Neanderthal Marries Human: A Smarter Romance (Knitting in the City)

by Penny Reid

  I saw Shelly right away, or at least, all that was visible of her—cutoff jean shorts, work boots, and a tank top. Her brown hair was in a braid down her back, and she had grease smudges everywhere skin was showing. She was bent over a car, her head in the hood.

  Stan pulled to a stop in the circular driveway some twenty feet from where she was, and I saw her head lift out of the engine. Her eyes narrowed, and I thought I saw her frown, but instead of coming toward us, she went back to tinkering under the hood.

  I firmed my jaw, and with it my resolve, then exited the car.

  I was also in jeans, but I was wearing a plain grey T-shirt. I wanted to be dressed for any eventuality—like a food fight or an arm wrestling match. I had purposefully worn my Converse tennis shoes. The farm was no place for Jimmy Choo stilettoes.

  “Go away.” She said this before I’d reached her.

  I continued to walk toward her and the car. “I’m not leaving until you and I discuss some things. Since you won’t pick up the phone or answer emails and text messages, you must have known that I would drive down.”

  I saw her shoulders rise and fall as she exhaled a large breath. “Maybe it means I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “Oh, really? I hadn’t thought about that.” I rarely employed sarcasm, but made an exception since I’d just driven quite a distance to speak with surly Shelly.

  My tone or my words caught her attention, because she peeked at me, her eyes narrowing. “Are you upset?”

  “Yes, I’m upset.”

  She straightened, her gaze flickering over me, and she pulled a towel from her pocket and wiped her hands. “Why are you upset?”

  “Because I miss you and you won’t talk to me.” This tumbled out before I could deliver my planned response.

  No…that’s not right. I frowned because I was deviating from my rehearsed speech. I’m upset because I want her to come to the wedding. That’s why I’m upset.

  But maybe it wasn’t.

  She blinked at me, and something shifted in her gaze. But like her father and brother, she was almost impossible to read, especially for me and especially since I’d had such limited interaction with her; really, just Saturday breakfasts for five months.

  “You miss me?”

  “Yes.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “Don’t tell me what I think. If I said I miss you then I miss you.” I put my hands on my hips to show her I meant business.

  The side of her mouth tugged upward like she was going to smile, but she didn’t. “I’m not coming to the wedding.”

  “Fine,” I said, surprising myself.

  She squinted at me. “I can’t come to the wedding.”

  I threw my hands away from my sides. “Fine.”

  She huffed. “Damn it. What do you want me to say?”

  “How about you’re sorry? How about you’re sorry for cutting me out of your life and not telling me why? How about that?”

  Shelly glanced at her boots and kicked the dirt, covering a drop of oil that had fallen to the ground.

  I glared at her, feeling maybe a little more emotion than made sense, then started to talk stream of consciousness. “I don’t know why I’m so upset, okay? I mean, I look at you and your brother and your parents, and I want that. Not the not-talking-to-each-other-for-ten-years part, but the we-have-happy-memories-together part. And you’re all so stupid! You have this great family—Quinn is great, your mom is great, your dad is great, you are great—and you don’t talk to each other? I have no words! I can’t—I can’t even….”

  I shook my head, paced in a circle, then turned back to her. “Your mother? She misses you. And your dad too. They accept you for who you are, and you’re weird! I feel comfortable telling you this because I am weird. Your brother died. You all loved him. But his death doesn’t negate the love you all have for each other.”

  She huffed again, but this time is sounded like a growl. “They kicked Quinn out of the funeral….”

  “Yes, they did. And they were heartbroken because their son had just died. People do unimaginable things when they’re distraught with grief. You have to understand that. But instead of trying to be a bridge between your parents and their son, you stopped talking to basically everyone. You only give Quinn one morning a week. That’s not right. He deserves more than that.”

  “But I don’t!”

  We stared at each other and I waited for her to elaborate. I might have been scowling.

