Dolly All the Time(47)

Me: What are you doing tonight?

Stewart: I was going to ask you that earlier, but then I thought it was too much Me: Total stalker

Stewart: I was thinking about taking the boat out for sunset. Want to come?

Yes, I want to come. I want to get on that boat with him and watch the hell out of that sunset.

Me: My dad has striped bass and he wanted to invite you for dinner tonight. To thank you Stewart: Really?

Stewart: Ok

Stewart: Yes, I accept

Stewart: Thank you

Stewart: Bringing wine, is that ok? What time?

Me: That’s great and six

Stewart: Ok, great



* * *





It’s a coolish, dry evening, and the sky is a deep July blue. The leaves on the maple in our front yard are huge this year. The Goldbergs aren’t home, so there’s no polka music, and I’ve set up the picnic table on the front porch so that only two people have a view of the Newtons’ underwear line. I will seat Stewart strategically.

I wander around Goose Lane and clip one flower from every garden—yellow wild indigo, milkweed, a few white daisies, and a bloom of hot-pink hydrangea from the back of Mrs. Goldberg’s prize bush. I line them up along the center of the table in Maud’s little cream bottles, and it looks beautiful. I shower and put on my favorite jeans (clean) and a sleeveless white top from Patsy’s stash. I don’t have time to completely dry my hair, but I do put on mascara and lip gloss. I make a face at my reflection in the mirror because I’m sure she’s about to tease me for caring so much.

“What’s all this?” Gus asks, dropping his bike in the driveway.

“Striped bass,” I say. “Pop got some fresh this morning, so I thought I’d make a party.”

“Who’s coming?”

“Just us,” I say. “And Stewart.”

“Cool,” he says. He smiles at me and I take him into my arms without even considering the risks. “Okay, that’s enough,” he says.

“It’s a beautiful day in paradise,” Christopher announces just before six.

“Pants!” I reply.

My dad is tending to the coals on the barbecue in the front yard. I stand on the porch and look out toward town, little glimmers of water between the low buildings. I have the bass laid out on a platter in the kitchen. It’s been sitting in olive oil and garlic for twenty minutes, and I wish I had a bit of rosemary to sprinkle over it before serving. I think to text Stewart but he’s probably already on his way, and asking him for rosemary seems sort of suggestive, like I’m trying to take him back to that romantic moment in the garden. This restless, buzzy feeling I’m having started then. I’ve been trying to rationalize it. Maybe he didn’t lean in. Maybe he does periodic abdominal crunches that cause his torso to dip forward. But he did; he leaned in with his eyes too. My heart does this weird dip into my stomach when I think of it.

I’m helping my dad roll the barbecue away from the house when Stewart pulls in to the driveway. My hand flies up to my dahlia necklace like I have pearls to clutch there. He pulls his Marian tote out of the backseat, and we meet in the middle of the driveway.

“I’ve overthought this, I think,” he says. He’s about to explain, but I smile and he smiles back, and we just stand there like a couple of teenagers. “Hi,” he says. The word washes over me like a breeze.

“Hi,” I say back, and tuck my still-damp hair behind my ear. “What did you overthink?”

“Oh, the wine. I wanted to get it right and ended up bringing all of it. Is that going to make me look like a drunk? Be totally honest.”

I laugh. “No, that’s very generous. Thank you.” I peer into the bag and there are five different bottles of wine.

“Like I said.” He reaches deeper into the bag and hands me a small bouquet of herbs—thyme, sage, and rosemary. It’s the thing I worried would be too romantic, but on the receiving end it is the exact right amount romantic.

I lead him over to my dad, who’s adding wood chips to the coals. He puts down his tongs, wipes his hands on his apron, and extends one to Stewart. “Hello,” he says. “So glad you could come.”

“Well, thank you for including me. I hear the striped bass just jumped right out of the ocean.”

“Practically,” my dad says and laughs. “Dolly’s got it prepared, should be delicious.”

Christopher, in pants, rises from the front steps and makes his way to us.

“Hey, buddy, you remember Stewart.”

“He took you on a boat,” he says.

“He’s staying for dinner, Dad’s making striped bass.”

“Gross,” Christopher says.

“You can make a sandwich after dinner if you hate it,” I say.

“Our mom used to say that,” he says to Stewart.

“Stewart brought herbs from his garden.” I hold up the precious bouquet. My dad leans in and smells it, eyes closed.

“The thyme,” he says. “Let’s use the thyme.”

“Okay,” I say. “He’s also brought enough wine to get us through the summer.”

Stewart holds up his bag. “A bit of indecision, actually.”

“Thank you,” my dad says.

“Come inside and we’ll get it in the fridge.” Stewart follows me up the front steps and into the kitchen. I see it through his eyes. A photo of all of us on the wall, before the accident. The round table with five spindled chairs. The original porcelain sink and wooden countertops. The yellow wildflowers I picked yesterday and placed in a Cookie Monster coffee mug. The chipped platter in his family’s ivy pattern on its special stand.