Borrowing Trouble

by Mae Wood

  “Tell me what else you think is going to happen this weekend,” said Trip, crossing his arms across his chest.

  “Well, I’m pretty sure after breakfast that you’re going to want to have sex again and then take me on a bike ride, probably have lunch, then more sex, and dinner, and then more sex.”

  “Interesting. Let me go get started on breakfast because that sounds like an incredible day you have planned for us, Miss Tanner.”

  ***

  “I don’t know how much more I can take,” I panted.

  “Need me to slow down?”

  “Or even stop,” I begged. I hopped off my bike, ripped off my helmet, and flopped to the ground in the middle of the paved bike path.

  Trip pulled his bike up next to my sprawled form. “Sorry. I know running uses different muscles. I should have paid more attention to the pace, but you were keeping up so well that I just kept going.”

  The warmth of the blacktop seeped into my tired muscles. “Let me know if someone comes because otherwise, I’m just not moving. How far did we go?”

  “About twelve miles. Going at pretty good clip, too,” said Trip, handing me a water bottle.

  “I feel like we’ve gone to the moon and back. My legs are Jell-O,” I said, taking a big swig from the water bottle before passing it back to him.

  “We’ll break for lunch soon.”

  “Yes. Lunch. How much further?”

  “Well, tough cookie, I hate to tell you this, but lunch is about three miles away. Near the lighthouse.” I groaned. “Options – walk or ride. We’ll go as slow as you need and I can promise you beer at the end.”

  “Beer? I just want a shower, a PowerAde, and a nap.”

  “But there is excellent barbeque and oysters and beer up ahead,” he replied in a sing-song tone designed to entice kittens, puppies, and toddlers.

  “Ahead? So this means that we’re going to have to ride back? I’m completely bushed, Trip.”

  “Nah. I called Miss Prewitt, the caretaker, this morning. After we eat she’s going to bring a truck to fetch us and we can throw the bikes in the back.”

  “I thought you didn’t have a car here. You mean we didn’t have to ride bikes this far just to get lunch?”

  Trip laughed. “I don’t have a car here. My family keeps a truck here, but I don’t use a car when I’m on the island. I learned my way around on a bike when I was about twelve and that’s just how I like to get around.”

  “So, is that where the love of bikes came from?”

  “I don’t know. Probably. I just don’t like being trapped in a car unless I have to be.”

  “And that makes total sense with your car collection.”

  “I’m a complicated man,” he shrugged, digging around in a saddlebag. He pulled out a camera and turned towards me, but I hadn’t moved from the pavement. “Hey, you.”

  I lifted my head in time to hear the shutter click. I stuck out my tongue at him and heard it click again.

  ***

  “So tell me again who’s picking us up?” I asked, as I drained my second pint of Oyster City’s Dirty Blonde Ale. Dirty blonde. I smiled at the blonde sitting next to me who liked to get dirty.

  “Miss Prewitt. She and her husband take care of the houses and property.”

  “Houses?”

  “Yeah, I’ll point them out on the way back. The cabin is my favorite. It’s pretty much like it was when my grandpa built in the fifties.”

  “I noticed the window units for the air-conditioning.”

  “My mom periodically talks about getting central air, but my dad and I really want it just to be how it is. Plus, she never stays there. It’s not her style. So, it just gets repaired and put back together after hurricanes to be how it was before. I think the last big change was replacing the old yellow refrigerator after Hurricane Ivan.”

  “I like it. The cabin and the island. I thought the entire Gulf was built up with condos and strip malls. It’s so chill down here.”

  “I thought you’d like it. So, let’s talk about your ambitious agenda for today, Miss Tanner. We seem to have ticked off cycling and lunch, and I’m having problems recalling what precisely is next in your plan.”

  He ran his index finger around the rim of his empty pint glass and casually leaned back in his chair. The breeze from the ocean was steady and ruffled his blond hair as we lounged on the second floor porch of The Beach Pit, sitting side by side and watching folks come and go from the rustic bait and tackle shop across the street. “Also, are you open to suggestions?”

