Page 13 of Summer Romance
“Just a little something I threw together. Florida’s made Charlie and me eternally tropical.”
We walk into the foyer and take off our shoes. I alwaysthink of this house in the feminine; she is one of the oldest houses in Beechwood and she is a grande dame. She is the only residential home right in the center of town, and her neighbors are city hall to the right and the library to the left. She is made of whitewashed brick, and her oversized leaded windows keep everything light. Her floors are a dark mahogany, and the oak staircase was carved by the same artisans who were building the local Episcopal church that same year. She has small rooms off of other rooms for purposes we’ll never know. There’s even a four-foot-tall closet under the front stairs, exclusively for children’s coats. I grew up admiring this house, and I always feel like she demands and deserves my respect. So we take off our shoes.
Mr. Hogan calls from the kitchen, “Where’s my head thing?”
“Right on the table,” Mrs. Hogan calls back. “Come on in. Frannie’s got drinks on the patio. I hope you brought your bathing suits.”
Greer holds up a tote bag in response, and we make our way through the kitchen out to the backyard. There’s an outdoor seating area against an ivy-covered brick wall, and a small outdoor kitchen. Frannie’s standing by the sink transferring a pitcher of piña coladas into a carved-out pineapple with a spout on one side. She looks up and shrugs. “My dad’s invention.” And to my kids, “Hi, guys, you want to swim before dinner? Something tells me it’ll be fun-tastic.” She rolls her eyes and gives me a hug.
My kids run inside to change and I take a sip of my drink. It’s strong, and I make a mental note not to finish it.“So spill it. The date. Where’d you go? All of it,” Frannie says. She, Marco, and Theo were sound asleep when I got back, so I sent them home without the download.
“It was good. Or maybe great. I don’t know. He’s just this perfect guy, like from a movie. The kind who tunes in and isn’t all about himself. He asks follow-up questions.”
“Okay, so he’s a unicorn. Or he’s hideous. Attractive men don’t ask follow-up questions.”
“He’s so attractive. Like with this hair and these eyes.” I really don’t know how to describe him.
“Everyone has hair and eyes, at least at some point, Ali.”
I ignore her. “He’s sexy. He has these beautiful hands, like a construction worker who is also a concert pianist. But something’s off. He didn’t kiss me and I feel like there’s something he wasn’t telling me.”
“Like he’s married?”
“I would be shocked.” And as I say it, I am actually shocked because Ethan walks onto the patio.
I have to be imagining this. I look back at my drink, which is, in fact, strong, but I’ve only had one sip. It’s definitely him and he’s standing at the French doors. He’s in a navy blue T-shirt and white shorts and is holding a bag of ice in one hand and has Brenda cradled in the other arm. He seems relaxed, not at all like he’s just stormed into the Hogans’ house uninvited. My heart is racing, and I try for a deep breath but can’t quite catch it. Now he’s giving Mrs. Hogan a kiss on her cheek.
“What?” Frannie is saying. I don’t take my eyes off of him. “Ali, what? It’s just Scooter.”
“Scooter,” I say. No, no, no, no, no, no. There is no way Scooter is the guy whose gold-flecked eyes I stared into last night. There is no way Scooter owns the beautiful fingers that wrapped around mine in a way that made heat pool low in my belly. Scooter has a mullet and a skateboard. Scooter was suspended his freshman year for stealing a freezer full of ice cream sandwiches from the cafeteria. Omigod. Of course the first guy I go on a date with in fourteen years turns out to be Frannie’s weird little brother. I thought I was getting my life together—checking items off my recovery list—and here I am, a fresh hot mess.
“Yeah, it only took him forty-five minutes to get a bag of ice. Classic,” Frannie says.
Ethan looks up and sees me. It is not anOh yay, there’s the woman I held hands with last nightlook. It’s more like the look you’d have on your face if bats started flying out of your toilet.
I don’t know how to organize my face or where to look as he walks toward us.
“Ali,” he says.
“Scooter,” I say. It sort of sounds like an accusation. I’m holding his gaze because I’m a little angry, and I don’t want to let him off the hook. There is no way on earth he didn’t know who I was last night. I mentioned Frannie, and he winced.
“Hi,” he says. There’s a slight cringe to the way he’s looking at me, as if he’s embarrassed to have been caught impersonating a guy who is not Frannie’s brother.
I can see Frannie watching us in my peripheral vision, back and forth, like she’s waiting for the ball to land. Mrs.Hogan calls her over to the grill, and she hesitates before walking away.
“You said Connecticut,” I say.
“I can explain,” he says just as my kids run over, soaking wet. Cliffy throws his wet arms around me with the unnecessary exuberance of a six-year-old boy.
“Cliffy,” Ethan says.
“Hi,” Cliffy says.
Frannie comes back with aWhat did I missvibe.
“And these are my daughters, Greer and Iris,” I say, trying to recover. “This is Scooter, Frannie’s little brother. And his dog, Brenda.”
“You know Brenda?” Frannie asks.
