by A. S. Green
I look over my shoulder at Bennet, and he’s actually listening as if what I say matters. I’ve never talked to Andrew like this; he stares at me blankly when I try. I guess it’s no surprise Bennet should be different; he knows Austen, after all.
“Unlike you?” he asks softly.
I don’t acknowledge his question. The kettle whistles on the stove. I click off the burner and fill the mugs, stirring out the lumps with a fork. “There’s this moment when I feel like I’m figuring it out, like the author has left me a secret-code message, and this…rush goes through me.” I smile to myself. Maybe it’s saying too much, but I go on. “To get to work with something beautiful like that, every day… If I could afford to do something I love for a living…well…that has to be about as good as it gets, right?”
I pick up the mugs and make my way to the couch.
Bennet stares at me as I walk, then he sucks in a breath. “You’re a very sensual person, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?” I nearly slosh hot chocolate all over my hands.
He laughs. “Don’t get your back up. It’s not a bad word. I only mean that you sense things very strongly. You feel things. The way they sound, smell…taste.” His gaze drops to my lips.
I try to ignore that because, for the first time, it seems like someone actually understands me—or at least is trying to. It’s both confusing and gratifying. I hand him a mug and sit beside him on the couch.
“You’re a very sensual person, D’Arcy. I can tell. You just don’t often let that side out.”
I shrug, saying, “If you say so.”
“Which is why you paint.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I told you. I don’t paint.”
“But you were at the art store because you wanted to experiment.”
“I thought I might give it a try.” I lean forward and set my cup on the coffee table.
“Might?” he asks, his eyebrows coming together over his blue eyes. For a moment I am lost in those eyes. If I were a painter, they’d be the first thing I’d attempt.
“Your turn,” I say, flustered and eager to change the subject. “Tell me about your tattoo. Were you drunk when you got it?”
Bennet smiles, but he doesn’t say anything. The rain pounds harder on the roof. Thunder rolls in the distance, and it diverts his attention to Calloway’s record player. He gets up and flips through the stack of vinyl before making his selection. His crooked little finger stands apart from his others, like a salute, and I’m about to ask him about it when he lowers the arm on the turntable, and the needle bounces noisily against the record.
“Etta James,” he says. A rich voice sings out “Stormy Weather,” just as a lightning strike rattles the windows in their frames. He turns toward me, smiling.
I nod in approval. “Appropriate.”
He sits back on the couch beside me and says, “Okay. Here’s me, real quick. I did one year of college, then seriously pissed off my parents when I quit school and headed out to Los Angeles to work on my music. Played some gigs in local bars. The whole cliché. Eventually I got a job as a mechanic on a private yacht. A really big one.” He opens his arms wide like he’s a fisherman describing the one that got away. “A few years later I wandered my way back north. I’ve been here two years.”
“So you’re a musician and a mechanic.” I consider that. Other than Andrew’s ability to change a tire, I’ve never known anyone who was mechanically inclined.
“Sort of. I taught myself how to do some basic engine repairs when I got my first car, but I lied on my résumé to get the job on the yacht then learned whatever else I needed to know after they hired me. They put me through captain training.”
“Is that how you hurt your finger?”
His lips part, and there’s this awkward silence. A raw look crosses his face, one I would have avoided at all cost if I’d known what I said. But the question seemed innocent enough. With Bennet, having a conversation is like chasing a butterfly into a minefield. I quickly change topics.
“And you still haven’t explained the tattoo.”
He shifts in his seat but doesn’t answer. A second crack of lightning makes us both jump. The lamps flicker, but the power stays on. The rain is noisy on the roof, and the music is scratchy on the old vinyl record but somehow more beautiful in its imperfection.
Bennet clears his throat, then, tapping the place where his tattoo lies under his shirt, says, “When I left college, it became my motto.”
It makes me squirm when things are left unfinished, which is why, even though I’m gratified he’s answered my question, I can’t keep myself from saying, “You should think about going back to school.”