  When she didn’t, I pushed. “What does that mean? What do you mean that you don’t deserve more?”

  Her blue eyes flashed fierce fire; it was an expression I’d seen on Quinn’s face very few times and Shelly’s never.

  She was angry, but not just upset. She was furious.

  “It means that I’m the reason Quinn started working with criminals when he was a teenager. I asked him to do it. I knew he could hide their data. I introduced them and made it happen. I wanted to go to art school in Chicago. He paid for me to go to art school in Chicago. Quinn dropped out of college. Did you know he was accepted to MIT? And when Des died, I didn’t go to the funeral. I stayed in Chicago because I had an installation of my work, a sculpture, that I didn’t want to miss.”

  I continued staring at her, trying to assemble the puzzle pieces she was throwing at me as fast as I could.

  She turned toward the car like she was finished talking, but then spun back to me. “My parents called me three months after Des died and asked if I could get in touch with Quinn. They wanted to talk to him, to apologize. I told them that he never wanted to speak to them again.”

  “What? Does Quinn know about this?”

  “No.” Shelly shook her head, her hands on her hips, and she glanced at my feet. “Then I said that I didn’t want to know them anymore either.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because….” She closed her eyes, shook her head. “I was so angry…at my parents for hurting him…at Des for getting himself killed…at Quinn for needing me…at myself for not being there for him.”

  Now I was watching her with dawning comprehension. Quinn’s parents had been staying away because Shelly had pushed them away. They believed that Quinn wasn’t interested in a relationship. They’d lost a son and their entire family all at once.

  “You’re embarrassed.” I realized, thought, and said the words in a single moment.

  Her eyes flew open, and they were like ice-cold daggers as I continued. “You’re ashamed of what you did, of pushing Quinn to work with criminals, of not being there for your family. You’re ashamed for pushing your parents away, and you think they’ll never forgive you.”

  She just stared at me without a word.

  I exhaled a large breath, hoping it would release some of the tension in my chest. It didn’t.

  “It’s not okay to treat people that way,” I said. “It’s not okay to cut people out of your life, especially your family, because you’re too embarrassed or ashamed to take responsibility for your mistakes. It hurts them.”

  She didn’t move, and made no outward sign that she heard me.

  “They didn’t push you out, Shelly. You pushed them away. But you should know that your family loves you, and that includes me now. You have a family that will forgive you, but you have to want forgiveness. When you’re ready, when you want it, we’ll be waiting.”

  I waited for a full minute, waited for her to say something. She didn’t. So I turned and walked back to the car, opened the door, and slipped inside.

  Stan got in the car when he saw me approach and had the engine on by the time I buckled my seatbelt.

  He pulled out of the driveway, and I glanced in the rearview mirror. Shelly had turned back to the car, her head under the hood like nothing had happened.

  Like I hadn’t been there at all.

  ***

  When I arrived home, I turned off all the lights in the penthouse, drew all the curtains, poured myself a glass of whiskey, and sat in the dark.<
br />
  I took maybe one sip, but didn’t actually drink the whiskey. It just made me feel better to hold it.

  Growing up I watched a lot of film noir, read a lot of comic books. When a character wanted to brood, they’d sit in the dark, usually in a large leather chair by a table with a single unlit lamp, holding a tumbler of whiskey.

  I wasn’t a big brooder. I’d done it maybe four times in my life. But today, after my discussion with Shelly, I needed to brood.

  I didn’t know if I should tell Quinn about Shelly’s admission. At the very least, I decided to wait, to brood on it. Maybe I would ask Dan the security man what to do.

  The other uncomfortable realization that came out of the conversation was that I needed to talk to my sister Jem. She’d wanted to talk to me, and I’d ignored her. On the off chance that she’d broken into my future in-laws’ house with a gun in order to apologize to me and/or forge a healthy, loving relationship, I needed to talk to her. I needed to give her that chance.

