Louder Than Love (4 page)

The second time Abbey got stung was an entirely different matter. I saw the bee flying near her face and her hand reaching to swat it. I rushed to her as she began to howl and noticed a rash quickly spreading up her arm. Wheezing replaced her crying, and as she struggled to vomit, I realized something was really wrong. Luckily, we were at a carnival on the grounds of the local fire station. Within seconds, we were surrounded by firefighters and EMTs. Anaphylaxis, explained the first paramedic on the scene. He gave her a dose of epinephrine and we were off to the nearest hospital. I now carry an EpiPen for her and have been trained in how to use it.

No worries about bees on this day; the air still had a frosty nip. Both our noses were runny and numb after a half hour of chasing birds and drawing our names in the sand. “Okay, Abb, time to go home. Time to start thinking about dinner.” Abbey decided she’d hop on one foot from the picnic table down to the water’s edge rather than think about dinner. “How about we race back?” I knew she’d never turn down the chance to win a challenge.

I half jogged, half walked to give her the advantage. As our house came into view, I remembered my e-mail and felt my stomach give an excited pancake flip. Perhaps there would already be a response waiting. I recalled a study I had read recently that reported 6 percent of Americans could be classified as “compulsive e-mail checkers.” I hoped Adrian Graves would be among that elite group.

Adrian

Date: Friday, April 9, 2004 11:58 p.m.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Program Appearance Request

To: [email protected]

Are you taking the piss?

Date: Saturday, April 10, 2004 9:42 a.m.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Program Appearance Request

To: [email protected]

I’ve got a four-year-old girl here who lives and breathes your Maxwell MacGillikitty theme song. Your music is as serious to her as peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off—she is passionately serious about what she likes.

You seem to have an interesting approach to children’s music based on other songs I’ve heard, and I thought it would be a nice way to introduce children in the community to live music. The library can pay you a flat rate of $300.00, plus travel costs.

Sincerely not taking the piss,

Katrina Lewis

Date: Saturday, April 10, 2004 1:06 p.m.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Program Appearance Request

To: [email protected]

Dear Ms. Lewis,

Forgive me for my earlier response. I’m not used to being solicited to play; in fact, I have not played live for some time now. Are you sure the children wouldn’t rather see those Australian blokes in the coloured shirts?

AG

Date: Saturday, April 10, 2004 4:40 p.m.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Program Appearance Request

To: [email protected]

Dear Mr. Graves,

Not many public libraries have a budget that could afford the Wiggles. That’s the price we pay for the charm of being a nonprofit! I can’t speak for every child, but I know my own couldn’t care less about those prefab kiddie bands. If you are not available but can recommend a reasonable and quality alternative, we would be grateful. Disappointed, but grateful. Again, the date is April 23, and we were hoping for a start time of four p.m. I have attached directions from Manhattan.

Looking forward to hearing from you,

Katrina

Date: Sunday, April 11, 2004 2:15 a.m.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Program Appearance Request

To: [email protected]

Katrina,

All right, count me in.

See you then.

Adrian

Time Machine

The week before the music program, I became a one-woman street team. Grabbing a healthy stack of promo flyers from the library, along with a roll of tape and a stapler, I headed out to conquer Main Street.

The flyers were cute, featuring a guitar-wielding cat with shades and a cap perched between his ears. I hung several in the windowed entryway of the library, Starbucks, the Korean grocer, and at Stumble Inn, the local dive bar across the street from the YMCA. The owner of the bar laughed when I asked, but he assented to my request. I stapled it right between a flyer for a Van Halen tribute band and a want ad seeking musicians who played the didgeridoo. It takes all kinds, right?

I crossed over to the other side of Main, figuring I would hit the movie theater, the juice bar, and the antique store before heading back to meet Marissa and the kids at the park.

“Hey, Tree.” Grant Overhill was coming out of the shop just as I was about to reach for the old brass doorknob I must’ve turned a thousand times during my childhood. I often had to remind myself the store was Grant’s now, and not my dad’s. The sign still read
UNDERWOOD AND OVERHILL ANTIQUES
, which my dad had thought was a clever play on our surnames once he and Grant became partners in the business.

It blew my mind to this day that my adolescent crush had actually become apprentice to my father. Here was a guy who had lived and breathed football, baseball, muscle cars, and girls, in that order, and seemingly overnight, he began walking around with his nose in the latest edition of
Kovels’ Antiques and Collectibles Price Guide
and discussing with my father the merits of hobnail glass and Stangl Pottery. Marissa, ever the romantic optimist, likes to think he developed the interest out of a desire to woo me. But he began apprenticing a good two years after he had wooed, won, and walked all over me, so I didn’t agree with her rose-colored notion at all. He was just the type of guy who never had motivation or a reason to leave Lauder Lake, with the exception of the unlikely event he would one day be called up and given a six-figure salary by the Jets or the Mets to play pro ball. When no scholarships or scouts appeared, he turned to his available options: community college and a part-time job.

