Gone With a Handsomer Man Page 5

  Maybe I should ignore him now. I reached for my second martini, took a sip, and glanced sideways. He smiled. Damn, men that gorgeous should be outlawed. The bartender brought Coop’s beer. It had a stamped clover in the foam.

  “Another drink, cutie?” the bartender asked me.

  “Please,” I said, thinking about crazy girls with hammers. I fished a peach slice from my glass and bit into the tangy flesh. It tasted like a fallen fruit. They’re stronger and slightly alcoholic, with a flavor like schnapps or brandy. My mouth filled with the memory of Aunt Bluette working in her roadside stand, weighing bags of fruit and chatting with customers while honeybees hummed over the bins.

  The door opened, and warm night air pushed into the bar. I glanced at my watch. Five forty-five and no Bing. Cooper lifted his glass mug. His t-shirt was stretched over his shoulders, each deltoid muscle round as an Elberta peach. I’d never wanted to touch a man’s arm this bad—well, except for this particular man’s arm. I wanted to push my hand under his sleeve and feel his peach of a muscle, the way I had when we were younger. If Bing strolled in, he’d think I was flirting. Well, so what? He had it coming. Tit for freaking tat. Except our “talk” would go out the window, and I’d end up totally homeless.

  The bartender brought my drinks and cleared the empty glasses. I reached for my martini, and the voice inside my head made a tsking sound. I needed gas money, not alcohol. Too damn bad. I tossed down the drink. It felt cold against the back of my throat. Now I understood why Mama did what she did. Her mind was crawling with snakes. No place to be still, no peace, only the slick edge of pain. Alcohol was a cheap way to step out of her own skin.

  “You come here a lot?” Coop grinned and dimples cut into his cheeks.

  “My first time.”

  “You don’t recognize me, do you?” he asked.

  “I’d know you anywhere, O’Malley,” I said. Even if he did look a little different. And more handsome, if that was possible. In high school, he’d been thinner, and his long dark bangs had fallen into his eyes.

  His smile widened and I saw the tiny scar on his chin. When he was six years old, he’d tumbled off a merry-go-round at Lakeside Elementary, and I’d held my mitten against the wound until his daddy, Dr. O’Malley, had arrived.

  “Whatever happened to you?” I asked. I was referring to why he’d dumped me all those years ago.

  “After Carolina, I went to Yale law. Then I lived in England.” He shrugged. “What about you? How’d you end up in Charleston?”

  “Long story.” Well, what was I supposed to say? I could tell him about Bing and my criminal record. Or I could describe the Food Lion bakery and how I’d distributed pecan sandies to members of the Free Cookie Club.

  You’re drunk, I thought, mentally adding an apostrophe between “you” and “re.” I stared into my glass. No more peachtinis for me, at least not tonight. If I understood anything at all, it was the chemistry of food. Bread won’t rise without yeast. When vinegar hits baking soda the gasses whoosh up and unstop your sink. Hot water makes sugar crystallize, and the result is rock hard candy. You can even turn a lemon into a battery. A martini was a chemical. And it was changing me, changing my brain. Oh, I would regret this in the morning.

  “I heard about your aunt’s passing,” Coop said. “I’m so sorry. She was a nice lady. ”

  “I miss her.”

  “Death is tough. I lost Uncle Ralph a year ago. I thought I’d see you at the funeral home.”

  “Aunt Bluette was getting radiation therapy,” I said.

  “Bonaventure won’t be the same without her,” he said.

  “Or without your uncle,” I said. Ralph had taught biology at the high school. Twice he’d been chosen Teacher of the Year for inspiring bored, hormonally driven teenagers to care about cell division.

  “Damn, I didn’t mean to get maudlin.” Coop finished his beer and leaned into the space between us. “You smell like vanilla cake from the bakery.”

  “A bakery?” I laughed.

  “I really do smell vanilla,” he said.

  I touched my nose to my shoulder. It did smell faintly sweet. Vanilla is supposed to increase blood flow to the nether regions. I wondered if it was affecting his.

  “I made a coffee cake today,” I said.

  “Homemade?”

  “Is there any other kind?” I smiled. He wasn’t flirting. But I was.

