Ex and the Single Girl Page 2

  Maybe even fun.

  I popped my trunk open and looked up with a smile as I heard the creaky porch door swing open, followed by squeals of excitement.

  I heard a pounding and looked up to see Mags bounding down the steps toward me like a Great Dane released from a small pen. My smile froze. She was all energy and verve, and there wasn’t even the tiniest evidence of acute pain and torture on her face.

  “Good to see you, Mags,” I said when she released me from her exuberant hug. “How’s your back?”

  She gave a dismissive wave as though there was a small fly rather than a huge deception between us. “Oh, my back’s fine. That was just to get you here. And now you’re here!”

  Mags flashed her sparkling white smile at me, and her blue eyes shone under her perfectly lined lids. Not a hint of guilt or shame or anything that anyone with a moral center might show. Either she didn’t think it was wrong, or she didn’t think I’d be mad.

  Or, and this was my vote, she just didn’t think.

  I lifted my indignant gaze up to the porch. My aunt Vera waved and held up a glass full of clear liquid and clinking ice cubes. I didn’t have to taste it to know it was a gin and tonic, the signature drink of the Miz Fallons.

  God bless Vera.

  “Come on up, darlin’!” she called. “We’re fixin’ to celebrate!”

  Mags easily lifted my heavy duffel bag out of the passenger seat of my car, and I felt my irritation flare up again.

  “I don’t know why you can’t get some proper luggage, Portia. Something with corners, maybe. And wheels. You know they make ‘em with wheels nowadays. Isn’t that smart?”

  I slung my laptop bag over my shoulder and snatched the duffel from her, slamming the car door shut and hearing a small, fading voice in my head calling, Gracious! as though from a great distance.

  “Acute pain and torture,” I said. “I seem to recall those exact words.”

  Mags sighed and turned to me, grabbing the duffel bag back. “Oh, baby, you’re dwelling. It’s not attractive. Now come see Vera and Bev; they’ve missed you so.”

  She turned her back to me and headed up the steps. That meant the conversation was over. I’d been had, and there was nothing left to discuss. Even if I had it in me to turn around and drive back to Syracuse, which would have served her right, I had sublet my apartment and I wasn’t getting it back until August. Best to just let it go, as I eventually did with all my grievances against Mags. She didn’t get it, she never would, that’s just who she was, and there was simply no point in staying mad.

  I followed her up the steps, glaring at the back of her head the whole time. I may talk the talk of a mature adult, but it takes a while to walk the walk. The sooner I got to that gin and tonic, the better.

  Vera clapped her hands and jumped up and down when she saw me, running toward me while Mags deposited my duffel bag inside the front door. She gave me a forceful hug, then stepped back to look at me, her hands on my shoulders.

  “Beautiful as ever,” she said. I could smell the jasmine incense in her hair and clothes. Her long hair trailed down her back in a fluffy braid, and if it wasn’t for the gentle streaks of gray in the blond, you’d never guess she was in her fifties. “It’s so good to have you back, baby.”

  “Yes,” Bev said, walking over to me and pulling me into a firm hug. Her hugs, like everything about Bev, were always firm. “It’s good to see you, girl.”

  Mags returned, carrying two gin and tonics, handing one to me as she passed by to sit next to Vera on the porch swing. Bev settled herself in the rocking chair, I sat on the old creaky wicker, and we all stared at each other, treading carefully in the familiar unfamiliar.

  I watched them in that awkward silence, thinking how they were a lot like the bear beds that Goldilocks had found. Vera was the soft one. Never had a bad thing to say about anyone, always cried when baby birds fell out of the oak that shaded our porch. Bev was the firm one, the one you turned to to fix everything when you’d been wrongly accused of cheating on your math test, but not the person you’d seek out for comfort after, say, you saw Eddie Collier kissing Pamie Scott at the school dance. And Mags—well, you could say Mags was just right. She was sensitive enough to know when to ask what was bothering you, smart enough to know when to leave you alone, and kind enough not to say she told you so. She was beautiful, had impeccable taste, and her feet never seemed to hurt, no matter how cute her shoes were. She would be just right, in fact, if she wasn’t just a hair shy of being certifiably nuts.

