Once Upon a Summer

by Brooke Moss

  "I'm not as lucky as you are in that department," I admit.

  "Ah," he says, eying me over.

  "I'm only human," I continue.

  "Not everyone can be as great as me," he says dryly. My eyes widen, worried he's serious, then he starts to laugh at my reaction, so I do, too. "How long have you been in town?"

  "Since yesterday."

  He nods as if impressed. "And already needing the fudge."

  "No, I'm having fun. This is just...dessert. My aunt suggested picking up something sweet.”

  "I'm joking with you," he says. "Fudge isn't something to drown your sorrows in, anyway."

  I bite my lip. If I keep smiling at him, I'll look manic. I point at his wrench. "Are you going to cut the fudge with that?"

  He laughs. "It’s making you nervous, eh?"

  "My parents aren't very handy," I tell him. "Tools mean disaster in my household. My dad once broke his toe with one of those."

  "I can see the cause for concern, then." He taps it lightly against his forearm, which makes all the muscles in his arms dance beneath his perfectly tanned skin. "I lost my old one. Things tend to go missing where I work."

  I wonder if he's in construction and that's what happened to his ear. It would make sense. "Convenience store to the rescue."

  "Always. One of these days, this town will get a hardware store," he says. "That day will probably come when I'm long gone, though. This place just got rid of their phone booth a few years ago. They also still have gas pump attendants."

  "I guess that's why a lot of older people gravitate here."

  "Not a bad place to retire," he agrees.

  An awkward silence settles between us. He doesn't make any move to leave our area and I stand there staring at my sandaled feet. I'm not sure how to start up a new conversation or how to end this. I really need to be getting back to Aunt Isla and Arthur, but I want to stay with this guy. He's funny and nice and I feel like I'm experiencing something I've always missed out on. An opportunity.

  He clears his throat suddenly, and I look at him hopefully. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cell phone. "You're here for a few weeks, you said?"

  I nod, but realize he can't see me because he's paying attention to his phone. "Yes."

  He holds out his phone to me, giving me a sincere smile. "Then I'd like to see you again, if it's all right."

  I take it from him and stare down at the new contact screen, while he waits for me to fill it with my information. Giddiness bubbles up inside my chest and insecurity pops it. I want this to be because he's interested in me, but it might also be because he wants me to have a friend in town.

  No, I'm going to be hopeful. I'm going to take this chance, because friend or romantic interest, I like him enough to deal with either.

  My fingers shake as I type in my name and number. I mess up a few times, even though my name is short, and have to start over. I don't trust myself to say anything to him until I've saved it and handed the phone back to him.

  "I'd love that." My voice is barely above a whisper.

  His brows draw close together, but quickly part, and looks from me down to my phone. "I'll text you later, Hope."

  He grabs his things and walks off. No, not walks. Saunters. When he's gone, I wonder if he was ever really standing in front of me. I check my phone, but there's no evidence of him there, either. I could be so lovesick I imagined it all, thanks to too many romance-binges on Netflix and on my Kindle. Even if he does exist, there's always a chance he won't text me and I can't text him because I don't have his number.

  Or his name.

  #

  There's something about Arthur that makes me think a lifetime of being single wouldn't be so bad if you had someone like him waiting for you near the end. I pluck up the courage to ask about their relationship after the groceries are put away and we've eaten some dinner, and are now munching on individual hearty-sized pieces of fudge.

  Aunt Isla smiles around her mouthful, nodding to Arthur to tell me. "Well, I fell in love with Isla when I was—what—ten? She walked home from school by my house every day. Her hair was long and in pigtails. My dreams always had those braids woven in them." He reaches for her free hand and brings it up to his lips to kiss. "Times were different then, as we all know. So, I never got up the courage to talk to her."

  Aunt Isla sets down her piece to continue. "My visit to China made it into the newspaper. I wanted to paint their scenery. It was my first trip overseas and I was excited and terrified. On the day I was leaving, there was a little package in our mailbox with my name on it. He'd carved an elephant out of wood and put my initials on it. He wrote a note, too."