  Quinn found me this way, brooding in the dark, when he came home after work. Just like in the movies, he walked in and flicked on a light switch, illuminating the lamp next to me and causing me to squint from the sudden brightness.

  He narrowed his eyes, his gaze flickering to the glass of whiskey then back to my face.

  “Hey…what’s going on?”

  I gathered a deep breath, closed my eyes, and let my head fall to the chair behind me. “I’m brooding. This is how I brood. You should know this about me before we get married.”

  “Yes. It’s a good thing you told me now.” I heard the humor in his voice, though it was his typical deadpan, and then I heard him walking toward the seat next to mine. The leather creaked a whisper as he sat.

  “Anything else I need to know?” He took the full glass from my hand and helped himself to a swig.

  I opened my eyes and considered his question. I hadn’t yet decided whether to tell him what I’d learned from Shelly about his parents. I couldn’t decide if it were my place to do so or even if he would want to know that they’d tried reaching out to him only to be lied to by his sister.

  Maybe because I hadn’t decided to tell him, I had the sudden urge to overshare.

  So I said, “I can’t pee if I know you’re listening.”

  His mouth snapped shut as he swallowed a gulp too quickly, and he blinked at me as if a speck of dust were caught in his eye. “What?”

  “I don’t want to have the door open—ever—when we’re doing our business in the bathroom. Some things should stay a mystery.”

  He watched me for a moment then shrugged. “Okay…that’s fine.”

  “And I don’t want you to carry my purse—not ever. I hate that, and I actually feel a level of severe moral reprehension about men carrying their spouses’ purses. Don’t even reach for it. You can have your own purse if you want one, but I don’t want you touching my purse.”

  His mouth was pressed together in a stiff line and eyes were watching me like I was the most fascinating creature he’d ever seen.

  “And sounds,” I continued. “I know you’ll make them, but you need to be cognizant of them, like farting. Try to do it elsewhere so I can’t hear. I’ll do the same with you. Make an effort, you know? It’s like, why share that with anyone?”

  “Burping too?”

  I thought about that then shook my head. “I’m glad you asked. For some reason I feel like loud, long burps are okay, but little burps are disgusting. So, let’s just say no to burps unless we’re having a contest.”

  He stared at me for a beat, nodded. “I can see that. That makes sense. I have a request.”

  “Sure, go for it.”

  “Don’t talk about your period—ever. I don’t want to see evidence of it either.”

  “Ever? But what about if you want to do something and I’m….”

  “Then we’ll put it on the calendar. We can have a code for it so I’ll know when it’s happening. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

  I frowned at that, nodded. “Then I don’t want to hear about stomach or digestion problems—unless something is really wrong and you need to go to the doctor.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “And,” I continued, thinking of another item, “I want you to kiss me when you leave and kiss me when you come home.”

  Quinn gave me a quick smile then leaned forward and brushed a kiss against my mouth. “I like that one.” He settled back against the couch. “Same goes for you. And you should also tell me you love me, every day.”

  “I love you and I will. That’s a good one. You should say it too.”

  “I’ll say it too, and I love you. Anything else?”

  I studied him, tried to think of other specific requests, came up empty. At length I shook my head. “I can’t think of any more, but if I do I’ll email them to you.”

  He stuck his hand out for me to take, saying, “I can agree to those terms.”

  I smiled at his hand then at him and shook it. Those were the same words I’d used the last time we’d discussed marriage related issues.

  But the last time the issues were much larger, big deal kinds of things. This time, I reflected, the issues were much smaller, everyday kinds of things; but taken all together, maybe no less important.

  Quinn’s mouth hooked to the side and he released my hand; his eyes moved over my features—forehead, nose, cheeks, lips, chin, neck, then back to my eyes via my hair.

  Then he blinked, frowned. “We got the results back from the chocolate and Ashley’s hooch.”

  I quirked my eyebrow, because I never thought I’d hear Quinn say the words Ashley’s hooch.

