"Right, right. How is he? Is it racist that every time I think of Herb and Renata I hear 'Ebony and Ivory' playing in my head?"
"Yes. And that song is an embarrassment to both McCartney and Jackson.”
“Fair point. How is it going with the happy couple?"
I pause the rocking glider by planting my feet on the ground. Was there a sound in the house? I do a quick inventory of what I’ve said aloud, in case Dad or Renata overheard me on the phone. After waiting a few seconds to see if I hear any other noises behind me, I resume talking and gliding.
"He's acting thrilled that I'm here, and he wants me to get to know Renata better. He told me I should spend the rest of the summer on the farm. Apparently, he thinks I'm the one who needs some time to sort out my life. He says he's fine, never been happier. I'm the basket case, and he's worried about me. Can you believe that?"
"Is this a trick question?"
"What do you mean? You think I'm messed up? The man quit a job he loved, gave up a rent-controlled apartment, and raced down here to pursue a relationship with a woman he just met."
"In truth, he didn't quit. Herb retired after working tirelessly for over thirty years. And he didn't just meet her, right? They had a love affair in high school."
"They dated about forty years ago! Basically, they were strangers when they got back in touch."
There's a sizable silence, then Hugh says, "Stay down there. This is going to be good for you. Spend some time with your dad. And the hottie son. The one without the recently dead wife."
"The last thing I need to do is get involved with someone down here. I forgot to tell you, Dan texted me again.”
"Awkward. He's more attentive than your last boyfriend."
I cringe because it's the truth. Kirk never called, only texted, and he barely did that. It drove me crazy. Hugh used to say that I'm only attracted to men who ignore me. Now I have an attentive guy on the hook, and I just want him to leave me the hell alone.
"What are you gonna do about him?" Hugh asks.
"I don't know. I haven't figured it out yet."
"I suggest you nip it in the bud. Contact him and say it's over. Tell him not to text or call again. You could always threaten to tell his wife, if it comes to that."
I shudder at the thought of calling Nicky. “That would be an empty threat. I would never, in a million years, call her.”
"The threat of it would probably be enough. Did you pack enough stuff to stay there for a couple weeks? I could go to your apartment and mail you some things. I'm guessing there isn't very good shopping down at the general store."
"That would be awesome. I'll text you a list."
"And warn Marly," he says. "I don't want her stabbing me with a spade. That one is a little skittish."
"Will do. Thanks, Hugh."
"No problem, sweetie. And if you happen to fall on the lumberjack, I want details. This man-drought of yours has to end eventually."
"Goodnight, Hugh." It's time to end the call because I don't want to admit that he's right.
After my break-up with Kirk last fall, I decided not to date anyone for a while, partly because I was disgusted with the New York dating pool and also because work consumed so much of my time. Between my job and my friends, I was never lonely, and being completely independent felt great. At first, I didn't miss dating at all. If I needed a plus-one for my co-worker's son's bar mitzvah, I invited Hugh. The entire weekend was mine to waste or fill up with activities, and the pan flute was out of my life forever. The only thing I couldn't replace was the physical connection of a relationship. Self-love is a wonderful thing, but I can't surprise myself sexually with a vibrator or hold myself afterwards, it just doesn't work that way.
As I walk upstairs to bed, I consider the possibility of having a fling down here in the dirty South. Seth would be the obvious choice. Personality aside, he's hot, appears to be single, and isn't a total rando, which is comforting. Maybe we could have some satisfying hate sex out there in the green pastures under the night stars. I giggle at the thought, knowing that I'm not serious about any of this. It's a fun fantasy, but not something I'd really consider. After all, I can't complicate my mission, and sleeping with the adopted son of my father's girlfriend would definitely make things complicated.
Four
In additionto the birds warbling their songs this morning, there's a banging noise like two blocks of hollow wood being tapped against each other at a rapid-fire pace. I wake up thinking a toddler is in my bedroom playing some kind of preschool instrument constructed by the devil. Turns out, I'm wrong. There's another form of avian torture taking place. A woodpecker is drilling into the house's siding, right outside my bedroom window. I've never heard a woodpecker before so it takes me a few minutes to decipher what is making the evil sound, and several more to decide what to do about it. On an interesting note, real woodpeckers do have red mohawks, like in cartoons, at least this one does. It looks better on him than it did on Rihanna. When I'm done appreciating his natural splendor, I stick my head outside the window and tell him to get the hell out of here.
Once again, I'm awake way too early. I open the bathroom door and have one foot inside before I notice Seth is already there. He's standing by the mirror and wearing what appears to be a very small towel around his hips, but my interpretation of the towel's size might be skewed by the fact that Seth is farmboy sized. He's got a waterfall of muscles from his strong shoulders all the way down to those flat abs. There's not any softness here—no beer gut or flabby pecs. I work my eyes back up to his face, stopping on my field trip across his body to notice that he doesn't have a lot of hair on his chest for a caveman, just a smattering that connects with a trail leading down to...
A moment too late, it occurs to me that I'm very closely inspecting the towel again.
"Sorry, I didn't know you were in here," I mumble, my hand still resting on the doorknob.