  “If you’re talking fishing, then no. Right now I’m thinking a nap is in my future.”

  “That sounds fine to me, but after that ride you deserve a treat.”

  “What did you have in mind, Mr. Brannon?”

  Trip eyed the waitress who was approaching our table.

  “Thanks,” he muttered as she set down a slice of pie in front of me and handed a third pint of Witbier to Trip.

  “I ordered it while you were in the ladies’ room,” he said, turning to me. “Go on, eat it.” I eyed the pie cautiously. “It’s just dessert, Marisa. Nothing sneaky.”

  I took a big forkful and slipped it into my mouth. The aroma of bourbon flooded my nose, enhancing the meatiness of the pecans and mellowing the sweetness of the filling.

  “Please tell me that you didn’t import this.”

  “Nah,” said Trip. “Not that I wouldn’t. I saw it on the menu and couldn’t resist.” He slid his calf up and down my leg.

  I leaned in and kissed his shoulder, entirely content in the moment.

  Chapter Three

  “Well, you look happy. How was your crazy secret sex-free weekend away?” asked Erica coyly over tea, while she mindlessly doodled in her ever-present black hardback sketch book. It was Wednesday and I had just sat down at River City Coffee for an afternoon snack with my best friend. “Bowlegged?”

  “Shut it!”

  Feverishly looking around, I prayed no one had heard her. The bohemian downtown coffee shop hummed with patrons getting an afternoon pick me up. The barista with purple hair and a nose ring called my name.

  Caffeine and a breather from the Spanish Inquisition. Thank you for your awesome timing.

  I retrieved my large latte and before I could sit back down, Erica started up again.

  “Okay, so no good, then?” she asked gently, her pencil only pausing slightly as she looked at me with concern.

  “No, the weekend was amazing, but that’s not the big news.”

  “You caved and you’re preggers! I knew you guys couldn’t keep up this no sex thing!” crowed Erica.

  “No!” I shouted. The coffee shop grew silent. A man working at his laptop glared at us over his Clark Kent style frames.

  It’s not your office, I told him with my eyes. Get an actual office if you want a quiet place to work.

  Nonetheless, my cheeks reddened and I brought my voice to just above a whisper. “Are you drunk? Of course I’m not pregnant.”

  “So, you’re still not having sex with him? Your will power is amazing. You should write self-help books.” She leaned in her chair, balancing on the back two legs.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Oh, so you’re breaking the law. Welcome to the dark side.” Erica leaned forward and lifted her mug of tea in tribute.

  “No! That’s not it either. Will you give me a second?”

  “Sure, sure.” Erica waved at me with both hands before resuming her sketch of the sidewalk outside the shop’s large plate glass window.

  “He spoke with his dad and got the waiver signed.”

  “Yay!” cheered Erica, pumping the air with her fists.

  Once more we earned glares from Mr. Clark Kent, joined this time by head swivels from a few other patrons who had been engrossed in their laptops.

  “Seriously, Erica. Take it down a notch. You’re disturbing the peace.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m happy for you. So, this means that you guys c
an see each other and you don’t have to worry about losing Branco’s business. All is well. Now, I want details about the beach.”

  “I’ll get there,” I replied, smiling into my steaming latte before taking a small sip. “But it still isn’t really resolved. I had a meeting with my partners yesterday afternoon to talk about the Trip situation and the waiver. Let’s just say that was less than awesome.”

  “You had to talk with your partners about your sex life?”

  “Well, not in detail.”

  “That’s a shame. Josh has been in New York pretty much continually for the past three weeks and I wouldn’t mind hearing that someone else had a sex-filled beach trip.”

  “But I did have to fess up to the fact that Trip and I have been seeing each other for well over a month. That was kind of awkward. Actually, it was awful. It would have only been worse if my parents were in the room. I presented the facts to the group and was excused from the room while they discussed what to do. So, I’m being pulled from Branco’s work. Part of it’s Trip’s doing. He’s taken me off a few files. And the rest, is my partners’ doing. Well, that isn’t exactly true, because I’m still trying a sex harassment case for Branco right before Christmas, but my partners are trying to protect the business in the event that things with Trip fall apart. I’ll still get credit for Branco’s business, but I have to bring someone else in to help interface with Branco and I have to report on a weekly basis about the work.”