  “Really? What’s the damage? Was it LSD?” I’d done some research after the fact. LSD seemed like the scariest of the options so, of course, I assumed it was LSD. No one likes being drugged or losing their memory. The only thing that kept me from a full-on freak-out was the fact that either Stan or Quinn had been with us the whole time.

  “No, it was hashish—in the chocolate—and moonshine in the hooch. But the moonshine was laced with methanol. It looks like the methanol paired with the moonshine and hashish made bad things happen.”

  “Moonshine and hashish?”

  He nodded.

  “That sounds like a nineteen seventies sitcom involving a stern but loveable police detective and his sloppy but loveable sidekick.”

  “It would also make a good name for a band.” He gave me a barely-there smile, which I returned with a larger one.

  “I’ll tell the girls. They’ll be relieved to know it was only moonshine and hashish. I may never get tired of saying moonshine and hashish. If we have dogs we should name them Moonshine and Hashish.”

  “No. We’re not naming our dogs Moonshine or Hashish. My father is a police detective.”

  I considered this then nodded my agreement. “You’re right. I’ll come up with a list that doesn’t involve drug paraphernalia.”

  “Speaking of dogs and the people who own them, how was Shelly?” Quinn asked this as he studied his glass of scotch, and my heart broke a little.

  I decided right then that I would never tell him what his sister had done. It was her place, her sin to confess. Or it was something that might come up eventually with his parents. But I wouldn’t tell him.

  “She was being stubborn, so I told her that the ball was in her court—which is an idiom that comes from tennis, although some crazy people think it comes from badminton. Of course, this assertion is completely false, because it would be the shuttlecock is in your court, not the ball is in your court.”

  Quinn’s eyes held mine, but his face seemed meticulously expressionless when he said, “Why is it called a shuttlecock?”

  “Excellent question—I’m glad you asked. The word refers to the forward and backward movement it makes during the game: it was named after the shuttle of a loom.”

  “And the cock part?”

  My eyes narrowed on him and—by the power of Thor!—I could feel
my neck heat. This was entrapment.

  I cleared my throat and looked away, picking a piece of lint from my jeans before responding. “It has feathers on it.”

  “Oh. So it wasn’t named after the forward and backward movement of….”

  “No! No it was not.” I rolled my eyes then closed them.

  I couldn’t be too mad at him, though, because it was impossible for me to hold a grudge when faced with the sound of Quinn’s laughter.

  CHAPTER 25

  I probably should have been more careful.

  That stated, Quinn should have knocked.

  Really, we were both to blame.

  If we’d flown in together then it could have been avoided. What happened was that I took an early flight to Boston on Monday morning so I could have one final wedding dress fitting. Assuming it fit, I would be able to take it with me and try it on with the shoes, veil, lingerie, jewelry—everything.

  I was illogically and exceedingly excited by the prospect. I’d never been a fan of fairy tales and related princess costumes—unless they were tales of caution where the beautiful maiden is punished for her vanity and selfishness, as these usually had tragic endings, which I found extremely satisfying—but I couldn’t wait to try on the entire getup.

  I went directly to the Beau Boutique from the airport and tried on my dress. It fit perfectly. I carefully loaded the gown in the car and drove to the hotel. Or, more precisely, Stan drove me to the hotel.

  As soon as we were in the room, I told Stan to make himself comfortable, and I bolted into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me.

  Then, I put everything on.

  The underwear, bustier with built-in garter belt, and stockings from London; the lovely ivory Vera Wang silk stilettos with beautiful silk embroidered flowers at the heel, the organza silk veil with antique lace around the edge.

  I turned to look in the closet mirror, my eyes wide, and I inspected my reflection.

  It was a very nice dress, a simple ivory sheath with practical three quarter sleeves and a square neckline, and I looked nice in it. I’d chosen it because it was simple and inexpensive. I didn’t want or need anything more. In fact, as I surveyed my reflection, I considered that I might be able to dye it a different color then reuse it, maybe bring the hem up to my calf.