  "That's why you collect elephants." My heart flutters with emotion. "It’s so sweet."

  Arthur grins. "We wrote often—all our lives."

  "But you never met face to face?" If they had, I'm sure things would have gone differently. "Did you ever start a family?"

  "No and no," he replies. "I was waiting, I guess. Five years ago, I had a health scare—prostate cancer. I decided if I didn't have control over how long my life would be, I wanted to have control over what happens in it. So, I moved here to be near Isla."

  "When he told me about his plans, he explained he only expected friendship from me. There was no way, after all these years, I wouldn't want more."

  They squeeze each other's hand, gazes locked. I love getting to witness this, as if I'm at the foundation of true love. It's a reminder it always exists, even if you have to wait for it.

  "But your health—are you better now?" I ask.

  Arthur lets go of Aunt Isla's hand and points at me. "Now, don't go worrying about me. I'm fine. They say you'll get another cancer before prostate cancer kills you. It's slow progressing." He pops the last of his fudge into his mouth with a crooked grin. "You girls are stuck with me for a time to come."

  "Lucky us," Aunt Isla says, crinkling her nose. Someone knocks on the door and she stares at it blankly. "Who's that?"

  Arthur's smile melts away. "Paul. My competition."

  Aunt Isla laughs. "With all the excitement over Hope, I completely forgot I asked Paul to stop by to look at my TV." She claps her hands together excitedly. If I didn't know any better, I'd almost think there's a conspiratorial tint to her eyes. "Oh, I can't wait for you to meet Paul, Hope. He's such a sweetheart."

  "And a dreamboat," I add.

  "The man has more girlfriends around here than you can count and you'll see why," she says, walking toward the door. "Coming!"

  I spin in my chair, resting my arms on the back of it. I don't know why I'm so excited to meet this Paul. He's a looking glass into what a gorgeous guy looks like in the eyes of a retiree. Evidently he's deaf, but a veteran, and he must be handy—but is he only attractive because he's handy? My mom used to say there's nothing more attractive than a man who is willing to work without issue. Then again, maybe he's like Harrison Ford and manages to stay young because of a certain rugged handsomeness and a lot of personality.

  Only the door opens up and I'm wrong about it all.

  About fifty years wrong.

  "You're the dreamboat?" I blurt out.

  I immediately throw my hand over my mouth, feeling like a fool. I feel duped! I swear they've been leading me to believe Paul's an older gentleman, but really he's a strapping twenty-something with eyes darker than oil and a smile that silently speaks a thousand languages.

  Somehow their Paul also happens to be my grocery-store guy. In any other situation, this would be the perfect meet cute. Some beautiful fate decided to bestow me not one, but two, chance meetings with him. Fate’s got nothing against me when my voice’s censor goes out, leaving Paul just as stunned as I feel.

  Isla waves at me from behind him, then makes a shushing motion. Beside me, Arthur rolls his eyes. "Shouldn't have said that, Hope. It's the worst kept secret around these parts, but the women like to believe he doesn't know it."

  Mr. Circa-1990's Model scratches at his chin with h
is free hand. The other hand is holding a toolbox with, you guessed it, a wrench slung through the handle. "And, I act like I don't," he agrees. He's not cocky about what these women think, thankfully.

  I swallow. Fight or flight bubbles up inside me and I want to choose flight and head straight for the next plane home, where I can then spend the rest of eternity hiding out beneath my blankets. Too bad my legs won't move. I feel like I'm stuck in a mob-centric cement encasing, with only my face to use. It would explain my diarrhea of the mouth and why my cheeks are so hot they're boiling.

  "Sorry. I didn't mean to..." I trail off. I didn't mean to do anything, because I haven't had the time to think anything through. I just sort of blurted it out. "I hope I didn't embarrass you. Not that I'm taking back the dreamboat part, because you...well. I just shouldn't have said it out loud." I offer him a shaky smile. "I was led to think an older gentleman who looked like Cary Grant was going to walk through the door."

  "How were you led to believe that?" Aunt Isla asks with a laugh. "We never said his age."

