you. How are you liking your new home?”
“It’s lovely. It’s been a lot of work to get it cleaned, but Molly and Victoria have been such a great help.”
“Well, you let us know if you need anything.”
“Thank you.” She smiled and looked around the picnic table.
The other men grumbled under their breath and looked at their cards. The smoke began to fill her sinuses, and she sneezed and began to cough.
“Well, it was nice to meet all of you. I have to get back to work.”
“Yeah, finish unpacking your stuff, but leave ours alone,” Daniel said as she walked away.
She thought about turning around to say something but felt it was better to leave it alone. In time, she’d suggest that they smoke somewhere besides her front yard.
Heather opened the back of the truck and lifted the top box. She could hear Bill’s booming voice as she carried the box to the deck.
“It was so cold in northern Germany that when I tried to move the scope, my skin froze to the metal. The doctors tell me the reason my fingers are swollen now is from the frostbite.”
World War II stories again? Didn’t they have anything else to discuss besides what she suspected were exaggerated tales from half a century ago?
“A missile missed our sub by inches!” Carl yelled. “The explosion knocked me into the radar equipment, and I thought, this is it—any moment the flames are going to blow through and we’re all dead.”
Apparently that missile took out most of his hearing. Heather continued to move the boxes from the truck to the deck.
“Do you need some help, Heather?” Joseph asked from the picnic table.
The thought of carrying the boxes upstairs exhausted her. She wanted to say yes, but she couldn’t ask the old men to help her move. She’d be worried they’d get hurt.
“Thank you, that’s a nice offer, but I’ve got it.”
The work was heavy and dusty, and she began to sweat as she carried the contents of the truck to the deck. At least once they were on the deck they’d be halfway into her house. As she worked, a white rusted truck rattled into the driveway. Tommy stepped from the vehicle and Heather froze between the truck and the deck, a box in her arms, taking in the sight of Tommy standing in her driveway: white T-shirt and jeans, hair as if he’d just run his hands through the thick waves. For a moment she let herself stare into the ocean of his eyes, then without volition, her gaze dipped along the taut deltoids, the chestnut hairs gleaming on his forearms . . . Blood flushed her skin and her heartbeat quickened.
He waved to the old men and walked up to greet her. “Hello again.”
“Hi,” she said, ducked her head, and walked quickly to the deck to deposit the box. Catching her reflection in the glass door, she gasped. She looked like someone who’d been hiking in the woods all day.
“Do you need some help?” Tommy asked.
She didn’t want him seeing her like this. She picked up the box she had just dropped on the porch, opened the door, and half turned toward him, keeping the door open with her no doubt grass-stained backside. “No, I’m fine. I think I hear my phone ringing. I’ll see you later.” Then she rushed into the house and upstairs.
In the mirror she’d hung on the closet door, Heather looked pasty white. She looked haggard with the combination of jet lag and moving stress; the ponytail elastic hadn’t been able to hold Heather’s mane, so frizzy strands stuck out. This is what he’d seen. In all her fantasies and daydreams of meeting him again, never was she dressed in running shorts, sweaty, frazzled, and covered in dirt.
Now she was trapped in the house because she didn’t want to run into him again. It would seem strange if she showered and changed before she moved the rest of the dusty boxes. Then again, anything was better than looking the way she did. At least she’d be clean and smell better. She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
“Tommy, what are you doing here on a Friday? You’re young and vibrant. You should be out having sex, not hanging around an old man,” Grandpa said as he walked away from the picnic table.
“You’re more fun than any woman my age.” Tom waved to the other men and then went to the back of his truck. He grabbed a large flat box and carried it into the house as Grandpa opened the door for him. “What did the doctor tell you about smoking cigars?” he said as he put the box down.
“That it’s bad for my health. I think being eighty-four is a bigger problem. And the other men were the ones smoking, not me.”
“Liar. I saw you when I pulled into the driveway.”