“Why?” he asks, squaring his shoulders. “My parents’ plans for me were never about me. I was supposed to graduate and then help my dad run the family business. It was never what I wanted to do. Besides, my father and I could barely handle being in the same room together. I didn’t see it working out.”
I have a twinge of sympathy for him, but instead of expressing it I say, “Lots of people have shitty dads.”
“Yours was bad even before he left?” He sounds worried for me, like he’s bracing.
I shrug. “Sometimes. Sometimes not.”
“Tell me about the not.”
“He coached me in tennis when I was younger.”
Bennet raises his eyebrows.
“Sometimes he’d wake me up early to surprise me with a breakfast outing—just the two of us. When I turned twelve, he surprised me with these shoes that were covered in gold glitter…because it was my golden birthday and all. I always liked his surprises, but…”
“But?”
“But then he surprised me by leaving. I’m not a big fan of surprises anymore.”
The familiar sting pricks behind my eyes, and I wish Andrew was here. He’d understand. I wouldn’t have to tell him anything. He’d already know, and he’d know what to say.
I steel my jaw and blink back the welling tears. It’s ancient history. I’m over it. I’ve done fine without my dad, and I don’t need him. “The more planning I do, the fewer surprises I have to face.”
“Don’t you ever cry?” Bennet asks, pulling my attention back to him. He’s studying my face, his eyebrows drawn together.
I mirror his expression. “Why should I?”
“Because you feel it. Because it hurts.” He says this with a tone that suggests the answer should be obvious.
I swallow hard and look away. “Losing control like that…it doesn’t fix anything.”
He shakes his head like I’m being ridiculous. “So you compensate by…what? Scrubbing floors, I’m guessing, by the looks of this place.”
“Shut up, okay? At least your dad is home for dinner every night.”
“Yep. And then one night at dinner he called me an ingrate and a disappointment. Said I was selfish for wanting to do my own thing, and that I’d never amount to anything. So I told him he was a narrow-minded, condescending, soulless bastard, and…”
“And?”
“And then he threw a bottle of bourbon at my head and told me not to come back.”
Okay, so Bennet and I are in a serious competition for Suckiest Dad Ever.
“I was mad. At first. But then I took it as a blessing. Go with what’s thrown at you—”
I raise my eyebrows. “Like a bottle?”
“I mean carpe diem. Seize the day.” He reaches across his body and taps his tattoo again. “I did just that and eventually found my way up here for a little songwriting retreat. Arrived a few days after Sully O’Hare had his heart attack. They needed someone with a captain’s license and big boat experience. Sully needed someone to take care of his house and his dog.
“I was looking for somewhere to crash for a while. It worked out for everyone. Two years later, Doyle thinks I’m a ‘lifer,’ even more so now that Sully has passed.”
He watches me for a while. I don’t squirm under his gaze as I did before. Obviously, I n
ever met Sully, so it’s hard for me to call up any real emotion. Still, I can see his death has affected Bennet because there’s a look of shocked sadness in his eyes.
“So you quit college to be a traveling musician?” I don’t know his parents, but I can see why they’d be less than thrilled with his career path. For as long as I’ve known Andrew, he has always pursued a life that would make his parents proud. Bennet doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks of him. And maybe that’s good, if a little selfish. “Have I ever heard any of your music?”
The tops of his cheeks color. “I’ve got an EP you can stream online, plus the latest Cottoneze toilet paper commercial.”
“You wrote that? The one that’s like, You gotta go. You’re on the run. Let Cottoneze clean your BUM, ba-dum-BUM?”
“Guilty,” he says, wincing. He makes a dismissive gesture. “Made some quick cash, and I’ve got a little bit of backing from RMI. That’s a music publisher. I’m working on a new album, though, so hopefully a label will pick me up at some point, or better yet some big name will want to record one of my songs. That’s where the money’s at, songwriting.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who thinks life is about making money.”