  He eased off his stool, walked over to the jukebox, and dropped a quarter into the slot. On his way back “Don’t Be Cruel” began to play. He leaned across the bar, and his hand knocked into the glass I was holding.

  “Damn, I’m sorry,” he said.

  “That’s okay.” I blotted up the spill with a napkin. “It’s happy hour. I’ve got a spare drink.”

  “But I ruined your blouse.” He waved one hand. “Just take it off. Take it off right now. There’s a one-hour dry cleaners on East Bay.”

  Seriously? Wait, he was kidding.

  He leaned closer and sniffed. “Peach schnapps?”

  “90 proof,” I said.

  “Potent stuff,” he said. “I could pass out on Broad. A horse-drawn carriage might roll over me.”

  “Or snag you,” I said. “You could be dragged for blocks.”

  He laughed. “Just give me the blouse and nobody’ll get hurt.”

  Normally I wouldn’t joke about accidents, but I couldn’t help it. The old chemistry was still there, and it wasn’t all from my side. Then I remembered why I was here. Coop’s job was to defend jailbirds, not flirt with them.

  “I can’t resist vanilla,” he said.

  “How can you smell anything in here?” I waved my hand. Cigarette smoke hung in thick strands under the billiard lights. Aunt Bluette always said breathing secondhand smoke was dangerous. Besides, it was time for me to go. I slid my toes into my flip-flops and smiled up at Coop. I wasn’t sure what to say—See you around? Nice talking to you? I hadn’t seen him in eleven years and probably wouldn’t see him for eleven more.

  “Nice seeing you again, Coop.” I tossed down my drink.

  “Don’t let me chase you off.”

  “I’m chasing myself. I have to get up early.”

  “Let me walk you to your car.” He touched my hand and a jolt of pleasure traveled up my arm.

  “I didn’t drive,” I said. “I walked.”

  “From where?”

  “I just live a few blocks away.”

  “I’ll drive you. This neighborhood can be scary after dark.”

  “I’m not scared. Tourists are all over. And policemen.”

  “Policemen won’t help. See, I’m a lawyer. I know what really goes on. Things that don’t make the news.”

  “And it’s your duty to defend me, right?”

  “I’d just feel better if you got home safe.”

  “Maybe I don’t want you to know where I live.”

  “You can blindfold me.”

  “Then you can’t protect me.”

  “Just let me walk you halfway.”

  “Half? What good is half?”

  He threw a wad of cash on the counter. “How about if you walk me to my truck?”

  “You just don’t give up, do you?” I smiled.

  “You should see me in a courtroom.”

  We squeezed through the crowd, onto the sidewalk. A breeze stirred the hanging flower baskets. I smelled fried banana fritters, espresso, and cigars. Way off in the distance I heard a blues band playing on a rooftop bar. Coop stopped beside an old red truck. A gigantic hairy beast stood in the back.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “My dog. Don’t worry. He’s a gentle giant.”

  I took a breath, remembering dogs could sense fear. The animal was the size of a miniature donkey, with gangly legs and a long tail. As I moved forward, the dog’s ears swiveled through the rippled, taffy-colored hair, tracking my movements. The gigantic mouth opened, and a pink tongue slid between curved incisors.

  “This is T-Bone,” Coo
p said. At the sound of his name, the dog spun in tight circles, making the truck sway, then he stood on his hind legs and waved his paws.

  “T-Bone loves to ride,” Coop said. “Don’t you, boy? I hate leaving him at home.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Don’t know. I found him two years ago. He was half dead. Starved. A broken leg. He’s fine now. He weighs nearly 140 pounds, but he could stand to gain a few.” Coop patted the dog’s head, and the pink tongue shot out, the size of a brisket, narrowly missing Coop’s cheek.

  “Cut that out, T-Bone.” Coop laughed.

  The dog woofed and spun again.

  “He’s got chutzpah,” I said.

  “That’s for sure.” Coop grinned. “Come on, let me drive you home.”

  Why not? I thought. I wasn’t taking a ride from a stranger, just an old boyfriend. I glanced at his profile. His nose was just as I remembered, long and straight, as if drawn with a ruler. “Okay,” I said.

