Maine Squeeze (30 page)

As soon as the hardware store opened, I drove down to pick up a couple of gallons of paint. I still couldn't remember the right color, but it turned out that Eddie had found a record of it in his customer file. “You have a file on us?” I'd asked. I didn't want to think of the implications of that, but it was a lifesaver right now.

“Here it is,” Eddie said, showing me a chip. “So Blue Over You.”

“Seriously? My mother picked out a color called So Blue Over You?” It sounded like a country-western song, not a color for my happy-go-lucky parents.

“That exact color isn't available anymore,” Eddie said. My heart started to sink, but then he smiled and said, “They just changed the name to Bluebird On My Shoulder. I'll mix some up right away.”

When I walked in the front door, excited to share the good paint news with Sam and Erica, I saw my aunt and uncle working in the kitchen.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just baking a few things to welcome them home,” Aunt Sue said. “The blueberry loaf will be out in a jif, and I'm working on a cobbler or two. And I think I'll make some muffins for everyone who's working so hard.”

“I'm on cleanup duty.” Uncle Frank held up a spray bottle and a sponge. “You really haven't wiped down the cabinets in a while, have you?”

“Um …”

The telephone rang, so I set down the paint on the kitchen table and picked it up. It felt like everything was happening all at once.

“Colleen. I heard your parents are coming home tomorrow.” It was Betty McGonagle.

“Ah yes, the good old island grapevine,” I said, laughing.

“Yes. It's still got a few grapes on it. But next time you create gossip, make it a little more exciting, would you? My TV went out in the storm and I'm bored to tears over here,” Betty said.

“I'll try,” I said. I could tell her about yesterday and Evan, but I probably wouldn't. Especially not with my aunt and uncle in the same room.

“Now, what can I do to help?” Betty asked.

“Oh, nothing, Betty. Really.”

“Colleen. You are a wonderful person and a fine artist, but you're the worst caretaker I've ever seen.” Betty cleared her throat. “Why don't I come over and fix up the garden for you?”

“You don't have to do that,” I said.

“Yes, I think I do. I was going by yesterday and I saw weeds that are taller than I am. I'll be there in an hour,” Betty said.

“Okay. See you soon.” I hung up the phone and smiled.

“Who was that?” my aunt asked. “Ben?”

“Ah … no,” I said. “That was Betty. She's coming over to help with the garden.”

“Betty McGonagle? You know, she really cleans up at that gift shop. Boy, does she make a good living. You ought to think about doing some paintings,” my uncle said as he spritzed the window over the sink. “Colleen, have you thought about painting some nice seascapes?”

But I was already on my way up the stairs. I'd be painting, all right.

“So I finally figured out what our excursion should be this year,” Sam said. We were halfway through applying our first coat of paint. Because the lupine color was darker, we'd have to put two coats over it—one now, and one in the afternoon.

“What?” I asked, putting the roller into the pan to pick up some more paint.

“Tell me if we can pull this off,” Samantha said. “We go to Portland to the museums, and then we take the train to Boston and go to the Museum of Fine Art. We'd have to stay over, probably—either we get a hotel in Boston or we rack our brains and think of someone we know there.”

“Are you serious? I'd love to do that,” I said. “But do we have time?”

“You would have to be practical.” Samantha stopped to dab the brush into the gallon she was working from. “Okay. I know. How about if we just have a showing of your work here? The Colleen Templeton Gallery. No—we'll sell your stuff at Bobb's! Trudy would definitely have an art show for you.”

“That's not much of an excursion. I mean, it doesn't sound like fun for anyone else,” I commented.

“What are you talking about? We organize it, we have an opening—make it a major end-of-summer island event,” Samantha declared. “We circulate with crab cakes. You just stand there, mingle, and make
money
. People would buy your stuff for souvenirs of the island. You know, quaint native art.”

“You know what?” I smiled. “That's brilliant. But do I have enough pieces to show?”

“You have a closet full,” Sam said.

“Yes, but is any of it
quaint
?” As I turned around to dip the paint roller again, I saw Starsky on top of their dresser, walking back and forth. He was swishing his tail against the wall. “Starsky—no!” I cried.

But it was too late. His gray-black tail was now streaked with blue paint, and the wall had a swirled, marbled effect—with cat fur mixed in.

“Starsky's helping. That's cute.” Sam laughed.

Starsky knocked a pen off the dresser, then jumped down to play with it, waving his light-blue tail behind him. I grabbed a wet rag and tried to clean his tail, but he thought it was a game and kept running under the bed.

“We could sell Starsky at the art show. He's quaint
and
native,” Sam suggested.

“No, let's sell cat paintings,” I said. “Tourists would be all over that. Maine coon cat paintings! He's not a coon, but you know, it sounds good.”

“Anyway, it's not going to be a meet-and-greet-the-artist type event,” Sam said. “They won't know. We'll take a picture of him and then we can alter it to make him look bigger and furrier.”

I pictured Starsky presiding over a show of his art, wandering around and playing with women's (and maybe men's) earrings and jewelry. Lapping a glass of milk and signing autographs with his paw.

Sam and I both started giggling so hard that we ended up lying down on the plastic drop cloths, laughing until we started to cry. Maybe it was the stress of trying to get the house ready, I don't know. But every time I thought about Starsky, the painting Maine coon cat, with a little black beret on his head, doing a meet-the-artist event, I started laughing all over again.

“Don't do that to me.”

I was slicing pieces of a banana cream pie at lunchtime when Evan came up behind me and started kissing the back of my neck. “Please don't do that to me,” I said as I tried to correct the jagged cut I'd just made.