  I shrug, unable to meet anyone's eyes. "I guess it was more of an assumption."

  Aunt Isla clucks her tongue. I can feel her giving me a look of sympathy, scorching me worse than the sun did today. "Arthur, would you mind helping Paul?" Arthur gives her a strange look and rolls his eyes. He doesn't say a word as he walks over to the TV and stands there, waiting.

  I glance up and find Paul staring at me, his head tilted. I had previously thought Aunt Isla's apartment was large, but now it feels small with his tall, muscular body filling the space. It's like all of the air is being taken up. When he smiles, I sneak in the last breath I think I'll ever breathe. "Dreamboat," he mouths, then grins and walks toward Arthur.

  Aunt Isla faces me and leans in. "That's how you speak to a young, single, handsome young man?" she whispers.

  I reach up to fluff my messy bun, needing to do something with all of my nervous energy. "Evidently. I don't have a lot of practice."

  "I can tell," she agrees.

  "I was surprised and he's well...he made me nervous, okay?" I say, pulling my lip between my teeth. "He's cute. Really cute. And I'm weird. There's a reason why I'm single and we just witnessed said reason." I close my eyes and let out a sigh. It's loud and impossible not to hear, which makes me cringe. When I speak again, I drop my voice extra low. "I can't believe I said he was a dreamboat. Twice."

  She reaches out and pats my arm reassuringly. "Nobody's good at this sort of thing. I guess I just hoped it would go better."

  "Hoped?" The word is at full volume. I link my hand in hers and pull her in the direction of her bedroom. This conversation requires privacy. She shuts the door behind her and motions for me to sit down on her canopy bed. The room is all lace and quilted fabrics, with accents of purple and a pale green. It somehow feels exotic, yet homey and delicate. "What do you mean hoped?"

  She shrugs, this time acting like the one who's said too much. "I won't lie. I sort of hoped you might get along with him."

  "Did you break your TV on purpose?"

  "I unplugged something. We old people do it all the time, you know. Some of us just need help plugging it back in, either because we don't know what we did or we just want to call Paul. So I did, seeing as I happen to have a very pretty, smart, and interesting grand-niece who I think he might be good with."

  Interesting usually is a euphemism for weird. The only thing interesting about me is I got a perfect score on math ACT. Beyond that, I'm a certifiable nerd who prefers keeping social interactions to a minimum (for obvious reasons) and going to bed early (wearing fuzzy socks).

  "I wish you would have told me."

  "What do you think I was doing? The girls and I brought him up multiple times."

  "I thought you were gossiping. And I thought he was—"

  "Old?"

  I nod. "Sorry."

  "I guess it does go along with where we're at." She blows out an exasperated breath. "This wasn't my finest plan. Normally, I'm better at playing matchmaker. Actually, I've always been wonderful for everyone but myself. Maybe it's because I have Arthur now. He's throwing me off."

  "It's me, don't blame Arthur."

  She shakes her head. "And Paul. I expected better from him, too. I've never seen him look like a deer caught in the headlights before. Around women my age he's a flirt, but around you he might as well have been catatonic."

  "Maybe he's into older women?" I offer. I would love to know what her version of flirting is, because the smile he gave me sure felt like flirting turned up to eleven. Unless I'm reading it wrong and he was just smiling at my expense...stop, Hope. I won't let myself think that way. He was looking at me like he liked me and he asked me for my number. I'm not going to keep ruining my self-confidence.

  "No, trust me. He's not. He's been here since he was a baby—we all treat him as our own. That would be incest."

  "But you all still flirt with him."

  She waves at me. "Not the point."

  I look at her door, wishing I could see through it. I doubt Paul and Arthur are having this conversation, considering Arthur is a little green-eyed when it comes to Paul. "What do I do now?"

  "Well, you take Arthur's place helping while Arthur and I go visit Marilyn or something."

  "What?"

  Before I can argue, she's up and enacting phase two of her crazy plan. I follow behind her into the main room, where she grabs Arthur by the hand and pulls him away, whispering loudly, "Let's let Hope help Paul."