  “So,” Vera ventured, leaning forward with a broad smile, “tell us about your dissertation. Mags says you finished it?”

  “I finished the rough draft,” I lied. It had been half-done and gathering dust since February, while my tab of Pride and Prejudice viewings was approaching twenty-five. Epiphany be damned, old habits die hard.

  “That’s so exciting,” Vera said.

  “Yes, we are so proud,” Bev said. I thought I caught an edge in her tone, but when I looked her way, her smile was as bright as ever.

  “When Mary Alice Rainey comes in talking about her Son the Doctor, I just tell her all about my Daughter the Ph.D.” Mags grinned at me and sipped her drink. I let out a small I don’t believe this chuckle. Bev coughed into her hand, a warning.

  I cut my eyes at her and noticed her smile had faded. She settled her glass on the table and sat back.

  “It’ll be nice for you to be home again after working so hard for so long,” Bev said, her eyes driving the shut up and be pleasant message home. “Maybe you can attend to... other things.” Vera and Mags exchanged conspiratorial grins. I sipped my gin and tonic, then leaned forward and placed it on the coffee table, indicating the end of the small talk.

  “All right, ladies. Spill it. What’s going on?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bev said, in a tone that said she knew exactly what I was talking about. I crossed my arms and rolled my eyes, one door slam short of being fourteen again.

  “This. The summer. Mags calls me, all about the pain and torture in her back—”

  Mags gave a short laugh. “Well, I’m sure I never said pain and torture—”

  I pointed my index finger at her, shutting her up. “Don’t push it, lady. You’re already on my short list.”

  Vera waved her hand at me, grabbing my attention, her face glowing in excitement. “Oh, let’s just tell her. I can hardly keep it inside anymore, anyway.”

  Vera looked at Bev, who nodded. Mags donned a mischievous grin and sipped her drink. Vera leaned forward, all bubbles. “Oh, honey, we’ve found you a Flyer.”

  I froze, my drink hovering in the air on its way down to the table. “You what?”

  “Oh, he’s so perfect for you, darlin’,” Mags said. “He’s a writer.”

  “Ahhh,” I said, turning my raised eyebrows at Bev. “How perfect.”

  Bev gave me a subdued smile, and our eyes had a short exchange.

  You’re serious?

  Yes, we are.

  And you expect me to go along with this?

  Yes, we do.

  And then, out loud, Bev said, “His name is Ian Beckett.”

  Mags leaned forward. “He’s renting the old Babb farm down at the end of Reddy Road. And he’s only here for the summer. Then he’s going back to London.”

  “He’s British!” Vera added, in case I didn’t make that connection on my own.

  Mags batted her eyes at me as she laid down the final stroke. “And he’ll be at your welcome home party tomorrow night.”

  I rubbed my fingers over my eyes, listening to my internal chorus singing, shoulda known, shoulda known, shoulda known.

  “Portia?” I heard Mags saying, “I thought you’d be happy. He’s a novelist.”

  There was a moment of silence in which everyone thought about, but did not mention, the last novelist in my life.

  Vera raised her drink, waving it at me for attention. “And I did your cards. You got the T
en of Cups—celebration and contentment—as your final outcome.”

  “Did I, really? No Tower this time, then?” The Tower was the card that symbolized the storm before the calm, and it usually capped every reading Vera did for me.

  Vera shrugged. “Not as the final outcome.”

  I shook my head and looked from one Miz to the next, each of them smiling back at me as though they were doing me a great favor. “None of you sees anything wrong with this?”

  “No,” Mags said, then gave Vera a playful nudge. “And neither will you when you see him.”

  She waved her hand in front of her face as though she was in the middle of a hot flash, and the two of them fell into girlish giggles. I sighed. I couldn’t believe I ever thought for a minute that this summer was going to be all iced teas and mountain breezes. How had I allowed myself to give in to the delusion? Wasn’t that the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?

  “Look,” I said, “I appreciate that you girls are trying to make sure I have a memorable summer, but you have to stop. Now.” The giggling subsided and all three looked at me.

  “Stop?” Mags asked. “Why would you want us to stop? We found you a Flyer, darlin’. A sexy British Flyer. That kind of man doesn’t come along every day. We thought you’d be thrilled.”

