Fools Rush in(43)

The breeze rustled in the pitch pines and scrubby oaks of my property, and the waves roared rhythmically in the distance. I guessed it to be pretty close to high tide. I was getting good at that sort of thing. I sat down and watched a bluebird disappear into the little bird house Danny had helped me put up earlier this spring. Its deep blue flashed against the white of the house as it flew out.

The phone trilled, and I jumped up, sloshing seltzer down my front. Thank God I was alone, I thought, surveying my damp bosom as I picked up the phone.

“Hey, Millie, it’s Joe,” said the voice I loved.

“Hi, Joe.” Thank you, God.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Oh, just sitting on my porch, watching the birds,” I answered, unable to think of any answer except the truth.

“Millie, you’re so funny,” he said. “So, we still on for tonight? In the mood for a movie?”

“Sure,” I said, feeling that swell of laughter and euphoria rise again. He named a movie, which I agreed to, and told me he’d swing by around 7:00 for the 7:15 show.

“Sounds great,” I said. “See you then.” I clicked off, set the phone down and began hopping up and down. “I’m going out with Joe-oh, I’m going out with Joe-oh!” I sang merrily. Luckily, my neighbors didn’t live too close. Seeing my manic leaping, Digger leaped onto the deck to join in the celebratory dance.

At seven o’clock sharp, Joe’s truck trundled up the driveway, setting off Digger’s frenzied barking. “Quiet!” I ordered, grabbing his collar. “No, Digger!” He began clawing at the front door, barking so loudly that my teeth vibrated. The doorbell rang.

“Just a minute!” I called over the din. I dragged Digger to the cellar, gave him a chew stick and blew him a kiss. Nervousness and anticipation flooded through me. Straightening my shirt, I glanced in the mirror, hoping my hair would behave, hoping Joe didn’t see me as I stubbed my toe on the footstool, hoping Digger didn’t claw down the cellar door and maul my gentleman caller. Or worse yet, hump his leg.

“Hi,” I said, smiling as I answered the door. There he was, Joe Carpenter, leaning in my doorway, smiling at me, his dirty-blond hair damp and rumpled, hands in his worn jeans pockets, green T-shirt with smear of white paint over the heart.

“Ready?” he said. We walked out to his truck. He got in and started clearing stuff out of the way to make room for me. I opened the passenger door and climbed in, something of a feat when you’re five foot three.

“Okay,” Joe said. We backed out of my driveway and went off. Say something, Millie. My mind instantly emptied. What to say, what to say…I looked around the truck cab for inspiration. It was pretty grubby, a stark contrast to the last pickup truck I’d sat in—Sam’s, which was immaculate enough for surgery. Two old plastic cups careened around on the floor, rolling into my shoes. Wads of paper, an unwrapped cough drop furred with hair and lint. A hammer. A wrench. An old coat lay between us on the seat. There was that pleasant masculine smell…oil and coffee and cut wood. Tucked under the sun visor was a sheaf of papers. I could see the edge of a fishing license. Aha!

“Have you been fishing much this summer, Joe?”

“No, not really,” he answered, slowing to a stop at the light on Route 6. “I’ve been pretty busy.”

“Oh.” Great. End of conversation.

But there was the theater, so it was okay. “You haven’t seen this one, have you?” Joe asked as we waited in line.

“No, not yet. It’s supposed to be good, though.”

He smiled. I melted.

“Can I help you?” said the teenager at the window.

“One for James Bond,” Joe replied. The teenager took his money and handed Joe a ticket. It was my turn.

“Oh, uh, yeah, one for James Bond.”

He wasn’t buying my ticket! I had cash, thank God. I fumbled in my pocketbook and handed over a ten. “Thanks,” I told the kid. Joe had gone over the to the concession stand.

He hadn’t bought my ticket! Wasn’t this a date? But, I quickly rationalized, why should he? There was no reason I couldn’t buy my own ticket. Right?

“Want anything?” he asked me as the concession-stand person filled up a box with popcorn.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” I answered, relief washing over me. He’d offered to buy me something. It was still a date.

We found seats in the theater. Again, I wracked my brain for a way to start a conversation. Joe waved to someone and began to shovel popcorn into his mouth. God, the way men ate. “If you choke, I’ll Heimlich you,” I said, pleased with my cleverness.

“You’re a good person to have around, Millie,” he answered, checking me out just a wee bit. He put his arm around the back of my chair and balanced the popcorn on his lap. “Very good.”

Even with a fistful of popcorn in his mouth, Joe Carpenter was gorgeous. Oh, Joe, I thought. You won’t be sorry you picked me.

The previews started, and for the next two hours, I was in heaven. We held hands. In the movie theater. How romantic was that? His work-roughened fingers twined with mine, his thumb occasionally rasping gently over my skin, and nothing had ever felt so good in my life. He smelled wonderful. Soap (Ivory), wood, popcorn, butter. Iwasina perpetual state of horniness. James Bond, nothing. Joe was all I needed.