  “Okay, so it sounds like they’ve saddled you with a babysitter. I can’t say I blame them. What’s Branco’s business worth to your firm?”

  “Around three hundred thousand a year. Most years less, some years more.”

  “You’re serious?” She looked up from her sketch book and put down her charcoal pencil. “That is a lot of money. No wonder they want someone else making sure that you seeing Trip isn’t going to cost the firm the business. So, who is it? What old codger is supervising you? Oh, no! Please say it isn’t that Martha Lynn woman!” Erica’s voice turned saccharine: “Oh, Marisa, please make sure to act professionally in this meeting.” She batted her eyelashes, in a mimic of Martha Lynn’s overly flirty approach with clients.

  “No, it isn’t Martha Lynn. Thank God. You know she drives me nuts. It’s even weirder than that. They decided to hire John Millard.”

  “Wait. The dirty old man from Branco?”

  “One and the same.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “Well, it’s pretty common for in-house attorneys to semi-retire and join the firms they used to hire. He’ll use his connections with other companies’ general counsels to try to sway business our way. He’ll dabble in things. He’ll talk clients off ledges and into paying their bills. Basically, it’s a glorified client relations job.”

  I swirled the dregs of my latte in my mug for a moment, thinking about the awkward blur my life had been in the past twenty-four hours.

  “He’d been talking with Harry, our managing partner, a bit before he left Branco,” I continued. “So, it’s not completely driven by my ‘decision,’” I said, wiggling my index fingers in air quotes. “That’s how my partners are referring to it. Anyway, once Harry and the others heard about me and Trip on Monday, it was a done deal.”

  “So, your former client is now your babysitter?”

  “Yup.” I sighed and took the last sip of my latte.

  “Does he know about you and Trip? Does he know he’s supposed to make sure you don’t screw up while you’re screwing Trip?”

  “Ha, ha,” I replied flatly. “I haven’t told him that part. I know he suspects, but I don’t think he knows. So, that’s me. What’s with Josh being MIA?”

  “You think you’re going to dodge telling me about the beach, huh?”

  “No, I’m just looking to delay that. Really, is something wrong with his work?”

  “I hope not, but I don’t know,” she sighed, focusing her gaze on the world on the other side of the shop’s big window. “He’s been in New York, on the phone, or at his computer non-stop. But, it’s not like I know what his job actually is, so other than him working more, I can’t say something is wrong. Just like he can’t tell Arches from Canson.”

  “What from what?”

  “The paper that I draw on. Just like I don’t know a lawsuit from an appeal.”

  “Those aren’t different things.”

  “My point exactly. Our work worlds are very different. His is all numbers and computer programs and finance. All I know is that something is up. Last time he worked this much was right before he talked his bosses in to letting him work from Memphis.”

  “I’m sure it’s good news. If it weren’t he’d tell you. Josh adores you. He fucking cried at your wedding. Do you need to watch the video again? Seriously, the man who hardly left Manhattan in his entire life moved to Tennessee for you. No midnight sushi delivery here. Plus, he lives two miles from his in-laws. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is. I wouldn’t sweat it. Just give him his space.”

  Erica shrugged. “You’re probably right. It’s hard being apart. He works crazy hours when he’s in New York and that means we mainly communicate during his nightly five minute chat with the kids before bedtime. He’s distant. Physically and emotionally. So, on to happier things. I need to know about the beach. And start with something sandy.”

  Chapter Four

  Showtime.

  I stepped out of Trip’s silver convertible and he took my hand in his.

  “And this,” he said, wiggling our hands back and forth, “this, unlike at your parents’ house, is fine.” I raised my eyebrows. “Seriously. You’re fine. Don’t sweat it. Dad knows you and likes you and my mom is super excited to meet you.”

  “I feel badly about asking them to move dinner back a night.”