My father, despite being less than happy with the state my ill-fated and short-lived courtship with Grant had left me in, was still a fair man. He must have seen some sort of potential in his charge. Sure enough, after getting his BA, Grant accepted a managerial job at the store, followed by part ownership, and then, when my dad retired, full reign.

“Hey . . . I was just coming in to see if you wouldn’t mind hanging a flyer for the children’s music program at the library. Jake might enjoy it, actually. It’s next Friday.”

He studied the flyer I handed to him. “Hmm . . . I’m working, but maybe his mom can take him.” Grant never mentioned his baby-mama’s name enough for me to remember it, but they shared custody of Jake.

“Cool, I hope so. It should be lots of fun for the kiddos.”

Grant slipped inside to hang the flyer in the corner window, in front of a display of milk glass. I watched as he gingerly stepped around the display case, his head tilting toward the window. The late afternoon sun hit the top of his blond mop, showcasing all of his golden boy highlights. Poster Boy, Liz had called him. I had to admit, Grant was a rarity among most of the guys from our graduating class; he had managed to retain both his full head of hair and lithe athletic body he had proudly built up in high school. His chiseled biceps strained against the sleeves of his
10th Annual Lauder Lake Turkey Trot
T-shirt as he secured the poster prominently in the center of the window. He looked up at me for approval; I gave him a smile and a thumbs-up. He came back out and locked the door behind him.

“Closing time?”

“Yeah. I take Jake to karate class on Thursdays. It’s a slow day anyway. Need a ride home?”

“Um. No. I’m good. Thanks. Heading back to the park. Abbey’s there with Mariss.”

“So what’s up with Marissa and the other ladies of leisure these days?” Grant asked, jingling his keys.

“Hey! No woman with kids under age eighteen qualifies as a ‘lady of leisure,’” I informed him.

Honestly, with the exception of Leanna and her freelance graphic design business, none of our Lauder Lake group was exactly bringing home the bacon. Marissa had worked in retail for years before halfheartedly going for her real estate license. A slump in the housing market coupled with her second pregnancy killed her desire to go further. Karen had spent several years and many dollars getting her MSW at NYU, but her current job duties consisted of running a renewable, sustainable, ethically responsible, and green household. It was an occupation that the rest of us didn’t quite understand but admired her for nonetheless. And me, well . . . I was still studying the blueprint of the life I had built a decade earlier, trying to figure out where the design flaws and weaknesses were that had contributed to its major collapse. It was an endless and exhausting task that didn’t allow for moonlighting. Insurance settlements, plus rent collected from the Manhattan sublet, allowed me to stay home with Abbey. Keeping her happy and feeling safe were my main objectives, even if it meant running our house like an underground bunker protected from any further disaster.

“Come on, my car’s right here.” He gestured to his red Saturn coup parked at the curb. “I can take you.”

He opened the door for me, then quickly reached over to brush a
Sports Illustrated
magazine off the seat and to push a toolbox underneath it. I climbed in, marveling at the fact that the car still looked essentially the same as it had the last time I was in it. How old were we then? Nineteen? As Grant shut the door behind me, I felt as if I were being sealed into a time capsule. The sharp scent of Drakkar Noir assaulted my nose and my memory, along with the faint lingering odor of stale beer from a long-ago spillage.

“Wow, I can’t believe this car is still going. I think the last time I was in it, we were cruising this very length of Main Street and cranking the latest Tesla cassette tape.”

Grant laughed, throwing the car into gear and tearing out of his parking spot a little too fast. “She’s treated me well, this old girl. Course, I added a CD changer and got rid of the tape deck. Lots of memories. Funny to think of all the action the backseat had . . . and now there’s a booster seat back there.”

“Yeah, well . . . that’s what all that backseat action eventually leads to.” I squirmed inwardly at the awkward mental image he had thrust upon me.

Grant had been the envy of us all, purchasing the zippy red Saturn SC Sport the first year they hit the market. It had those cool flip-up headlights and drove low to the ground. At the time, he was the epitome of sexy-cool to most of the underage female population. Then again, we were all wearing acid-wash jeans and scrunchies in our hair. It was depressing as well as disturbing, not so much that he was still driving it, but he was still treating it like a pussy machine after all these years.

