Geoducks Are for Lovers (7 page)

“Ben’s life is just as it should be and as intended,” Maggie says in an uptight voice. At times she’s been jealous of Ben and Jo’s seemingly perfect life. 

While everyone grabs a bowl and a spoon, she sits in the available space in the corner between Gil and Selah.

“Ben’s life is just as Josephine intended,” Selah says. “They are the perfect American dream. Handsome, two-point-five children, golden retriever, big house, cars, and vacation home. If I didn’t love them, I would hate them.” Selah makes a face and eats a cookie.

“It’s your worst nightmare, Selah,” Gil says.

“Oh, I know.” She shudders. “Not my American dream. Some of us are breeders, some of us are not. Wouldn’t trade places for anything.”

“You know you’re not missing out. Didn’t you sleep with Ben freshman year?” Quinn asks.

“I did indeed. It was nice.” Selah shrugs.

“Nice?” Gil asks.

“Nice is Selah’s way of saying boring,” Maggie adds.

“Nice is boring,” Selah says.

“Nice doesn’t have to be boring,” Gil defends.

“Oh sweetie, you are one of the nice guys. Never boring though.” To emphasize her words, Selah nods.

“I wasn’t fishing for compliments, but will take it.” Gil rubs the back of his neck. 

Maggie senses his awkwardness. “Why do we always go for the bad boys when we are younger, never realizing they are called bad boys for a reason? We waste so much time.”

“Cause the bad ones make you appreciate the good guys when you finally open your eyes and see them,” Quinn says. 

“I still like bad boys.” Selah surprises no one with this statement.

“And pirates,” Maggie mumbles with a mouthful of ice cream. 

“Arrgh,” Quinn adds, and they all crack up.

Gil puts down his empty bowl and leans back into the sofa with his long legs extended and his feet resting on the edge of the ottoman. Maggie notices his shirt rides up slightly, revealing a thin slice of skin and a noticeable line of hair extending down from his navel.

Gil catches her staring, but doesn’t immediately pull down his shirt. He avoids looking at her directly, but out of the corner of her eye she thinks she sees him smirk. 

“Something about fresh air makes me tired,” says Quinn.

“Probably the oxygen and lack of smog does you in whenever you leave the city.” Maggie teases him. There are times she misses life in the big city, but can’t imagine fighting the everyday battle of living there anymore. 

“I could never live in New York. Too big, too many people,” Gil adds.

“I couldn’t go back, but I loved the city when I was there,” Maggie says. “But you can lose yourself.”

“Sometimes when you lose your way, you find yourself.” 

“Wow, Q, that was deep.” Selah sounds surprised.

“I have my moments. I should probably go to bed on a high note.” Quinn stands and takes the tray of empty bowls over to the sink.

“We are old if Quinn is going to bed at eleven,” Gil says, craning to see the clock on the kitchen wall. 

“I’m still on East Coast time. Not old.”

“Yes, Peter Pan, you’ll never grow old.” Gil laughs. “Quinn, the perpetual teenager.”

“I think I’ll go to bed as well.” Selah yawns and stretches. “Too much wine.”

“Then there were two,” Gil says, turning to lean closer to Maggie.

“Then there were two,” Maggie repeats, remembering how she and Gil always tended to be the night owls of the group, hitting their second wind at midnight, and studying or drinking into the wee hours.

“Are you tired? I can go up and read in my room. I don’t want to keep you up.”

“I usually stay up late. Some things don’t change. We can’t watch television because Selah is in the only room with a TV.”

“We could play cards or a game of old school Scrabble,” Gil suggests, gesturing at the basket of games and cards tucked next to the bookcase in the corner.

“Deal.” Maggie gets up to grab the Scrabble board. “Do you want to play at the dining table or sit on the floor here?”

“Dining table if you don’t mind. You set up the board while I put the bowls in the dishwasher.”

“Do you want another glass of wine?” He grabs the bottle and waves it at her.

“Are you having another beer? I don’t want to be the lush.”

“I’ll have another one if you do.” 

“Sure.”

