Lilies on Main

by J. Lynn Bailey

  “You already know what you want?” Lydia asks.

  “Every time.”

  She smiles. “What do you get?”

  “Fish and chips.” I stare at this beautiful woman across the table from me, wondering how I ever got her to agree to go to dinner with me.

  “You don’t veer from that?”

  “Nope.”

  “Every time?” Lydia is almost in disbelief.

  “Since I was eight.”

  Lydia looks up again from her menu. “You mean to tell me that, since you were eight years old, you have come to Merryman’s and gotten the fish and chips each and every time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Warden Casey, you’ve got to change things up a bit.”

  “Why? I know it’s great each time. Why fix what’s not broken? I mean, I can see if maybe they changed the recipe for the batter or maybe did something to change the fish, but it’s always had the same great taste.”

  And then she laughs. It sounds like angels, a choir at Christmas, or a wood thrush’s song right before a rainstorm.

  I’m right where I’m supposed to be.

  Eleven

  Lydia

  Don’t stare, Lydia, I tell myself, looking away, back to my menu where I read the cursive lines, not retaining a word. His broad shoulders won’t do you any good. His long, lean jaw seems as though it holds the entire structure of his face in place. And the way he was with Lilly today—stop.

  I feel his eyes on me as I look at the menu.

  Shannon reappears.

  “Hey, Lydia. Aaron. Aaron, the usual?”

  “Please.” Aaron waits to hand his menu back to her.

  “What’s your soup tonight?” I ask.

  “Clam chowder,” she says.

  “I’ll have the haddock and a salad.”

  “Dressing?”

  “Italian.”

  “We’re out.”

  “Balsamic?”

  “Out.”

  “Blue cheese?”

  “Out.”

  “What dressing do you have?”

  “Ranch.”

  “Ranch it is.”

  Aaron takes my menu and hands them both back to Shannon. She takes our menus and walks away.

  “Fish? Interesting.” Aaron rests his elbows on the table and looks at me like I’m the only person in the room. “I took you for a meat-and-potatoes kind of girl.”

  Shannon brings our drinks and a couple of waters.

  “Thank you,” we both say at a different pace.

  She retreats to the kitchen.

  I shrug. Take a sip of water to cool myself down as my heart starts to pick up pace again. A heart that was given to me when I was six years old. On loan until the world and God find it necessary for me to make the trek down the broad highway.

  Please, God, not anytime soon though, I silently pray.

  “Says the man who only orders fish and chips from Merryman’s since he was a little boy.” I tilt my head to the right, pull back, and take another small sip of water.

  Aaron laughs, and I swear, I hear his heart. His Adam’s apple bobs as his laugh slowly dies to a quiet smile. The candle on our table in the red holder flickers.

  “Tell me something about you that you’ve never told anyone,” Aaron says.

  “I don’t date.” But it comes out wrong. I mean, it came out right but also very wrong. Maybe, if I keep the invisible measuring stick between us, it will make things better for both of us in the end.

  Aaron is still. Doesn’t move. Stares at me from across the table. “Why are you here with me tonight?”

  “This isn’t a date. This is two people having dinner at a restaurant.” I lean forward on the table, just like Aaron.

  He smiles, pulls his eyes from mine, and takes in the room full of people. Then, his eyes fall back to mine.

  Before he speaks, I speak instead, “Tell me something about you that you haven’t told anyone.”

  He’s hesitant. It isn’t in his lack of words that I see it; it’s in his eyes. Is he protecting someone? Himself?

  Aaron takes his hand and runs it along his jawline, perhaps debating the content of what he’s about to tell me. I see the conflict that builds. He changes course. He wants to tell me something but doesn’t.

  “My mom’s cooking is horrendous. But nobody but me thinks so.”

  The corners of my mouth turn upward. “That’s not what you were going to tell me.”

  Aaron smiles. “Have you tried her cooking?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, then, maybe you ought to come test it for yourself.”

