Fools Rush in(68)

“So, Mom,” I said as we loaded the dishwasher. “What do you think?”

“About Joe? Not those wineglasses, honey. Those are hand-washables. Millie, he’s just darling.” She smiled warmly at me.

“Isn’t he?”

“Absolutely. And he always was such a friendly boy.” She removed a copper-bottomed pot I had recklessly put into the dishwasher and shook a little powdered cleanser into it. “You’ll lose the pretty copper shine if you let the dishwasher do all the work,” she said.

“I see.”

“So, Millie, honey, are things serious with you two?” She scoured vigorously.

“Well…we are seeing a lot of each other.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“And we get along just great.”

“Do you, honey? Wonderful, because that’s what’s important. Once the newness wears off, you need to be able to talk to each other.”

“Are you and Dad that way?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said, flashing me a quick smile. “We have plenty to say to each other. And we still have a lot of fun together.”

I started to put a wooden spoon into the dishwasher, but Mom tut-tutted at me. “Nothing wooden, hon. Especially not those wood-handled knives.”

“Right.” I wondered why they had the damn appliance at all.

“Millie…” There was that cautionary Mom voice.

“Yes, Mom?”

“Well, honey, I hate to say anything, but, well…”

“What is it, Mom?”

“It’s just…well, Joe is a sweet boy and all…but I have to wonder if he’s really…enough for you.”

I was torn between love and irritation. “Oh, Mom. Joe is great! Don’t you think every parent wonders if a guy is good enough for their little girl?”

“No, not always. We always thought Trish was pretty damn lucky to get Sam.”

The pot I was wiping slipped out of my hands and bounced on the floor. I looked at my mom sharply, but she was scouring the sink, oblivious to my shock. “Well, there was that little matter of Danny,” I said, retrieving the gleaming pot.

“Yes, of course, but still…that’s not really the point. We’re talking about you and Joe.”

“He’s a good guy, Mom.”

“I know, sweetie. But is he good enough for you?”

I didn’t really know what to say. Mom wondering if a man, any man, was good enough for me…I’d have thought she’d have been planning my wedding by now. But it was sweet, kind of.

Dad had his turn next. Joe and Mom cleared the coffee cups and dessert plates (strawberry-rhubarb crumble, which I’d had to fake eat, because I had gained back three pounds since dating Joe and didn’t want to start the downward spiral into fatness again). From the patio, my dad and I could hear Mom and Joe laughing in the kitchen.

“So, baby, does he treat you okay?” Dad and I were sitting next to each other, and he picked up my hand.

“Sure, Dad. He’s great.” I smiled in the semidarkness and squeezed his big hand.

“Anything you want to tell your old man?”

“Um, like what, Daddy?” Like, I’m not a virgin? Like, It’s still not great but it’s getting better?

“Oh, I don’t know, punkin. Are you happy?”

“Sure, Daddy.” I squeezed his hand again to reassure him.

“You sure?”

“Yes, Dad. Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. If Joe’s good to you, then that’s all I can ask, right?”

Why were my parents so…unthrilled? Joe was charming, gorgeous, polite, good-natured and had a blue-collar job. What more could they want?

Their lack of enthusiasm stuck in my mind. Was there anything wrong with Joe that I didn’t know about? No, of course not. I had a master’s degree in Joe. And maybe it was just natural to wonder about things as the first blush of our relationship wore off.

ONE SATURDAY, JOE AND I went fishing together. We drove up to P-town at the absolute crack of dawn to borrow his friend Sal’s boat. Of course I’d had to get up while it was still dark to beautify before Joe pulled into my driveway. On the ride up, I slumped against the truck window, staring out at the fog as Joe whistled softly, his three-legged dog curled between us. We parked on Macmillan Wharf, grabbed a cup of coffee from a nearby shop and walked down to Sal’s little power boat. Trying not to spill my precious coffee, I gingerly climbed onboard, failing to notice the dampness of the seats until it was seeping into my shorts. Tripod leaped in beside me, nuzzling my arm so that coffee sloshed out of my cup and into the bottom of the boat.

“Naughty puppy,” I said, stroking his head as Joe started the motor.

“You ready?” he said, smiling at me. I smiled back. He really was so delectable. The Cape Cod Tourism Council should feature him in their ads. He adeptly steered us out of Provincetown Harbor into the choppy bay. I turned and watched the picturesque, weather-beaten buildings of P-town’s shoreline grow smaller.

We didn’t talk as the boat zipped around Race Point and into deeper waters. Sal’s boat didn’t have much in the way of navigational equipment, or so it seemed to my anxious gaze. How would we find our way back? Just do a one-eighty? Like a lot of Cape Codders, I rarely went out to sea. That was for fishermen and tourists, not something that ever crossed my mind to do.