  I stare at the door, even after it's shut and they're gone. I want to roll my eyes so far back into my head they get stuck, but I also have an even bigger urge to run outside and put my opposable thumbs to use hitchhiking. I'm stuck at a crossroad between being humored and terrified of the situation. Then there's also this stupid third urge, one that's barely visible and might be a little, teenie bit happy Aunt Isla's gone and done this. Evidently I can't find anyone on my own, so her playing matchmaker might be what I need. I just won't admit it out loud. Ever.

  "I smell a set up," Paul says, jolting me out of my thoughts.

  My gaze settles on him, bent over the back of the TV as he wrestles around with the cables. The man is as perfect from the back as he is the front. His shirt raises, revealing a sliver of his back and a tattoo which covers most of the exposed skin. Now I’m envisioning what his whole back looks like. The gray band of his boxers peeks out from his shorts. I totally get why the women around here like him so much—and evidently some of the men. He's definite man-candy.

  We’re given this clashing idea of what repair men look like—one the porno one and the other of the guy with the butt crack and the muffin top. Mr. Muffin is the one you get when you're younger, but Paul’s type is reserved for later. He's some sort of a gift for older people.

  "I'm sorry." I make my way toward him. "This is embarrassing."

  "Yeah," he agrees. He stops what he's doing and turns toward me. I draw in a breath, my heartbeat suddenly turns frantic and heavy. A one-time meeting in a grocery store did not make me immune to his looks—if anything, it made me more affected by him. Now, I can see beyond the surface and see the small details. There’s a small dimple in his left cheek, making his smile seem extra genuine. Or how his eyes have caramel flecks in them, glinting and glowing with the light of his grin. "But you learn to brush off what they say around here real quick."

  I give him a wary look. "I hope the same goes for me?"

  "I think what you said is going to stick with me for a real long time," he says, chuckling. He reaches up to scratch his chin, where there's the lightest of a five o'clock shadow brewing. "My ego grew about five sizes, thanks to you."

  "My thinking you were old should knock you back down. All the facts added up to it."

  "That's how you think they added up," he corrects.

  "Really, though. I didn't know what my aunt was planning. You don't have to humor her if you don't want to."

  He swallows, not looking at me. "What if I d
o, though?"

  I blink. What? Before I can ask for more, he focuses back on the cables. "My aunt said she unplugged something on purpose," I tell him. "I don't want you to have to play Sherlock if there's no problem."

  He chuckles. "They do that a lot around here. Sometimes on purpose, sometimes not."

  "Because they want to look at you?" I ask. Once again, I'm immediately embarrassed by my dang words. .

  "Yeah and I think they get lonely." He glances over his shoulder, giving me a smart-ass look. "Probably seventy-five percent your answer, twenty-five mine."

  "At least, you're honest," I say.

  He turns back to the television and begins looking for whatever is unplugged. I walk to the other side of the TV and look down at what he's doing. We both glance up at each other and my whole body turns into a mess of goo and tingles.

  "This is dangerous work here," he says, raising his brow in irony.

  "I think I'll survive." My voice sounds quieter than normal and a little country, as if I'm matching his accent. I can feel myself drifting toward him—not just my body, but everything inside of me. Heart, soul, mind. I break free of our staring contest first and look down at the plugs. "Oh!" I reach for the one out of its socket and plug it back in. I straighten and clap my hand over my chest. "I'm not sure how I survived it. Talk about quick sand."

  "I've seen soldiers cry at a loose plug," Paul says, straightening, too. "You're some sort of super hero."

  I blush, even though we're totally being sarcastic. "There's definitely a reason why you have a harem of elders," I admit.

  He rolls his eyes. "They all either want to pinch my cheek or my ass—it's like they can't make up their mind."

  He goes back to his toolbox and picks it up. I motion to the wrench. "So, what's the story behind the stolen tools?"

  "Sometimes the residents think they can make repairs on their own, even though it's technically, not their property to fix. So, they take my things without me knowing and most of the time they forget they took it. Usually I have a guess as to who the culprit was, but it's no skin off my back to buy a new tool."