On Turpentine Lane(32)

“I’m not sure I was meant to be a homeowner.”

“You’re covered now. Team Turpentine.”

I left the kitchen, heading for my coat, but returned to ask, “And speaking of teams, did I ever properly thank you for saving my job?”

“I’m pretty damn sure your job was never in danger.”

“Then saving me from probation—during which they’d have hired somebody who played football with QB1.”

When his pleasant expression clouded, I asked, “Did I hit the nail on the head? About firing and hiring?”

“Oh, sorry. No. Nothing like that.”

“What then?”

“Nonsense. Reggie’s.”

“Such as?”

“He thinks he’s so hilarious! When he saw that I was having my mail forwarded here, he started up with ‘Didn’t take either of you long to get over your exes.’ That kind of crap.”

I said, “Thankfully, he doesn’t try that stuff with me.”

“Because he’s a twelve-year-old boy who can’t talk to girls.”

“And, don’t forget—he’s an idiot. We have to stage a coup.”

Nick grinned. “No wonder he’s scared of you.”

“He should be. He knows the Frankels would come after him—mother, father, brother, plow. Not to mention the law firm of Franconi and Franconi.”

“When do I get to meet the famous parents?” Nick asked.

“Any day now,” I answered. Maybe after I’ve told them you moved in.





22





Mind If I Look Around?


HOW HAD I NOT DEDUCED from Stuart’s messages referencing sleet and low funds that he was aborting his mission? He’d only gotten as far as a gas station restroom in northwesternmost Missouri, right over the Illinois border, when he decided that he’d raised enough awareness and could fly home, thanks to his moms’ air miles.

Nor had I realized that Nick was still following Stuart on Instagram until he announced at work, smartphone in hand, “What’s this? Your ex-fiancé is giving a thumb’s-up in line at a gate.”

“What kind of gate?”

“Southwest Airlines. Getting on a plane.”

“Hand it over,” I said.

Sure enough. There was Stuart managing a selfie despite the camping equipment and carry-ons. The message said, “At Lambert-St. Louis airport. Need to get back to MA for personal reasons.”

I read it aloud, and asked, “Do you think MA means Ma, like mother, or MA, like Massachusetts?”

“The latter.”

Personal reasons. We hadn’t talked in weeks, but those might involve me. I picked up my fountain pen and wrote two lackluster thank-yous for low-end donations. Nick was on the phone confirming an upcoming visit to an alum. Though typing as he talked, the conversation was animated, about some varsity hockey player’s breakaway goal, followed by references to the alum’s wife and daughters by name. He hung up and did a happy xylophoning with a pencil.

“What?”

“Ka-ching.”

“How much?”

“Miss? Do I get in the car and drive to Connecticut for less than ten K?”

I went back to work, aiming for more oomph and personal engagement in the next few notes. Across the room, Nick continued his winning salesmanship, confirming more day trips, sending more regards to relatives, hinting at brass plaques on renamed buildings.

This time I checked Stuart’s airport photo myself. “Posted fifteen hours ago,” I told Nick. “One good thing: he didn’t alert me to his homecoming.”

Nick didn’t ask for amplification, but I volunteered it anyway. “The fact that he didn’t announce he was coming home or ask me to pick him up at the airport means he’s accepted that we’re done. Over. Finis.”

Nick merely grunted, which was all I expected. We were coworkers, after all, not sorority sisters. I announced, after what I hoped would be perceived as a nonchalant interval and topic changer, “I’m thinking of making chili for dinner. You in?”



It was Saturday morning, not quite ten o’clock. His mothers must have told Stuart where to find me, which explained why, when I pulled aside the lace front-door curtain, a Lavoie leftover, there he was, bearded, grinning, and wearing a black watch cap. I could hardly pretend I wasn’t home since only a windowpane separated us.

He pantomimed Open the door, so I did. Before I could say Hello or Go away, I was enveloped in a hug, definitely one-sided and reminiscently smelly. “Babe!” he was saying. “You look great!”

I wormed out of his embrace, and said, “You’re back early.” And even though I knew from Instagram hashtags, I asked, “How far did you get?”

“Pretty far. Missouri.”

“Missouri is right underneath Illinois.”

“Because I learned what I needed to learn! I met all kinds of people. And I mean all kinds.”

“All kinds of people as long as they were old girlfriends? Did you bring home any sexually transmitted diseases?”

“That’s such a ridiculous question that I refuse to dignify it. Are you going to invite me in?”

Without answering, I retreated to the parlor, perched on the upholstered arm of its only chair, and motioned toward the couch. Stuart followed, plopped down, looked around.