Hawthorn Woods

by Patrick Canning

  “Hi. Um, I’m your neighbor, kind of. I’m staying at my sister’s place on the other side of the block.”

  “You’re the one who got the drink in her face.”

  “Yep. That’s what I’m known for around here.”

  “Sorry.” He smiled. “Sometimes I talk before I think, if I think at all. I noticed you before that. I’m Michael Bruno. People call me Bruno.” He shook her hand vigorously, spilling strands of black hair across a friendly-looking face.

  Francine’s mind had built the man up into a James Dean-esque loner who lived a rogue existence on the fringe of society, or the fringe of parties at least. The man before her was about as brooding as Mister Rogers.

  “I’m Francine…Haddix.”

  “Is that French?”

  “I don’t know, actually. Are you suntanning in a garage?”

  “I’ve been cooped up a while. Thought I’d go outside. I’m a city mouse, so I guess I didn’t get too ambitious.”

  “Me too,” Francine said. “I mean, I grew up in a place like this, but I live in San Francisco now.”

  “New York,” he said. “Guess we met somewhere in the middle.”

  Francine decided he was indeed handsome-ish. And that was thanks mostly to having the hair of a Greek god, because the man’s sense of style had not improved since the tweed jacket number she’d seen him in the first night. Today’s outfit was one a person would only wear if they’d lost a bet: a short-sleeved, pale orange dress shirt with a bright green paisley tie, and the same ugly brown corduroys. The ensemble was eye-wateringly bad, but also sort of sweet in the innocence required to wear it.

  “You’re just visiting here, right?” he asked. “Housesitting?”

  “Babysitting my nephew for two weeks,” Francine said, leaving out any unnecessary divorce details that were decidedly unwelcome at a flirty first meeting. “It’s kind of a steep learning curve to be solely responsible for another life, but I flip a mean pancake, and the rest I pick up along the way. Pancakes are my favorite food, since you were probably wondering.”

  “Oreos for me,” he volunteered.

  “An excellent choice. What brings you to Hawthorn Woods?”

  For the first time, he hesitated. “I’m on vacation.”

  “You took a vacation here? Voluntarily?”

  Another almost imperceptible hesitation. “I’m a writer. I like to work wherever it’s quiet. This seemed like the perfect spot.”

  “I thought the same thing until the end of my sister’s party.”

  “Yeah, what was that all about?”

  “Don’t know yet, but I’m working on it. So do I become a character in your story just by talking to you?”

  “A couple of city mice meet in the country? Hmm. That could work.”

  She couldn’t quite tell if he was flirting, but this seemed as good a time as ever to make her pitch. “Do you have any interest in coming to a barbeque tonight?”

  “At Laura Jean’s, right?”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “She invited me. Said I could only come if I brought you.”

  Francine smiled. “She can be quite persuasive.”

  “I was going to walk over to ask you after my tanning session in the garage here.” He gestured to his lawn chair and Francine saw the title of the book he’d been reading: Justice Not Vengeance. The pages were riddled with tabs of yellow paper. She considered asking if it was a good read, but the way he’d rushed to put the book under the chair made her think he wasn’t looking to chat about it.

  “I accept your intended invitation,” she said, instead. “See you tonight, Michael Bruno.”

  “Just Bruno.” He smiled. “When you say the whole name, it makes me feel like I’m in trouble.”

  Chapter 9

  Much of what is happening to me now seems to have happened to me before.

  [ x ] TRUE [ ] FALSE

  Francine found Charlie sprawled out in front of the house’s air conditioner, wearing only his underwear.

  “Dad never lets me turn on the AC,” he confessed. “He always says, ‘If you’re hot, eat an ice cube.’ But it’s so hot this summer.”

  “Dads have to be cheap. It says so in the parenting rule book. Your secret is my secret.”

  She nudged Charlie over with her foot and joined him on the immaculate carpet of the rarely-used dining room.

  “You’re smiling,” he said.

  “I always smile.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Okay Smile Police, it just so happens I had a good day. How ’bout you?”