  “Where do you live, sweetheart?”

  “East Bay.” I looked away so he couldn’t see me smile. The way he’d said “sweetheart” put me in mind of Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon.

  We climbed into the truck. The light from the dashboard reflected into his face as he cranked the engine. Music started playing. Radiohead was singing “All I Need.”

  I turned around and looked out the rear window at T-Bone. “Does that tail ever stop wagging?” I asked.

  “Never.” He adjusted the mirror and I saw T-Bone’s reflection.

  Coop turned onto East Bay Street. A group of tourists in shorts and sandals strolled toward the waterfront. A little farther down, a carriage moved toward the Battery. Coop tapped the brake. The truck slowed just as the music started to build in a rush of piano, xylophone, drum beats and cymbals.

  At the end of the street, a dark car pulled away from the curb. I jumped a little—Bing drove a black Mercedes—but when the car passed under the streetlight, it was navy blue.

  Not Bing. What a relief. A Winnebago pulled into the slot, and a plume of dark smoke drifted from its tailpipe.

  “I live right there.” I pointed to the pink house. If I invited him in for coffee cake, would he think I was offering more than dessert? Even in the old days, we’d never crossed the line.

  Coop squinted out the window. “You’re selling it?”

  “What?”

  “There’s a sign out front.”

  I turned. The ornate sign was back. It jutted up from a narrow patch of grass, lashed to the palm tree by a thick metal chain.

  “You can stop here.” I cracked open the door. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “May I call you sometime?” he asked. “For dinner or drinks or something? Or you call me. My number’s real easy to remember: SUE-THEM. The answering service picks up 24-7.”

  “Sure.” I started to climb out of the truck, and he touched my arm. I turned. From the radio, the music reached a crescendo. We reached for each other at the same time, our movements building like music, the different elements converging—lips, tongues, hands.

  The song ended abruptly, and I came back to my senses. I pulled away, my hands knotted against his shirt. I’d kissed someone I used to love. But he hadn’t loved me. Why would it be different now?

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.” I wrenched away and climbed out of the truck. I ran toward the sidewalk, past the sign. A note was taped to the wrought iron door. Check Out Time—24 Hours, Bing.

  I flattened the note with the heel of my hand. His handwriting looked odd: the g in Bing wasn’t curled up like a watch spring. Had he written the note or dictated it to Natalie? He’d sworn up and down he hadn’t known about the sign, and I’d believed him.

  I ripped up the note. As I threw the pieces at the sign, I remembered an old Gullah recipe called Bye-Bye Bitch. It calls for pepper, gunpowder, and spit from your victim. If throwing fruit is a crime, how in the world would you collect saliva without ending up in the pokey? Why, you’d have to be a dentist—or quick on the draw with a turkey baster.

  nine

  I went straight to bed but I couldn’t sleep. Seeing Coop again had brought back feelings that I’d worked hard to repress. He’d been a year ahead of me at Bonaventure High, but he’d always teased me in a brotherly way. His daddy, Dr. O’Malley, had taken care of the town’s ills, including my asthma, and his mama beautified local homes with a gift shop on the town square.

  Since the O’Malleys attended First Baptist, I got to see Coop every Sunday, and at the Pack-a-Pew parties. Aunt Bluette said Coop was an Irish Baptist—Dr. O’Malley had been Catholic until he’d met Coop’s mama, a Baptist preacher’s daughter. I was grateful they’d picked my church because that meant I got to see Coop every day except Saturday. Because I was short and puny, he’d sneak up behind me and set me on his shoulders.

  “Put me down, O’Malley,” I’d say, full of mock indignation.

  Every afternoon, I saw him at football practice. I was in the band, the worst clarinet player in Bonaventure High, and I was evermore marching out of step. Coop would hang around to watch the head majorette, Barb Browning, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

  Not that it did me any good, because Coop and Barb had gone steady since junior high. They were voted “Cutest Couple” their senior year. Everyone assumed they’d get married, but the day after graduation, Coop and Barb broke up.

  A week later, he walked up to me after church and said, “Hey, you ready for summer?”