“It’s not, but I’m not against money if it’s made doing something I’m passionate about. It’s still a long shot, but you’ve got to keep working on the dream. My agent wants me to work on that dream in Nashville. I’m going at the end of September for a week. Try things out.” He smiles broadly.
Music. It’s hardly a dependable career choice. “Did you ever think that your dad was setting you up to be the prodigal son?”
Bennet laughs a short, hard kind of laugh. “You don’t know my dad. He was happy to see me go.”
I’ve never understood how some people can let go of family so easily while others cling to each other so desperately. Dad’s been gone for years without any contact with us, while Mom holds on to him—or at least the idea of him—like he’s her personal life raft. I try to think of it as sad rather than just pathetic.
It’s clear neither Bennet nor I want to continue this conversation. His face is sullen, and I shift uncomfortably, thinking how to redirect his thoughts.
“D’Arcy, there’s something I said to you before that I didn’t really mean.” He looks up at me apologetically. “The first time I came over here, I told you that I needed to stay away from you because you weren’t going to be helpful in my island social climbing. That was a lie. There was a different reason.”
“Which was?”
“The main reason is that you remind me of home. The way you dress. The way you talk. You’re like the poster child for country-club living. And I guess it reminds me that I’ve worked hard to break away from all that, and I never want to go back.”
The accusation stings a little. I haven’t had a club membership since Dad walked out.
A chickadee lands on the windowsill and begins singing.
“Looks like the rain stopped,” I say. I get up and open the windows, letting the fresh smell of clean air flood the house.
When I turn from the window, I’m taken by the easy comfort of the scene. Bennet in my house. Feet up. Music playing. I am way too relaxed being alone with him, and the feeling scares me. It would be so easy to walk over, straddle him on the couch, and see if those lips taste as delicious as they look.
Bennet reads me right. He drains the last bit of chocolate from his cup, and his eyes regard me softly. My heart melts for this guy who seems so arrogant and self-assured and the next moment so defeated.
“I’ll get a bag for your shirt.”
“Don’t worry about it. I got it.” He scoops it up then grabs his tool belt before moving toward the door.
Outside, the light from the passing storm makes the yard so green it looks almost nuclear. My body is the same way—practically buzzing with the electrical remains of the storm, not to mention Bennet’s visit and the hope of another.
He stops in the doorway, and a rush of heat surges through me as his eyes search mine then unapologetically drift down the rest of my body, lingering in some areas longer than others.
“Did I just pass some kind of test?” I ask, laughing nervously.
“Yes.”
Then, so quick I barely see it, he puts one hand on the wall behind me and leans in. My body tenses, thinking he means to kiss me. A part of my mind is saying, Hold on there, cowboy. The other (louder) part is saying, Yes! Yes! YES!
He doesn’t kiss me, though. Instead, he speaks softly in my ear. “There may be more to you than meets the eye, Katherine D’Arcy. And I mean to know for sure.”
“Does this mean we can finally be friends?” My voice is laced with hope, and I offer a shaking hand in the narrow space between us.
He looks down, takes my hand in his, and squeezes. “Friends. For now.” But then his eyebrows come together as if he’s having a worrisome thought. “Listen, friend. It’s supposed to get pretty hot this week. Do me a favor. If you’re thinking about swimming, stay where it’s shallow. I don’t think I’ll get that lucky twice.”
Then, as suddenly as he arrived, he’s out the door and it closes between us. I sigh at the solid wood panel then move to the window to watch him go. But I can’t see him. I lean left and right, trying to get a line on the cliff and the spot where he came up. Nothing. He’s nowhere. It’s like he’s a ghost the way he comes and goes so quickly, and I wonder if he really did say all those wonderful things I remembered him saying.