  “But not like a date.”

  “Not like a date at all.” He pulls his phone from his back pocket, types in a few words—“that two consenting adults with a prearranged agreement is a date. So, technically, that would be a date.”

  “You aren’t pleading your case very well, Warden.”

  He shakes his head. Laughs. Shoves his phone back in his pocket. “I know.” He sighs and looks around the room again, and then his eyes fall to mine.

  Somehow, everything grows quieter. The flicker from the light of the candle makes everything better. Less color. More black.

  “Lydia, look, I really like you. A lot. In fact, I haven’t been able to get you off my mind since the day you stepped foot in Granite Harbor.”

  I pull at my sleeves to make sure the stitches are hidden. Deny me, him, or us any satisfaction of what he just said.

  “I had a heart transplant when I was six. That’s when my mother’s alcoholism took over. After I was well, I mean.”

  Candle flickers.

  Silence stays.

  Aaron’s stunned.

  Check, please.

  Run, Lydia.

  You can leave, I give myself permission.

  I’m damaged goods, I want to say.

  All I hear is the beat of my borrowed heart, beating in a body that somehow feels so disconnected right now to me, to life, and all I want to do is pick myself up and run.

  What do you say to a woman who just blurted this out? What do you say to a woman who uses words as a weapon to protect her own heart but mostly her daughter’s heart? We’ve had a man break us. We’ve had a man hurt us. We won’t have that again.

  “A heart transplant?”

  I nod, now using my finger to wipe the sweat from my glass. I want to tell Aaron he doesn’t know the half of it, but the words get caught, tangled, messy with fear.

  “Does Gwen still drink?”

  I smile. “Nope. Twenty-two years sober, a day at a time.”

  He nods. “Look, Lydia …” He pauses. “I’m not sure how to ask questions about this, and I might sound like a total dumbass, but is that the reason you have stitches on your wrist?”

  I look down at my sleeve and see how my incision has been exposed. “No,” is all I say.

  And, in this tender, vulnerable moment, I give him truth. “You said to tell you something I’d never told anyone before. I did. It doesn’t warrant questions, conversation, small talk.” And yet, I say those words to push him away, not to draw more attention.

  Shannon approaches our table with our food.

  “Fish and chips and haddock.” She sets them down in front of us. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, I think we’re fine, Shannon. Thank you,” Aaron says.

  But, before he can pick up a piece of fish, I say, “Nope. We’re trading. You’re eating my haddock, and I’m eating the fish and chips.”

  “What?”

  “Drop that fish, Warden. It’s mine.”

  “But—”

  “Nope.” I shake my head. “Tonight, you’re trying something different.” I hand over my plate.

  Reluctantly, he hands over his.

  “And your tarter sauce, please,” I say.

  Aaron smiles, shakes his head, and hands over the tarter sauce.

  I take a bite of the fish. “This …” I pause. “This is really good.”

/>   “I know.” Aaron cuts the haddock into smaller pieces. Looks up at me. Down again.

  The words that he used just moments ago—“I really like you”—settle down deep. Slowly, I chew the fish, and it breaks apart against my tongue. “You really like me?” I say after I swallow my first bite. Oh my goodness, this is good.

  Aaron sets his fork down before he takes a bite of his haddock. “Yes.”

  He stares me down, and the thoughts that wander into my mind are not innocent.

  I wonder what his jawline would feel like against my thighs.

  I wonder what his mouth would feel like against my breasts.

  His fingers in places they shouldn’t be and places I want them.

  My face grows warm as I shove another bite in my mouth. The ache starts between my legs. The ache I haven’t had since Brett.

  What would it feel like to make love to another man?

  Shannon brings the bill, interrupting my thoughts.

  “The bill,” she whispers and slides it onto the table, but Aaron grabs it only two seconds sooner than me. She leaves.

  “My treat,” he says.

  “What’s my portion of it?”