“Don't?” Evan asked.

“No, do. Just … not right now.” I served a new, more cleanly cut slice of pie onto a plate, and put the pie back into the refrigerated case. “Not today.” I turned around to face him.

“You know, we won't have a chance to see each other that much when your parents get home,” Evan said. “How about we go swimming between shifts today?”

“Swimming?” I asked. “But I'd have to go get my suit.”

“No, you wouldn't,” Evan said. “I was running last week and I went down this abandoned trail—I found a new cove. Total privacy.”

That sounded tempting. And freezing. And impossible, in broad daylight. And not likely, given the work I had left to do at the house. “No, I can't,” I said as I hurried over to the coffee machine to fill a carafe.

“Why not?” Evan followed me.

“Because I have to paint some more,” I said, placing a small white bowl of creamers and sugar on my tray.

“But … can't you do that tonight?” Evan asked.

“No, not really. I'm working, and then—”

Erica was in the kitchen to fill some glasses with water, and she came up beside me. “It's okay—Sam and I will finish the painting. If you guys want to go do something this afternoon, we'll do the second coat.”

“No, I can do it,” I said. “I'll just have to go really fast.”

“Which will ruin everything!” Erica said, laughing. “Come on, Coll, it's the least we can do. You invited us to stay in your house for the entire summer.”

“But you didn't live there,” I pointed out.

Erica waved my comment away. “Technicalities. Go do whatever, and we'll see you back here at five. Oh, and did you hear? Sam talked to Trudy about selling your art. She's totally psyched to do it.”

“Really?” I asked as I hurried past both her and Evan with the pie and coffee.

Erica nodded.

“You're the best!” I told her.

“Thank you!” Evan replied. “I know!”

Evan and I spent so much time hanging out at the private beach together that we barely had time to stop by his cousin's to pick up some fresh clothes before work. I'd used my T-shirt to dry myself off after swimming, and it was soaked.

I pulled on the T-shirt Evan tossed to me, and we nearly sprinted side by side to Bobb's so we wouldn't be late. My hair was still slightly wet when we walked into the kitchen.

“You're so lucky you got here in time!” Sam greeted me when I walked into the kitchen. “It's not Orlando Bloom, but it's close.”

“Who is it?” I asked, wrapping an apron around my waist and checking over the specials for the night.

“Graeme Helman,” she said. “The guy from the movie with—”

“The really incredible body?” I interrupted.

“Hey,” Evan said. “Keep it down over there.”

“He's in
your
section, too,” Sam said. “You can thank Erica later. Plus, my section was full, or I would have killed her.” She shoved an order pad into my hand. “Now, go. He's got water already and I'm sure he's ready to order.”

“Thanks!” I said, laughing as I headed for the swinging doors to the dining room.

“But—wait—Colleen—” Sam said. “Hold on. You can't go in there like that!”

I turned around, shaking my head. “No way, I'm not giving you his table. He's in
my
section, and I'll wait on him.”

“Should we tell her?” Evan asked.

“Tell her what?” I said. I peered through the little peephole window. “He's alone? Oh, wow. Here's my chance.”

I walked out into the restaurant and went straight to Graeme's table. (I was already calling him “Graeme,” as if we were close.) He looked even better in person than he did in the movies and on TV. He had wide shoulders, a face with perfect-looking-enough-to-be-sculpted features, and dark brown eyes. Why on earth was he dining
alone
? Why on earth was he at our little island?

“Welcome to Bobb's,” I said. “Have you heard about our specials?”

“Yes, thanks,” he replied in a deep voice. “But I think I'll go with my standard. The Fisherman's Platter.”

“Your … standard?” I asked. “You've been here before?”

“Sure. Not for a few years, though.” He grinned. “You probably weren't here then. Hey, nice T-shirt.”

“Oh, uh, thanks,” I said, glancing down at the shirt. Something about it looked weird, but I couldn't place it. “Anything to drink?”

“Iced tea,” he said. “Extra lemon. Oh, and extra tartar sauce and extra lemon slices for the platter, too.”

“No problem! Be right back with your iced tea,” I promised.

When I turned around and headed for the kitchen, I saw Erica and Samantha huddled by the host stand. Sam was laughing so hard that she couldn't stand up; she put her hand on the wooden counter to balance herself.

Erica's face was bright pink as I walked over to them, and she was trying not to smile.

“What's so funny?” I asked. “Does my hair look that bad? Oh, no, it's a frizzone day, isn't it? I shouldn't have gone swimming.”

Erica burst out laughing. “Colleen, you might, ah, you might …” She reached into the glass counter next to the host stand. She rifled through a stack of Bobb's T-shirts and pulled one out. “Go to the bathroom and put this on.”

“Why? Did I spill?” I asked, peering at my T-shirt. This time I actually looked at it long enough to read the upside-down script: “Dip Into Something More Comfortable,” it said, with a butter dish.

Oh no, don't tell me
. Then I twisted the shirt around so that I could read the back. There it was, in large blue letters: “Boob's.” Not Bobb's.

Evan had given me one of his mock “funny” T-shirts to wear to work. No wonder Graeme had said “Nice T-shirt.” No wonder everyone was laughing at me.

I hated him. With every fiber of my being.

And then some.

I tried to say good-night to Evan outside the restaurant, but it took us so long that Erica and Sam went home without me. “Evan, I just can't break the rule about no sleepovers tonight, not when I'm going to see my parents tomorrow,” I said as we walked down the road toward my house.

“Do you really think they'd care?” he asked.