  “Most amazing day ever! I looked for sprinklers to play in, and then I caught bullfrogs.”

  As if on cue, a croak sounded from the direction of the kitchen.

  “Charles. If that sink has any more frogs than the zero it had this morning, your desserts are in grave, grave danger.”

  The nuclear threat of dessert withdrawal had the desired effect: Charlie did a backward somersault up to his feet and dashed into the kitchen.

  With visions of Pete studying the energy bill under a microscope, Francine turned off the deliciously cold air and trotted upstairs to the bathroom, ready to wash the day’s heat off with a cool shower. She could even put Ellie’s curling iron and hairsprays to use. This didn’t necessarily mean Francine was fully on board with the prospect of a new romance—just that she was open to considering a possible conversation regarding the suggestion of the idea. Maybe.

  This was all assuming, of course, that Michael Bruno was pining for a vacationing hairstylist in romantic freefall. His odd but cheerful manner made it hard to tell if he was interested or just friendly, especially in the span of five minutes.

  The guy might not be postcard-handsome, and he sure as hell wasn’t a sharp dresser, but there was something in the way he carried himself and the way he spoke, like he wasn’t lacquered in the guarded cynicism most people acquired as they aged.

  Feeling a little silly for her instant infatuation, Francine nonetheless allowed herself to enjoy the feeling of a new crush as she lathered, rinsed, and repeated. After wrapping herself in a towel, she opened the bathroom door to let out the steam and began to blow dry her hair.

  She’d finished with her hairspray and moved onto the curling iron by the time Charlie crawled onto the creaky landing at the top of the stairs, breathing heavily.

  “I took him all the way back to Haunted Pond and turned him around a few times so he wouldn’t try and come back.”

  “I don’t think he misses the kitchen sink, Charlie, but thank you.”

  “How come you’re doing that?”

  “Because I want to look nice for Laura Jean’s barbeque. You’re excited, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Who’s gonna be there?”

  “Probably the same people that go to all the parties around here, Bubba.” Francine moved the iron to a new strand of hair.

  “Is Mister Mystery gonna be there?”

  She looked at him in the mirror. Why had he asked about Bruno?

  “Yeah, but don’t call him Mister Mystery, it’s not nice. He’s a writer, maybe he can tell us a good story while we eat.” She wrapped a new strand of hair around the iron.

  When the questions noticeably stopped, she looked to find Charlie churning his hands in indecision, a look of worry on his face.

  “Charlie?”

  “He’s not a writer!” Charlie blurted.

  “What?”

  “I heard him talking on the phone last night. He said, ‘They think I’m a writer.’ He’s a liar and you shouldn’t be friends with a liar.”

  Francine tried to make sense of the outburst. Bruno wasn’t a writer? Why would he lie about that?

  She swished the sentence around in her mind, hoping her nephew had misunderstood something.

  They think I’m a writer.

  Maybe he—no. No. She wasn’t going to do it again. She wasn’t going to give pass after pass until she ended up hurt. Why had she thought Bruno was
so authentic anyway? Because he’d been nice to her for five minutes? Because of some vague quality in his face or voice? Jesus. She’d given the guy a shot less than an hour ago and already he’d turned out to be a dud. Usually people took their time in letting her down.

  “Aunt Francine!” Charlie cried.

  Smoke streamed from the hair wrapped around the curling iron. Francine yanked the curling iron free and slammed it onto the tile counter, swatting at her smoldering strands of hair as a noxious smell filled the bathroom. “Goddammit!”

  She hung her head and tried to calm down.

  Why had she expected Bruno to be any different than Ben?

  “I’m sorry I yelled,” she said softly to Charlie. “I’m not mad at you. Okay?”

  “’Kay,” he whispered.

  “You really heard Mr. Bruno say that on the phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “You shouldn’t eavesdrop, Charlie. You know that, right?”

  He nodded meekly.

  “C’mere.” She held her arms open and Charlie ran into the hug.

  “I’m sorry I eavesdropped,” he said with a quiver.

  “It’s okay, Bubba. Go watch TV downstairs for a little bit, okay?”