He fills her glass.

She has the board and bag of tiles out and ready when he settles in the chair at the head of the table. If she stretches out her feet, she’ll be touching his legs, so she keeps her legs tucked under her chair.

He pulls out a “B” tile from the bag before she reaches in and takes out a “M”.

She sets up all her tiles and looks at her selection of letters: U, R, C, N, T, S, P. If they were playing dirty Scrabble, she’d have the perfect word. 

As if reading her mind, Gil plays “LICKS”. 

  Tempted but not sure she should go there, she plays “PUNTS.”

  She grabs five more tiles from the bag.

While he studies his tiles for a few minutes, she notes he’s the same player he was in college— slow and methodical.

He plays “LEASE” off of the “L” in “LICKS,” and then adds up his points on the pad of paper and sips his beer. A comfortable quiet settles over the table.

She drinks her wine and studies her new tiles before deciding to play “GLOVE” off of the last “E” in “LEASE.” Looking up writing down her score, she notices Gil looks sleepy. 

“Hey sleepy, you forgot to take tiles out of the bag.” Maggie nudges him with her foot.

“Sorry. I think I hit the wall…” His words trail off into a yawn, his deep voice more rough with sleep.

“We can call it a night.” Maggie hides her disappointment. She’s been enjoying Gil’s quiet company.

“Do you mind? Let’s tip our tiles down and continue this tomorrow.”

“That sounds like a good idea since we don’t need the table for meals. I’ll have to kick your butt later.”

When Gil stands up and stretches, she stares at a sliver of exposed skin again. Shaking her head, she can’t believe she is ogling Gil’s stomach.

“Like you ever kicked my butt at Scrabble.” He tugs down his shirt.

“Once I did before I grew to hate playing with you. You never let me win.”

“You wouldn’t have liked it if I ‘let’ you win and you know it.”

“This is true,” she says, busying herself with turning off lights around downstairs.

“You should be all set. Extra towels in the linen closet in your room and toothbrushes etc in the vanity in the bathroom.”

“Thanks,” he tells her as they head upstairs. “Good night, Maggie May. It’s great seeing you again.”

“Same.” She means it. 

After getting ready for bed, she stands at her bedroom window, looking out at the dark water lapping the beach. She picks up a wishing rock from the many scattered along the windowsill and sets it on her nightstand before slipping into bed.

Eight

Maggie opens her eyes to the rude light of another cloudless, deep blue sky. The bluff appears close enough to touch out the windows. Stretching, she bargains with herself to skip her morning run. Maybe she can use a house full of guests as an excuse to avoid her daily three miles. Biscuit stretches out beside her and presents his belly for a rub.

Hearing a knock at her door and before she says come in, Quinn walks in with a cup of coffee in both hands. Maggie sits up, relieved and vaguely sad it’s him. 

“Morning, starshine. Good morning, Mr. McGhee.” Quinn dutifully scratches Biscuit’s belly.

“Morning yourself,” Maggie mumbles while reaching for the oversize mug of steaming coffee.

Quinn hands her the cup and sits against the headboard.

“So. What’s on the agenda for today, Magpie? You better say baking a batch of those amazing scones of yours is the first thing you plan on doing. I’m giving up the giving up of carbs for some of your baked goodies this weekend.”

“Scones do sound good. I have a pint of marionberries in the fridge. Will those work?”

“Perfection,” says a male voice that’s not Quinn’s.

Gil stands in the doorway looking sleep rumpled in a pair of cargo shorts and an Evergreen State T-shirt. He walks over to the bed and sits on the edge. She’s self-conscious about her spaghetti-strap, cotton nightgown. Quinn seeing her like this is no big deal. Somehow having Gil in her bedroom, sitting on her bed, while she is barely clothed feels entirely different. 

“What is perfection?” she finally asks.

“Marionberry scones for breakfast,” Gil answers

“If I make scones, I’m definitely going to need to go for a run.”

Quinn pinches her bare arm. “Yep, you’re a big squishy ball of fat. You should probably skip the scones and give your share to me.”