  “Really, don’t sweat it. If anyone is a pro at dealing with changing plans due to work conflicts, it’s my mom. I think it just gave her more time to get everything perfect for you. She called me again today to confirm that you don’t have any food allergies.”

  “And it just gave me more time to worry about a hostess gift.”

  “I will never understand the ritual of the hostess gift, but I’m sure my mom will be gracious in accepting whatever it is you have in this little bag,” noted Trip, shaking the cellophane bag lined with tissue paper in his hands.

  “It’s some chocolates from Dinstuhl’s.”

  Trip nodded with approval. “You know, maybe we should start serving their chocolate somehow at Pig and Barley. It’s local.”

  “Not a bad idea. You really are always thinking about business.”

  “Not always, Marisa,” he growled with a wolfish smile as we walked to the front door of his parents’ house. Instead of ragged marigolds along a gravel walkway, the gray flagstone footpath was flanked with immaculately maintained purple, white, and blue flowers.

  “Mom, Dad!” His voice echoed through the double-height foyer of the imposing French chateau style home off Shady Grove Road.

  Yup. Definitely not my family’s Foursquare farmhouse that could use a new coat of paint.

  An impeccably chic woman in navy trousers and a crisp white Carolina Herrera-style blouse swept into the room.

  And here is the famous Bitsy.

  “I’m so glad you are here,” she said, taking Trip into her arms. Trip pulled his mother in close and kissed the top of her head.

  “Mom,” said Trip, pulling back but not releasing her, “let me introduce Marisa Tanner.”

  “Oh, Marisa!” sighed Bitsy. “We are so thrilled that you’re joining us for dinner.” She took both of my hands in hers. “Just so happy. Can I get you an iced tea?”

  “Tea would be wonderful.”

  Trip shook his head. “I’m going to pour you both big glasses of wine. I don’t want to watch this Kabuki theater. Iced tea. Like either of you wants iced tea.” He rolled his eyes. Bitsy’s gentle laughter filled the room.

  “Oh, here, Marisa,” continued T
rip, passing me the small bag of chocolates before disappearing further into the house.

  I handed the small present to Bitsy. “Just a little thank you for inviting me into your home.”

  “This is totally unnecessary,” said Bitsy, quickly peeking at the bag, “but I do love chocolate. Thank you. It is very kind of you. Now, let’s go find Trip and that wine.” She set the bag on a round marble table that stood in middle of the room and took me by the arm. “He’s going to be with Jimmy in the living room at the wet bar. I’m sure of it. They are my angels, but they love their bourbon.”

  “Yes, Trip’s been trying to convince me to learn to enjoy bourbon, but I’m not sure I’ll ever really acquire a taste for it.”

  “Let me tell you something about Brannon men, Marisa. Don’t let them run over you. We girls have to stand up for ourselves. Trip, have you fixed this poor girl a glass of wine yet?” she called, leading me into the white and gray living room. The back wall was entirely glass and showcased yet another pristinely kept garden complete with orderly boxwood hedges surrounding a modern and minimalist fountain. The cool gray walls were crowded with art. One of Erica’s large pastels stood watch over the fireplace.

  “Your home is so lovely, Mrs. Brannon.”

  “Please,” she said, patting my arm before letting go. “You must call me Bitsy.” She swanned over to a Berger chair and sat.

  “Mom, your white wine,” offered Trip. “And Marisa, I made you a bourbon and soda.”

  “Thanks,” I said, taking the heavy cut crystal tumbler from Trip’s hand.

  “Marisa,” scolded Bitsy in a playful manner. “What did I just tell you about them? Trip, please stop forcing bourbon on Marisa. Please go get her a glass of wine.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” responded Trip, snatching the glass from my hand. He took a sip and eyed me over the glass’s rim. “Don’t know what you’re missing. Wine’s coming up.”

  “Really, Bitsy, Trip, the drink looks lovely. I’ll keep it.”

  “No, you won’t. Trip, wine.” Trip tipped back the glass and drained it before stepping to the wet bar to pour me a glass of wine.