Fools Rush in(73)

So deeply satisfying was this activity that I didn’t notice the noise of a truck pulling into my driveway. Luckily, my dog did and began his frenzied barking. Jumping away from the fridge, I dashed to the window to peek out.

Shit! It was Joe! He got out of his truck with a bouquet of flowers and headed for my door.

It was still bright enough outside that I hadn’t turned on the lights. Pretend you’re not home! Before my mind had even formulated that thought, I was crouched on my living-room floor in front of the wing chair. Joe knocked. Digger’s barking became joyful as he jumped up on the back door.

“Millie?” Joe’s voice came to me easily through the open windows.

Please, God, let the door be locked. My car was in the driveway, so he obviously assumed (correctly) that I was home.

“Mil?” Joe knocked again. “Digger, where’s Millie?”

Digger didn’t answer but began to whine and tremble. My legs, too, began to tremble as I squatted. I eased into the kneeling position. My back, now thoroughly ravaged, convulsed in a massive itch-pain, and I couldn’t help a little gasp.

“Millie? You home?”

Go away! But no. Joe’s work boots thumped on the back deck as he went to peer in the kitchen window. I inched around the chair slightly, trying to keep it between us. If Joe saw me like this—

He left. I waited to hear his truck door open and close, but I wasn’t that lucky. Couldn’t the guy take a hint? I crawled frantically into the dining room to sneak a peak out the window. He was walking around to the front door, causing Digger to have a brand-new fit. Lurking in the safety of the dining room, I pressed my throbbing back against the wall like a POW escaping from an enemy camp, waiting for the searchlight to pass over.

“Millie?”

Go home! My arms, jealous of the attention my back had received, cried out for the pasta fork. I rubbed them gingerly. Thump, thump, thump went the work boots. Joe, not easily deterred, was coming to the kitchen door again! Damn it! I power-crawled back into the living room and crouched again in front of my chair. Digger, now tired of barking at Joe, thought I was playing a game. Wagging, his ears pricked, he trotted over and licked my inflamed face vigorously.

“No,” I whispered. The hall carpet called to me seductively, inviting me to take off my shirt and writhe around on its scratchy nubbiness. Digger barked once.

“Guess she’s not home, hey, Digger?” Joe said. There was a rustle, then, finally, blessedly, his footsteps sounded off the deck. His truck started a minute later, and he was gone.

“Thank God!” I exclaimed, clambering up from the floor. Now, what had I done with that lovely pasta fork?

Not a minute later, I heard the truck pull into the driveway. “Jesus! What is wrong with him?” I hissed over Digger’s barking. I catapulted into the bathroom before Joe could reach the back door. The window in there was frosted, so I would be safe. It was also getting darker, so that was in my favor, too.

“Millie?”

Not Joe! Sam! I didn’t have to hide from Sam. I walked into the kitchen. Sam stood in the doorway, holding a bag.

“Hey, Millie. I stopped by the clinic and they said you were sick.”

“Look at me!” I flicked on the light and Sam’s eyes widened.

“Oh, Millie…Oh, Mil.”

“It’s poison ivy.”

He did try not to laugh, for a minute, anyway. And then he couldn’t help himself. His laughs progressed to wheezes, and he leaned in the doorway, helpless, tears running down his face. As I stood there watching him, finally the humor of my situation hit me, and I joined in.

“I hope you’re here to scratch me,” I said finally, wiping my eyes.

“Uh, no,” he answered. “But I did bring you some ice cream. And a movie.”

Ben & Jerry’s Coffee Heath Bar Crunch, my favorite. And a nice romantic comedy. Sweet Sam.

“There are flowers on your porch, you know,” Sam said, sticking the ice cream in the freezer.

“Right. Would you grab them?” I asked, retrieving the Ben & Jerry’s and prying off the lid. Sam picked up the flowers. I watched, shoveling in cool, deep, dark deliciousness right from the carton, as he put them in a vase.

“Want some ice cream?” I asked around a spoonful.

“No, it’s all for you. What I want is to know how you, of all people, got poison ivy.”

“The gods are punishing me for making fun of the tourists all summer,” I answered, sitting gingerly at the counter. “Mmm. This ice cream is so good, I might bathe in it.”

“So, how did you get the poison ivy?” Sam helped himself to a beer and sat down with me.

“Oh, I really couldn’t tell you.”

“Come on, kiddo.”

“Nope.”

“Please?”

“Never.”

“Well, then,” Sam said, grinning, “I’ll have to use my police training and guess. Someone brought you flowers, and I’m guessing it was Joe. An apology, perhaps? You. Joe. Poison ivy. I’d have to guess you were fooling around outside. Millie, Millie.” He shook his head regretfully.

“You’re wrong,” I said through another mouthful of ice cream. “The flowers are from the grateful parents of a lost child I rescued today, who, unfortunately, was wandering in poison ivy. The police were involved in urgent business at the Donut Shack, so I had to do their work.”