Dolly All the Time(66)
I walk into the house at four fifteen, and my dad is at the kitchen table with his adding machine and a bunch of receipts.
“You’re home,” I say. “Who’s closing the store?”
“I let Rikki do it. Slow day and I brought the till home. Anything you want to talk about?”
“No, why?”
“I heard a car pull up and then feet on the front steps, and then it took you so long to open the door that I thought maybe squirrels got you.”
I smile at him in his old fish house T-shirt and jeans, drinking a mug of Ovaltine. “Just saying goodbye,” I say, and turn my swollen lips away.
“Dolly,” he says.
“I’m almost forty, Dad.”
“He seems like a good man.” He looks away, as if the point he’s trying to make might be taped to the refrigerator. “But Stewart Whitfield, honey? Seems like an awfully big catch.”
I understand his worry. I’d be worried for me too, if I was my father. And also if I was a man whose wife left because she was out hunting for a bigger, fancier life. He’s never said so, but I’ve always suspected he was worried we might turn out to be like her, embracing her fascination with all things shiny and unattainable. Happiness just out of our grasp.
“It’s just fun, Dad. And he’s a very nice man.” I walk over and kiss the top of his head. It is fun, but it’s not just fun. It’s soulful and romantic and explosive between us. That’s why it took us thirty minutes to say goodbye. I’m in this now, but I don’t need to make that my dad’s problem. “So I’m on Cook House tonight?”
“Sure,” he says. “That’d be great.”
* * *
Before I change my clothes or figure out what I’m making for dinner, I go over to Whitfield Tees. The store is packed and Naomi’s ringing people up behind the counter.
When she sees me in the doorway, she says, “Oh my.”
“Yep,” I say. “Three times.”
“Okay, Cara,” she calls to her teenage helper, who’s refolding Tshirts on the center display table. “You’re in charge.” She hands her the credit card reader, likely for the first time. “You’ll figure it out. I need to help my friend here in the dressing room.” She grabs a handful of bathing suits from the toddler rack and leads me behind the red curtain. “Spill! It! Start with the sheets. Did you get a sense for the thread count?”
“We were at my place. And then his.” I can’t fight the smile that’s taking over my face. “They were quite nice, actually.”
Naomi is scrunching up her face like she’s trying to hold in a scream.
“But the sheets aren’t the point,” I say. “It was amazing. The sex but also the whole night and the next day. He made me tea and remembered honey. And I don’t know who I am right now. I’ve jumped off a cliff. I am a person who never even wanted to go to the mountains, never even liked standing near the safety rope to look down at the view. But now I’ve gone all the way up and I’ve hurled myself off and I’m free-falling. It feels good but the landing’s going to be tough.”
Naomi is nodding at me slowly. “To be clear, this mountain is near the Comfort Inn? And you’ve just hung your stolen Mona Lisa in the bathroom there?” She starts laughing. “I’m not totally sure metaphors are your thing now that you’re a three-time sex champion.”
I bury my face in my hands. “You wanted me to have fun.” I look up at her and she does not look as concerned as she should be. “And I did have fun. The boat and the yacht club. But this was something else, it was intense. Like we were perfect together.”
Naomi lifts her hands in surrender. “Dolly, this could go a lot of ways. You could end up Mrs. Freakin’ Whitfield with a diamond the size of a pizza on your hand and a funny walk from having sex three times a day forever. Or, worst-case scenario, this is nursing home talk. When we’re old, we can sit in a couple of rockers and relive this summer every single day until one of us drops dead in a bowl of soup.”
“You do paint a lovely picture,” I say. I go on to tell her about the helicopter and the telescope and the ravioli and the way he asked me what I wanted and how strange it was to tell him.
* * *
That night I climb into bed listening to the frogs and the crickets and imagining that I hear Stewart making his way through the bushes. Every distant car is his, as I sit and wait for him to appear at the screen door. I press my hands together and conjure the feeling of his holding my hand in the car, his fingers trailing my neck. I picture him on our porch in broad daylight, pulling me toward him with his hands on my hips, thumbs pressed lightly on my hipbones like he could break me if he wanted to, but won’t. I lie back on my bed and close my eyes and try to picture him with open windows, thinking about me lying here. My phone dings.
Stewart: That was a terrible idea
Me: Which part?
Stewart: Saying goodbye. Are you busy? I’m in your driveway
I turn into my pillow to hide my smile from myself. It doesn’t work; I am in a full-body smile.
Me: Come around back
He doesn’t reply but I hear him, feet on dry grass making their way to me. Then he’s opening the door and standing there in the lamplight. He looks around, up at where I still haven’t finished sanding, and then back at me on the daybed. “Is it okay that I’m here?”