  “Are we still going to the barbeque?”

  “Absolutely,” Francine decided. “We’re not gonna let a stupid little lie ruin our night, are we?”

  She hooked Charlie’s finger, then watched as he hopped down the stairs, the drama already forgotten. Kids were so resilient, so quick to forget.

  It was going to take Francine just a bit longer.

  Chapter 10

  I refuse to play some games because I am not good at them.

  [ x ] TRUE [ ] FALSE

  Ellie’s Bon Voyage and Welcome Francine gathering had provided the minimum party requirements of beer, booze, and a mixing bowl full of pretzels. Perfectly serviceable. But it seemed neighborhood get-togethers were a bit more of an art form for Laura Jean Cunningham. While Charlie ran off to play with some of the other kids, Francine marveled at a suburban backyard transformed into a social meateater’s paradise.

  Thoroughly iced coolers offered an impressive range of pop for the kids and domestic beer for the adults. Circles of orange and lemon bobbed in a glass bowl of red liquid taped with a label that read “Down South Punch (Not for Youngsters).” Flower-centerpieced picnic tables dotted the lawn, close but not too close to a massive grill crowded with every cut of meat imaginable. And best of all? No sign of good hair and a bad tie. Maybe Bruno had decided not to come after all, which was just fine by Francine.

  Laura Jean spotted her from across the party and quickly made her way over in a wonderful, cream-colored party dress. Francine looked self-consciously down at her own daisy sundress, which she’d only succeeded in ridding of cranberry vodka stains ten minutes earlier.

  “In my rush to flee the West Coast I mostly packed t-shirts,” she explained, as they shared a hug. “This is the extent of my formalwear.”

  “Are you kidding? It looks better than ever. Mine’s about as comfortable as a lampshade. And where is the dashing Mystery Date?”

  Francine decided Laura Jean was much too busy at the moment for her newest sob story, so she simply said, “Haven’t seen him yet.”

  “Probably spending extra time in front of the mirror hoping to wow a certain someone.”

  Francine nodded. “Probably.”

  “Well get yourself a drink and relax, I’m off to hostess whatever needs hostessing, and I’ll find you in a bit. And don’t you two sneak off together without saying goodbye.” Laura Jean winked and rushed off to welcome an arriving Carol and her family.

  Francine exhaled and walked under the fairyland glow of Tungsten string lights hung between two huge oaks on either end of the lawn. She scooped herself a cup of Down South Punch, one hair-raising sip confirming the stuff was definitely not for youngsters.

  Standing on the sidelines of a game of horseshoes, she studied what Laura Jean had previously called a sea of bored husbands. To Francine, it might as well have been a sea of green olives. All around, waistlines and hairlines raced away from each other to see which could finish off sex appeal first. Resigned clothing hung from soft-shaped bodies below faces with untrimmed mustaches and untreated rosacea.

  Francine realized she was being overly hard on the men of Hawthorn Woods. They’d all been perfectly nice to her so far, even if a few friendly smiles hadn’t quite matched the hungry eyes above. She’d just had a little too much Down South Punch and far too much experience to give them the benefit of the doubt.

  Not that it mattered anyway, because every hairy ring finger showed the dull glint of a wedding band. It would just be nice to know there was something out there for her other than a buffet of compromise.

  “Francine, right?” the man standing next to her said. His crew cut of white hair had a distinctly military look to it, probably trimmed and measured each and every morning. “I’m Del Merlin, I’m your neighbor on the other side.”

  Francine remembered Laura Jean saying Del was in his sixties, but he was probably the most fit-looking person she’d met in her life: an immaculately slender waist that said red grapefruit for breakfast, and impressively toned arms that said red meat for dinner. His copper skin stood out against the white undershirt he wore tucked into his jeans, where the keys to his beloved sports car dangled from an empty belt loop.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Merlin,” Francine said, knowing a correction was coming.

  “Call me Del.”

  “Oh, come on. How often do I get the chance to say Mr. Merlin? I don’t know if you’re aware, but there was this wizard…”

  “No, no one’s ever mentioned it.” He grinned. “How’s the punch?”