The box contained a desk Tom had bought, which came in four pressed wood panels. Glue and an Allen wrench were the only tools he’d need to assemble the furniture. He’d wanted to spend a day locked in the wood shop, feeling smooth wood under his palm, but work had been too hectic to take time to create a handmade desk. He ripped open the cardboard box and spread the contents around the room.
Grandpa settled into his recliner with a bag of chocolate chip cookies. “When was your last date?” He held the bag out to Tom, who grabbed a cookie and popped it into his mouth.
“I went out with a nice young lady two days ago. Which is why I didn’t come to see you.”
“Was she hot?” Grandpa leaned forward.
Tom chewed absently, looking at the assembly instructions. “She was pretty.”
Grandpa swished his false teeth with his tongue. “Nah, I don’t want pretty. I’m an old man who lives vicariously through his grandson. I want details.” He pounded on the chair with his fist. “Details. And speak up so I don’t miss anything.”
Tom looked at his grandfather. “She had red hair and freckles across her cheeks.”
Erica had bought Tom at the Make-A-Wish bachelor auction. With the body of a Victoria’s Secret model, she caused more than one wide-eyed waiter to stumble during their dinner.
As they ate, he learned that she’d grown up in Southern California and moved to New England to attend Smith College. She graduated magna cum laude, then came to Providence to work in advertising. She had a plan: three children by thirty-seven, one of them adopted from China, and a house on the ocean. When she retired, at fifty-five, she would travel the world doing charity work.
Tom had paid for dinner, kissed her on the cheek, and thanked her for her contribution to the charity.
Grandpa pushed a button, and his recliner rose to help him stand. His black pants, a size too big now, were covered in cookie crumbs that fell to the rug as he stood. Over his Oxford shirt he wore a thick wool sweater that never came off, even in August. “Cold bones,” he’d say.
“How old are you again?” Grandpa asked.
“Thirty.”
“At thirty you should be getting nailed every night. That’s when women are hitting their sexual peak. Or better yet, you should get a wife to keep your bed warm.”
“Grandpa, where did you learn the term ‘nail’?” Tom asked.
“I watch television.”
“They say ‘nailed’ on television? What kind of shows are you watching?”
“Ah, it could’ve been the smut I was reading. What difference does it make?” Grandpa walked to the window. “Did you see that hot young thing next door? Earlier she was stretching on her front lawn. I think she likes giving me a show . . . but if you want her, I won’t use my charm.”
Tom began to organize the parts of the desk according to the instructions. “You go for it, Grandpa. She’s not my type. Plus, she’s engaged.”
“A man hasn’t come ’round. She’s been moving in all by herself,” Grandpa said. “As for type? You’re too picky. You need to go out and get the pipes cleaned.”
“I’m not looking to get my pipes cleaned.”
Grandpa grunted. “What kind of man isn’t looking for that? I wonder if I raised you right.”
Tom had heard the stories from his grandfather’s conquests throughout his life. As a
young man, Grandpa had been a cad. He’d been older than the other children in Nagog by at least ten years, yet he was one of the last men in the community to marry. Thomas had loved women. He didn’t care about the shape, size, or age. Each one was a different flavor in an intricate buffet of gourmet foods. The way they smelled and tasted and the light that caught in their hair drew him like fish to a baited hook.
At twenty-two he managed his father’s factory, and every woman at the social dances knew he would inherit the business. The Great Depression had been in full force and many people looked for relief in simple pleasures. Thomas had taken full advantage.
Then the war came—a time Tom knew his grandfather still relived in his nightmares. The tragedy he saw, the horror and death, the blood of too many people sickened him.
When he came home, he was ready to settle down. He met Tom’s grandmother on the town common. She’d been sitting with her girlfriends listening to the band play in the gazebo, and her long, jet-black hair caught his attention. He asked her to dance, but she refused. Said that she knew what kind of man he was. He didn’t give up. It took two years, but she finally agreed to marry him. During the thirteen years they had before she passed, Grandpa said he was a better man than at any other time in his life. That was the power of a woman.