  “My treat,” he says again.

  “Come on. I took your food from you. Forced you to eat something you hadn’t ordered.”

  Aaron’s taking his wallet out as I sit back and watch. My face grows warm again as I watch his big hands and how they handle his wallet. I put my wine to my lips and take a long sip, trying to alleviate the attraction. As if wine will help.

  “You’re right,” he says as I set my glass down. It’s hot in here, right?

  “You owe me fish and chips.” He smiles, shoving his wallet in his back pocket. “Guess we’ll have to come back.”

  “Would that mean a date in addition to your parents’ house, Warden?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  Let yourself be, Lydia. Go with the flow. Not everything leads to marriage. Not everything leads to bad things.

  I take another sip of water, toy with the ice in my mouth, and stare at the beautiful man across the table from me.

  Shannon returns to retrieve the bill and Aaron’s card. She leaves and comes back a minute later, setting down the card and receipt for Aaron to sign. “Have a nice night, guys,” she says.

  As we leave Merryman’s, a crowd of people comes in—out-of-town guests, I suppose, visiting from who knows where.

  Aaron gently puts his hand on my hip to help guide me through the sea of people—not that I need help, but I need his hand, and it feels so damn good right there. My head goes hazy, as if I’d drunk too much wine. The ache comes back.

  I stop as a man steps in front of me, not on purpose.

  The length of Aaron’s body bumps into the back of me.

  His chest.

  His stomach.

  His torso.

  “Excuse me,” Aaron says to the gentleman in our way.

  “Oh, my apologies.” The man moves out of our path.

  But I can’t move, or my body doesn’t want to move. It’s been a long time since my body has felt this way. Sexy. Turned on. I feel all of him on my backside.

  “Let’s go, Lydia,” Aaron whispers in my ear.

  I can’t, I should say. Explain myself.

  Gently, he takes the other hand and places it on my other hip. He pushes me along until we reach the door. He opens it.

  The warm, humid summer air greets us.

  His hands don’t move, and all I need is to breathe.

  “Are you all right?” he whispers against my neck.

  “No.” I shake my head.

  Headlights shine on us for only a second and then quickly disappear.

  Aaron and I move around the corner and lean against the cedar that Merryman’s was built with. It’s dark as my back gently rests on the wall. His lips are not even an inch from my face. Our bodies separated by cloth, I feel his hard chest against mine. My heart slams against his as I try to fight the attraction I feel for Aaron.

  “Tell me not to kiss you, and I won’t. Tell me to walk away, and I will,” he whispers as his lips graze mine, searching for every reason to be a gentleman in this situation.

  My legs part, so I can feel him better between my legs.

  “Tell me to stop,” he says again.

  “I-I can’t.”

  And Aaron’s lips crash against mine.

  Needy.

  Breathy.

  His hands slide to my backside.

  My legs almost fold.

  My breasts grow hard.

  My kiss deepens, giving him more of myself.

  Our kiss isn’t gentle or soft. It’s exactly what we both need.

  I pull his shirt up, so I can feel his skin against my hands.

  He sighs, breaking the kiss, dropping his head to my shoulder. “Oh my God. I’m losing my mind, Lydia.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “No. This is not okay.” He pulls one hand from my backside and rests it against the wood behind us.

  We collect our thoughts like lost change. Comparing, figuring out what’s collectible and what’s not.

  “I’m not going to do what I want to you in the Merryman’s parking lot, no matter how bad I want to.” He pulls back, dropping both his hands from me. Runs his hand through his short hair.

  Feeling vulnerable, exposed, I try to smooth my clothes, not sure what to say, pulling at my sleeves.

  His head whips back to me; his eyes glow in the moonlight now.

  The spring peepers call.

  “You deserve to be made love to. Slowly.” He takes a strand of my hair and pushes it behind my ear. His body moves closer to mine again.

  I swallow. His fingertips graze my backside again, tighten. He looks down at me.