  “Deadly good,” she said. “Can I get you one?”

  “Not a drinker, but thanks.”

  He grinned again, and Francine didn’t like the leering quality his expression seemed to be taking on. She adopted a businesslike tone to ward off any flirting the widower might have had in mind. “So I’m still putting faces to names on the block. Can you help me out?”

  “Sure.” Del looked around. “Well, just about the only people from the block not here are the Banderwalts. Not the party types, I guess. No, wait, that new guy’s not here either. The renter. Bruno something or other.”

  “Mhmm.”

  Del pointed toward the blond police chief. “You know the Durhams, of course.”

  Chief Durham was standing with his back to them, Magdalena’s pixie cut visible over one stocky shoulder. Before Francine could ask a probing question, Del had moved on.

  “Over there we got Roland Gerber, talking to Dennis Asperski.”

  Francine watched her benevolent Swiss therapist scoop himself a big cup of Down South Punch. Drinking a beer next to him stood a frumpy, balding man with bad posture.

  “I’m already a big Roland Gerber fan,” she said. “Dennis is married to someone named Lori, right?”

  “He is,” Del acknowledged, with a note of fatigue.

  He nodded beyond the two men, where a globular woman was enjoying her position in the center of four attentive women. At last, the famed Lori Asperski and her Hens.

  Lori was tented in a black and white gingham dress, the chemically-brown hair atop her head bundled into a strange, clamshell fan shape. Her blue eyeshadow was a hue somewhere between pool chalk and a butane flame, and she wore a lot of it.

  “Lori’s supposed to be something of a hard case, right?” Francine said.

  “She’s a bitch,” Del grumbled, then looked quickly at Francine. “Sorry. I don’t say that lightly. Lori’s…well, you probably just have to meet her.”

  The woman’s sapphire-encased eyes noticed the two of them watching her, which she apparently took as an invitation to head their way, pushing unapologetically through her Hens and other nearby guests.

  “Pleased to meet you, Francine,” Del said quickly. “But you’re on your own with this one.”
/>   He risked passing through the crossfire of horseshoes, leaving Francine wide open to the approaching checkerboard sphere.

  “Why hel-lo, sweetie!” Lori Asperski tittered. Her mouth stretched into a smile that made Francine think of an overburdened suspension bridge, strained cables ready to snap and kill anyone nearby. “You’re Ellie’s sister.”

  Francine wasn’t sure if it was a question or an accusation.

  “Right. I’m—”

  “You didn’t do your proper rounds the other night. None of us got the chance to meet you, so we had to draw our own conclusions. That’s how little whispers start, right?” The suspension-bridge smile drew even tighter.

  “That or people start whispering,” Francine said.

  At even a mildly challenging response, a faint shadow seemed to pass behind Lori’s eyes, though the rest of her expression stayed the same.

  Not wanting any more enemies in Hawthorn Woods than she already had, Francine tried to make nice. “Laura Jean pointed out your house the other day. It’s really pretty. I love your little farm.”

  “That was so nice of Laura Jean.” Lori’s face pinched in on itself. “So cute, this party of hers. It’s a bit…much, you know? But God, ca-yute. So how’s the stay been so far? Word is you’re here for some R and R due to the pitfalls of love?”

  “Just a little vacation,” Francine said, already certain there was no one on the planet she’d like to share her private life with less than this woman.

  The assumption was immediately put to the test as Michael Bruno approached with two plates of barbeque.

  “Hi. I made you a plate,” he said to Francine. “Well, Laura Jean kind of put it in my hands, but I’m the courier.”

  “Our other tourist,” Lori announced, clearly spurned by Bruno’s failure to show her proper deference. “Mister Bruno, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Just Bruno, for those in a hurry.”

  “Mmhmm.” Lori feigned amusement.

  “I saved some seats for us,” Bruno said to Francine. “We probably don’t want to lose ’em.”

  “Enjoy the party.” Francine nodded over her shoulder, happy at the chance to vacate Lori’s company, even if it meant joining Bruno’s.