“With those shorts Heather wears, I bet she’s wild in the sack,” Grandpa said.
Tom screwed two pieces of wood together. “I guess she’s pretty.”
“Boy, I don’t understand you. Your name isn’t Woodward for nothing.” His grandfather looked at him. “I’m assuming you got my blood. But if your mother’s genes got ahold of you . . . they were docile people . . . then you should get some of those pills they have these days. I think this whole community could use a little.”
Tom banged desk parts together and held them until the wood glue dried. Grandpa hadn’t been shy about the women he brought around when Tom was a boy. It didn’t matter to him if the relationship lasted a year or a week, and he tended to court more than one at a time. He’d hoped his grandfather would lose interest, having had enough sex in his life for seven people, but his obsession worsened as he aged.
“Grandpa, I’m fine in that department,” Tom said.
“Good, good. You should go out and find one wearing something pink, soft, and fluffy. I loved those angora sweaters your grandmother wore in the fifties, so soft to the touch when I felt her up.”
Tom cringed behind the desk as he listened to Grandpa’s stories of conquest while he set up the computer. Grandpa had never remarried, nor had Tom’s father. It seemed the Woodward men were doomed to bachelorhood.
Tom looked out the window and saw Heather pick up a box and carry it into the house. “She’s not bad, now is she?” Grandpa clapped his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go get her?”
“Told you . . . not interested,” Tom said.
Grandpa looked Tom in the eye. “I know it’s hard, but at some point you have to let Annabelle go.”
Tom looked away. “I’m working on it.”
“You need a woman to get your blood moving. It’s not good to work as much as you do and to spend your free time with an old man.”
“I like hanging out with you.” Tom sat Grandpa at the desk. “Now you push this button and the computer will start up. You shouldn’t have to shut the computer down, but if you have to restart, I’ve left the instructions.” He pointed to the yellow paper covered with bold black lettering that he’d taped to the desk.
“I don’t see why I need a computer. I’ve lived eighty-four years without one.” Grandpa squished his mouth together and smacked his dentures again.
“Are your teeth hurting?” Tom asked.
“My teeth don’t exist. But my false ones don’t seem to fit anymore. I’m fine.” Grandpa waved his hand.
“I’ll call the dentist and make an appointment,” Tom said, making a mental note to call the doctor too. His grandfather’s skin looked ashen.
“Stop fussing. There isn’t much on me that doesn’t need maintenance or an upgrade. I’m not complaining.”
“So, on the nights I can’t be here . . . Grandpa, are you watching?”
“Oh, I’m watching all right.” Grandpa turned from the window to grin.
“I don’t mean Heather. Look at the computer,” Tom said. “If I can’t visit, I’ll call you. When I do, you press this icon here—this picture of the camera—and then press the key I marked with red ink. I’ll do the same, and then we’ll see each other through the computer.”
“What’s that thing you’re moving?” Grandpa asked.
“It’s called a mouse and it’s how you control the computer,” Tom explained for the third time. “Now, if you press this button, it will open the Internet.” He moved the mouse to the top of the screen. “I’ve set up bookmarks for you. This one will allow you to order your groceries from the computer and have them delivered. They have a better selection than Swanson. I have it set to my credit card.”
He was surprised at Grandpa’s quiet response. Usually, the idea of Tom’s handling some of the finances was cause for a fight. But Grandpa had paid for private high school and Harvard University, and Tom felt it was only right for him to take care of the man’s needs now that he could afford to.
“Get out of my way. Let me play with my new toy. And go help that fine young thing. She’s all fresh and showered and trying to move those boxes on her own. They look heavy.” Grandpa pushed Tom aside and strained his eyes to see the computer.
Tom added the ophthalmologist to the list of appointments.
He glanced at his watch, which read eight o’clock. He needed to return to work. Construction on five projects had been delayed due to the blizzard in April, and he’d hired extra crew to finish on time. There were design details and billing, along with hiring problems to contend with. He needed to add four architects and five support staff before the end of summer if he wanted to have time to sleep. After hundred-hour weeks, he needed a break.