  I glanced over my shoulder, thinking he was speaking to someone else. He laughed and breezed on by. I was so discombobulated, I had to go home and put an ice pack on my head. Aunt Bluette kept asking what was wrong. I couldn’t tell her the truth, that I’d been infatuated with Cooper O’Malley for years, and when he’d finally acknowledged my existence, I’d acted awful, what Mama used to call Teenified.

  Aunt Bluette bought me a tennis racquet at a garage sale and dropped me off at the community center. “But I don’t know how to play,” I told her.

  “Watch,” she said. “And learn.” Then she drove off and left my ass.

  I walked down to the tennis court and sat on a bench. Coop was playing on the first court with a tall, thin girl—not Barb. He cut a striking figure in his white shirt and shorts. After the game, he walked over to my bench.

  “What you doing here, Templeton?” he said.

  “It’s a free country, O’Malley,” I said.

  “No really.” He laughed. “Are you waiting for a court?”

  “Aunt Bluette said I needed to get out of the house. She dropped me off.”

  He glanced at the parking lot. “Where is she?”

  “Gone.”

  “Need a ride home?” He zipped the cover over his racquet.

  “The farm’s out of your way,” I said.

  “It’ll give us time to talk.”

  About what? I managed to control my breathing as we walked toward his car. The whole time, he tapped his racquet against mine. Finally he said, “Hey, Templeton, you doing anything next Saturday?”

  I shook my head. I never did anything.

  “The youth class is having a cookout at Lake Bonaventure,” he said. “Would you go?”

  I stumbled, and he caught my arm. “Go with the class, you mean,” I said.

  “Yeah.” He shrugged. “With me, too.”

  Aunt Bluette went to a garage sale and bought me a red polka dot swimsuit, just this side of a bikini, and a matching cover-up. I put the clothes into a paper sack that smelled faintly of peaches. He picked me up in a pastel gray ’69 Mustang, an old car that had belonged to his daddy.

  During the drive to the lake, Coop tried to draw me into conversation, but my voice was shaky and I gave tight-lipped answers. Besides, a green bug was crawling on his shoulder, and I was distracted. I was afraid to pick it off. What if he thought I was being forward?

  When we got to the lake, the whole youth group was there. I headed to the women’s restroom to change clo
thes. I pulled on the suit, then I jumped up and down, trying to glimpse myself in the high mirrors. The suit was skimpy. The bottom fit, but my breasts swelled out the top. I was ready as I’d ever be. I draped my cover-up over my arm and stepped out of the restroom into bright sunlight.

  Coop was waiting beside a pine tree, holding a patchwork quilt. He wore a t-shirt and cutoffs. When I walked up, two dimples cut into his cheeks. It was the first time a boy had looked at me that way. I liked it.

  Coop sat on the quilt while I picked daisies. Behind us, ski boats sliced across the green water. He wanted to know what I did on the peach farm. I wanted to know about Barb, but I bit down the question and watched a bass boat stir up waves, pushing swimmers into the shallows. The kids whooped and swam back, waiting for the next boat.

  Smoke rose from the pavilion. It smelled of lighter fluid and hickory wood. One of the church elders came out and yelled at a girl who’d shown up in a string bikini. I slipped on my cover-up as one of the mothers led the girl to the restroom.

  “Come on, Teeny,” Coop said. “Tell me about the farm. Y’all grow the sweetest peaches in Georgia. What’s your secret?”

  It was the first time he’d said my name. A warm flush spread through my chest. I twirled a daisy and told him about pruning and trimming, hot days in the roadside stand, and my quest for the perfect peach turnover.

  I held out the daisy. Coop started to tuck it into his pocket, when a strangled cry pierced the air. Way out in the water, a girl was thrashing. Just beyond her, two boats moved into the shallows, their motors drowning her garbled cries.

  I sat up and looked toward the chaperones. They were crowded in the pavilion, hidden by a wavy veil of charcoal fumes. I glanced back at the lake. Waves lapped over the girl’s head. A white arm came up, her fingers clutching air.

  The daisy fell from Coop’s hands. He scrambled to his feet and ran to the shore. Just before he dove in, the girl went under. The boats were headed straight toward her. Coop didn’t notice. He swam toward the flailing girl. Just before he reached her, she went down. He took a mighty breath and dove.