“So . . . what belt is Jake up to in karate?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Green. The kid could pretty much kick my ass. He’s getting big! Speaking of which . . .” We had pulled into the lot adjacent to the park. Abbey and Brina were taking turns on the small rock-climbing wall, with supervision from Marissa. “Look at those long legs on your little one. Was her dad tall? I never met him.”

“You did, actually. He came to the ten-year reunion.” I rested my hand on the door handle. “Pete was five-eleven.”

Grant absently tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, clearly not interested in the physical attributes of any other member of the male tribe, living or dead. “Hey, Chad and Diane are coming into town in a few weeks. Why don’t you come to dinner with us?”

The way he suddenly slid his arm across the seat back, along with his trademark flashing of a lazy smile, made me wonder if he still looked at me and saw a girl with second-skin Jordache jeans and teased hair. It was as if he swapped a John Hughes teen flick in his mind for what had really happened between us freshman year. And as if no time had actually passed between then and now.

“Thanks, but I don’t think—”

“Come on. It would be like old times.”

Clearly all the varnish and lead paint chips at the antique shop had gotten to him. Sure, I
knew
Chad, who had been on various sports teams with Grant. And his wife, Diane, had been a classmate of mine since elementary school. But we hadn’t had any old times, good times, or fast times at Lauder High as a foursome. My girlfriend status with Grant had been such a short blip; it could barely be classified as a “time.”

“I was actually just talking to Chad the other day, and your name came up.” I raised an eyebrow at him in response, and he bumbled onward. “You know . . . about how you are, well, back in town and stuff. It’s cool having you back.” He leaned in closer. “You’re so . . . down-to-earth, Tree. Not like a lot of the chicks around here.”

“Yeah?” I pictured myself down-to-earth, all right; belly to the ground and squirming past Grant’s land mines and foxholes.
You were right, Pat Benatar. Love is a battlefield.

“So what do you say, Tree?”

I clenched the stapler in my hand, thinking of the many ways I could use it as a weapon if required. Like pinning his balls to the gear shaft if he inched any closer to me. “I’m really swamped right now, planning this program and all.” My words came out in a rush. “Why don’t you call me after it’s over next week and I’ll see how things look? You know, with Abbey and a sitter and stuff.” I had the door open now. “Thanks for the ride, see ya.”

“Hmm, so perhaps the bad bed juju has been lifted?” Marissa opened the fence gate for me as the Saturn spun a wave of gravel onto the grass in its departure. “I see he’s still driving like it’s 1999.”

I laughed and folded the remaining flyers in half before Abbey’s keen eyes could catch a glimpse of her favorite cat. Otherwise, I’d hear talk of nothing more for the remainder of the week.

“Can we do pizza,
please
?” Abbey and Brina began their twin nuclear assault to break us down.

“Aunt Miso said we had to wait to ask you.” Abbey, ever since she began speaking, loved to refer to her favorite aunt-by-proxy, but wasn’t able to pronounce her name quite right.

“Well, we’ve got no other plans . . .”

“We’d better stop home first,” Marissa said. “Joey and Daddy would never forgive us if we went to Marino’s without them.” Taking that as a yes, the girls squealed and ran to Marissa’s minivan. “Is that good with you?”

“Sure, I’m along for the ride.”

“Speaking of rides . . .”

“He was leaving the shop as I was going there to hang a flyer and he offered me a lift. Hey, remember Chad and Diane?”

“Barely.”

“They got married after graduation and moved to Texas. Anyway, he asked me to go out to dinner when they come to town.”

“Hmm. Double date with superficial people you didn’t care much for in high school. Not exactly an ideal first date.” We loaded and locked the girls into their seats. “But then again, it’s getting back on the horse.”

“And you are beating a dead horse. Remember, I had a first date with Grant. And a second. And a third. It was a road to nowhere. If I get back on that road now, it’ll be like admitting there is nothing better out there for me.”

We watched out the window as a pack of boys from the high school track team galloped past along the shoulder of the road. Quasi-men, chins jutting and firm thighs pumping in adolescent adrenaline swagger.

Marissa gave me a long look as she waited for traffic to pass. “It’s only regression if you tell yourself it is, Tree. A lot of time has passed. He could have a totally different set of values by now.”

I glanced back at the girls, who were happily passing a stuffed animal back and forth between them, and remembered Grant’s “backseat action” comment. “It’s entirely possible he may have a different set of values, Mariss. But what if they are worse now than before?”

Marissa chose not to comment. Instead, she plucked one of the flyers from my lap. “I still can’t believe you found him . . . and he agreed to come to our dinky little library. You sweet-talk him?”

“Not exactly. We just e-mailed. But I think I did a pretty good job of convincing him it would be worth his while.”