That’s when I hear hammering at the side of the house where the phone line comes in, and my hand comes up to cover my mouth. I like the idea of living here alone and making it on my own, but I am moved by Bennet’s kindness. It’s enough to force happy tears to the corners of my eyes.
And I almost let them fall. Almost.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Katherine
The next day, I’m testing out the length of the coily telephone cord in the kitchen. Best guess, it’s at least ten feet long, and it stretches to nearly double that, which allows me to wander around the kitchen—from sink to table to window, around the table and back to the sink—as I wait for Andrew to pick up. This is not a good thing because I manage to get the cord wrapped around my knees, not to mention so tightly around my little finger that it’s turning purple. The phone rings three times. Four. Five.
No answer. I hang up, then groan and snatch it up, dialing again. This time, after the tenth ring, I hear a female voice on the line. “Hello?”
I’m so startled by the late pickup that I choke on my quick intake of air. The earpiece is filled with the full sound of several people laughing.
“Give it here,” someone says. “Hello?”
“Andrew?” I ask with an exhale. It is Andrew. The sound of his voice wraps me in a warm sense of home. I’m hungry for it. Like, how fast can I pack and get out of here?
“Andrew, it’s me.” I pinch the phone between my cheek and shoulder and pull my hair back into a tight ponytail.
“So you’ve got time to talk to me today.” He’s laughing, but I can tell he’s pissed, too. I’ve been putting him off, not making time for him.
“Sorry about that.”
“I was seriously considering driving all the way up there just to get a moment of your time.”
“No, you weren’t,” says a background voice. It sounds a lot like Jenna Smith, but that can’t be right. She’s never hung out with us. The bad blood between her and Macie is too intense. I mean, I know guys really go for Jenna, but—even though Andrew and Macie can get on each other’s last nerve—he would never betray her like that. He wouldn’t do that to me, either.
“Shut up,” Andrew says, still laughing. “I was, too, going to drive up there.”
“Is that Jenna Smith?” I ask, my voice quiet. Disbelieving.
“What?” he asks, then, “Oh. No. It’s…um…”
He’s lying. That warm, delicious feeling I had before is starting to cool—like gravy left
too long in the bowl and skinning over.
“So, are you okay?” he asks.
Not exactly. “I’m good.” I disentangle the cord from around my legs and sit in a kitchen chair. “So who was it who answered the phone?”
“Just some girl. There’s a bunch of us up at Perch Lake today.”
“Sounds fun,” I say, but I’d swear that I’m shrinking. Like Alice after she drinks out of the Drink Me bottle. Alice should have never gone down the rabbit hole. That goes for me, too. Jenna Smith? Is he serious? And now he’s lying to me?
“Yeah. It would be more fun if you were here with us,” Andrew says. I pick up a ballpoint pen and start doodling on my grocery receipt, thinking us. “Us” used to be a much smaller number. Normally, I’d grab on to the kind of lifeline he’s throwing me. I’d grab it gladly and hold on for dear life. But it’s not as comforting as it used to be.
“What are you wearing?” he asks.
“Hmmm?” My mind has already begun to drift. It was just Andrew’s voice I was eager to hear. I don’t really have anything to say.
“Are you wearing Iron Man today?”
Oh. That. “Actually…I’m wearing leather boots and a negligee with tassels.”
He laughs. “And a matching whip, I hope.”
For a split second, things are right between us again. I draw a smiley face on the receipt, then a stick body holding a bull whip. “Got it at the gift shop in town.”
“Sounds about right.” There’s a pause, then he says, “Miss you.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Are you lonely?” he asks. I would take solace in his sincere concern for me, but it’s ruined by Jenna’s high-pitched laugh in the background. There’s no mistaking it now.
“No, I— I’m actually having a party tonight.” I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. Why am I so threatened by the fact that he’s hanging out with Jenna Smith that I have to make up some imaginary social life? But I do. I can’t help myself. “Yeah, just a few people over. Nothing big.” Then I add for good measure, “But it should be fun.”