  “Just once,” I barely say.

  “Just once what?” His other hand glides across my jaw, and his lips follow.

  “Fuck me.”

  A low growl starts in his throat.

  My heart is beating so hard and so fast; surely, he feels it.

  “I can feel your heart,” he whispers and then kisses the side of my head.

  I swallow hard. Please don’t do that, I beg silently.

  Brett used to do that the morning after. Apologize again for what he’d done to me the night before.

  But the difference with Aaron’s kiss is his touch. Gently, he pulls me from the wall, and we slowly wander our way back to my place on Main.

  “You were great with Lilly today,” I say as I put my hand to my lips, remembering his kiss. Holding it there for keeps. Remembering how his lips pressed against mine.

  Aaron looks on, our shoulders bump, and then he’s not so gentle.

  We make decisions in a split second. Decisions that are not well thought out. It’s confusing when our heads get involved with our hearts. Our needs that require fulfillment become center stage to what our heads are really trying to tell us.

  How could I have let this go too far? I have a daughter to think about. Her best interest.

  Guilt begins to consume me as I attempt to leave my attraction, my needs, somewhere on Main.

  The fire dies from my body, leaving embers that smolder, clinging to life. I give them a cheap blow.

  We’re at my stop. The alley that leads to the door, that leads to the hallway, that leads to the staircase, that leads to my heart, who’s snuggled in her bed. My sole purpose in life.

  “Look, Aaron, we can’t keep doing this.”

  “What?” He stops; his hand tightens around mine.

  “This.” My hand moves back and forth from his body to my body. “Us.”

  His eyes grow narrow. His tone changes. “Why?”

  “Let’s not pretend to play the fantasy, okay? I’m attracted to you. That’s it,” I lie with every ounce of me to prove only to myself that I won’t lose focus. That my number one priority is my daughter. I can’t have both.

  “No.” Aaron’s tone is curt as h
e drops his hand from mine. “That’s bullshit, and you know it, Lydia.”

  The only thing that surrounds us are the sounds of the summer night air kissing the earth with drips of lost water, spring peepers, and the rhythm of our hearts.

  I cross my arms. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  Twelve

  Aaron

  The etched stitching that ties her skin together on her wrist becomes barely obvious, but I notice it.

  “What are you running from, Lydia?” I whisper, running out of options.

  “Nothing, Aaron. Just because women might fall at your feet and I don’t fall in line with that, all of a sudden, I’m running?”

  I’ve hit a nerve, and she knows it.

  “You might not want to see this, Lydia, but every time we get close, you pull away. This time, I’m not letting you go. I’ll see you and Lilly for dinner tomorrow night at Merryman’s.” I pause. Hesitate. “I want Lilly to try the fish and chips.”

  Her mouth opens as if she needs to speak. Closes. Opens. But the words don’t come, and she also doesn’t agree to my command.

  “See you tomorrow night at six. I’ll meet you and Lilly at Merryman’s.” I turn and walk down Main toward my house, leaving Lydia where she stands.

  When I get home, the red light blinks from my answering machine. Ethan gives me shit about it. Says my answering machine is like a prehistoric time box. Says the guy who handwrites all his reports and then types them.

  I throw my keys on the counter, take a beer from the fridge, and hit play.

  The machine beeps and then quiet. Nothing. But then I hear only faint breathing. Quiet, calculated breaths.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.

  I grab my house phone and scan through the numbers that have called my house. Only two. One is my mother, and the other is an unknown number.

  “Stay away from Lydia, or things will get painfully real.” The man’s voice is haunting, dark. As if his words are tools. Weapons for intimidation. As if this isn’t his first gig, his first job. A washed-up villain trying to make a comeback.

  Playing it again, I listen for the background noises. Anything that might give me any indication of where he’s calling from. I crack my beer open. Take a long swig. Sit down, grab a pencil and paper, and hit play once more.