Tom looked out the window. Heather bumped into her door and the box fell on her foot. The women of Nagog had raised Tom to be a gentleman, and the men of the community had provided fine examples. Funny, he thought, she’d showered and changed into jeans and a nice shirt to move boxes. Didn’t running shorts make more sense?
“Oh, what the hell. Grandpa, I’ll be back.”
“Now that’s my boy.”
He went out the door, crossed the drive, and walked onto her deck. The front door was open and he saw Heather as she tried to maneuver the heavy, large box up the stairs in her sandals that slipped on the polished wood. She tried to kick off the shoes, lost her grip, and the box broke open. “Damn!”
“You want help with that?” Tom asked.
She jumped and placed her hand over her heart. “Do you always just walk into people’s homes?”
“Sorry, I’ve been coming into this house like it was my own my entire life. Next time I’ll knock.” He walked toward the stairs and grabbed the mangled box, along with the books and clothing that had fallen out. “Where do you want this?”
“You really don’t have to help.” She tried to pull the box from him but he held tight.
He looked at her, waiting.
“Thank you. It goes in my closet. I’ll show you.” She began to lead the way.
He moved past her. “I know where it is. Decide where you want the rest of the boxes.”
Tom walked up the stairs and into the master suite. He stood at the closet doorway, thankful that Heather hadn’t followed. The room brought back a flood of memories. Tom had renovated the master suite as a gift to Maryland for her sixty-fifth birthday. The closet had been created as the perfect showroom for her extensive ball gown collection, handed down from her mother and grandmother.
Now a few pairs of fancy shoes lined the racks he’d built. A sweater, some skirts, and a few shirts replaced the long full gowns made out of silk. Tom spun the revolving jewelry armoire, exposing the hidden mirror
.
Tom remembered watching Annabelle in the mirror, wearing short jean cutoffs and one of his white button-down shirts tied up in a knot around her waist, while he worked on the closet.
“Hey, lover boy,” Annabelle had cooed.
“I’m working right now, and I’m covered in dust.” He tried not to watch her. The skimpy outfit worked better than lingerie, and it made him ache.
Small dimples framed her smile as she strutted toward him. He tried to steady the shelf as he fired the nail gun. She released her hair from the ponytail; golden locks cascaded down her back as she shook her head. With painful slowness, she unbuttoned her top.
“Don’t distract a man with power tools,” he’d said.
Tom dropped the box, and the thud lurched him back to the present moment. He bowed his head and held the doorframe for support. He could still remember the goose bumps on Annabelle’s skin when he touched her. If only he could reverse time.
He turned and walked downstairs to collect the rest of the boxes.
Heather was leaning against the deck railing. “Thanks for your help. It’s really nice of you.” She smiled at him.
He looked at the boxes. “You’re welcome. Where do you want the rest of these?”
“This pile here goes upstairs in the bedroom, the rest in the kitchen. I’ll help you carry them.”
“I’ve got it,” he said. Heather grabbed a box at the same time he did, and they bumped against each other. Her box tumbled, and he caught it with his free hand before it hit the ground. He tried to step around her just as she tried to move out of his way. When they bumped again, she laughed and looked up at him with a sweet, radiant smile. Standing there, Heather’s body so close to his, he felt something that he’d thought was long dead—a flicker of attraction to someone besides Annabelle.
“I’m not usually this klutzy,” Heather said. “It must be your influence.”
Heat rose from her skin, bringing with it the faint scent of floral perfume. She was flirting with him. Grandpa had been right, it’d been a long time, but Tom wasn’t the kind of man who would use a woman to forget the deep ache left by the loss of the one he loved. “Heather, as far as I know, you’re engaged and shouldn’t be flirting with me.” He turned and walked into the house without pausing for her reaction. He continued to move the boxes marked for the bedroom, while she brought the others into the kitchen. They moved in opposite paths and when the work was done, he found her on the deck, her back turned as she looked at the lake.