Maggie brushes off Quinn’s pinching fingers. “Be nice, Mr. Eight-Percent Body Fat.”

“You run?” Gil asks from the foot of the bed. “Since when?”

“For a few years now. Needed something to beat back the clock. So I started running and practicing yoga. Biscuit and I were both starting to get paunches.”

“I don’t see any evidence of a paunch or wrinkles.” Gil smiles at her. “I still run. What’s your typical run?”

“Three miles, sometimes four. If I want to torture myself, I run on the tideland during the low tide, but usually I keep to the roads.”

“I brought my running shoes. We should go for a run together,” Gil suggests. 

The idea of sweating and panting next to Gil gives Maggie pause.

“Okay, before you two start talking 5Ks and 13Ks and who has a 26.4 sticker on their car, let’s get back to the scones,” Quinn interrupts.

“Always about the food, Q. Marathons are 26.2 miles and 13Ks are not a thing, you know,” Maggie says.

“Whatever. Now chop chop!” Quinn attempts to push her out of bed.

“All right, all right. I’m getting up. Run first, then scones. Can a girl have some privacy for a minute?”

“Magpie, it’s nothing we haven’t seen before. Hello? Topless sunbathing phase.”

Maggie blushes at the memory of their tar beach summer before junior year.

“I miss those twenty-year-old boobs.”

She swears she hears Gil whisper “me too” as he walks out the door. That’s strange, she thinks.
All twenty-year-old boobs or my boobs specifically?

* * *

By the time Maggie gets outside, she finds Gil stretching on the front steps, wearing running shorts and the same gray Evergreen T-shirt. His long legs are toned and tan. He looks good. Really good. 

Maggie wears her typical black capri leggings and a purple running tank, her hair pulled into a high pony tail. She’s forgone her iPod and earbuds in case Gil wants to talk.

“No Biscuit?”

“He’s going to stay behind and make love-eyes at Quinn.”

“What’s our route?” Gil pulls one of his legs behind him to stretch.

“I usually run up the hill to the main road and then head out toward the bluff. It’s pretty flat with a couple of gradual hills in the middle. That work for you?”

Gil makes a sweeping gesture toward the road. “After you.”

“I might be a slower runner than you. Are you sure you don’t want to head out on your own?”

“Nah. I’m here more for the scenery and the company. Run to your pace and I’ll adjust.”

His sweet words make her smile.

Maggie jogs up the hill to warm up before running to her typical pace once she hits the main road. Gil easily keeps up. He doesn’t seem to be breaking a sweat.
Of course not.

“If you ran in college, we could’ve run together. Think of all the fun you missed out on back then.”

“Fun? You crew boys got up at the crotch of dawn. Masochists. Running now is enough masochism for my delicate soul.”

“No runner’s high for you? That’s the best part.”

“I think runner’s high is an urban legend. It’s torture. Every step.”

“Then why do you do it? Other than the view.” Gil gestures to the break in the tall pines revealing the water shimmering in the sun below the bluff.

“When my mother was sick I needed something only for me, something to help me work out some of the stress and sadness. Long walks in the woods were melancholy, so I trained for a 5K. After the first one, I kept going.”

“I’m sorry about your mom. I wish I were around more when she was ill. Portland isn’t very far away.”

“Thanks, but you were busy with classes and Judith.”

“Yeah, Judith was always a handful.” Gil shrugs and stares over the field next to them.

“Sorry about the divorce. Divorces suck.”

“Actually, it was pretty mutual by that point. We hadn’t been good for each other for a few years. She’s remarried now. Has a kid even.”

“Wow. Judith as a mother.” Maggie shakes her head at the thought.

“She wasn’t that bad.” Gil laughs. “She always wanted kids and we tried for years, but it wasn’t in the cards for us. It was the beginning of the end.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Maggie always wondered why they didn’t have a kid. Gil would make an amazing father. “You’d make a great father.”

“So would you. I mean, you’d be a wonderful mother. Why didn’t you and Julien have kids?” 

At the mention of Maggie’s ex, also known as the French Incident, her back stiffens.