  “Thrilled?” I said, shaking my head, my words coming out in a sputter of frustration and incredulity. “You lie to me to trick me into coming here for the summer. You act like that is no big deal. You pick out a Flyer for me…”

  I inserted a dramatic pause, in which I imagined they might realize the error of their ways and beg my forgiveness. All I got was blank stares. I wasn’t just the definition of insanity; I was the damn poster child.

  “It’s wrong,” I said. I turned to Vera. “Surely you know this is bad for your karma.”

  Vera shrugged. “The cards said it was meant to be.”

  “Oh, hell, Vera, if the cards told you to jump off a bridge, would you do it?”

  Vera was silent. Right. Don’t ask a question you don’t want the answer to. I threw my hands up in the air.

  “You’re all nuts,” I said. “I don’t think you know what you’re doing.”

  “Sure we do, honey,” Mags said, as though confirming the obvious. “We’re fixing you.”

  “Fixing me?” I blinked. “What am I now? A stray cat?” Vera and Mags looked at each other. Bev rocked backward. My eyes flicked from one to the other, looking for a clue as to what was going on.

  “I don’t need to be fixed,” I said finally.

  “Of course you don’t, sweetie,” Vera said.

  “The hell she doesn’t,” Bev grumbled. Vera shot her a look. Bev rocked back again. This time, the edge was undeniable. “Have I done something to offend you, Bev?” I asked.

  “Of course not, darlin’,” Mags chimed in. As I transferred my gaze back to her, I caught the fringe end of a warning look to Bev. “We’re just worried about you is all. You haven’t been the same since you and Peter broke up.”

  I sighed. Yeesh. I must have been bad off, if even Mags noticed. Of course, that realization only intensified my need to deny everything.

  “I don’t need to be fixed. I’m fine. I like my life. I’m not depressed. I don’t even miss Peter all that much any more, and I do not need to Fly.”

  Silence. Three pairs of eyes stared at me. A bird chirped in the distance. I heard a kid ring the bell on his bike a block down the street. The thing about silence is that if I’m not in charge of it, I end up talking, typically not to my benefit.

  “Everything is fine. I enjoy my work. I have friends.” I swallowed. “I...I...I go out for pizza on Fridays with the rest of the English department. I’m thinking about getting a cat...”

  One toke over the line. Vera’s eyes widened measurably. Bev shifted victoriously in her seat; the prosecution rests. Mags sighed, her face registering deep concern.

  “Portia,” she said, leaning forward, her hands clasped together over her knees like a guidance counselor trying to get through to the most hopeless case in the graduating class. “Sometimes a person might think she’s okay when really she’s not, and she needs a family who loves her to tell her what she needs.”

  I stared at her, my face contorting. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Vera leaned forward and put her hand on my arm. “I think what she’s saying is that we love you, and if we think this Flyer might be good for you, then maybe you could just try it to see if it helps you some. What have you got to lose, really?”

  “My dignity. My sense of self-respect. My autonomy over my own life.” They stared at me.

  Bev rocked back in her chair, impatient. “You been up north too long, child.”

  I sighed. “I’m fine. I don’t need to be fixed.”

  “Yes. You’ve said that.” Bev stood up, the rocker creaking behind her. “I, for one, am almost certain it won’t kill you to have a damn drink with this Flyer. And it occurs to me that between your mother, your aunt, and myself, we have a fair amount of life experience and just might understand some things you don’t.” She walked to the front door and opened it before turning back to me to give her final word. “And you’re not getting a cat.”

  Chapter Two

  “Portia Fallon!”

  I stepped one strappy-shoed foot on the back lawn and fell right into the waiting arms of Marge Whitfield. The stiletto heels sank into the soft ground, and I wondered how Mags could stand the damn things. I’d argued against wearing them, but after a day of coercive primping, the only battles I’d won were against sparkly eye shadow and contact lenses that would have made my understated hazel eyes a neck-throttling shade of green.

  “It is so good to have you back home,” Marge said, linking her arm enthusiastically through mine. “I hear you’ll be running the Page now? I’m so glad. We’ll have to get you and Freddie together for lunch sometime.”

  Ah. Marge’s son, Freddie. Lost a leg drinking and driving in the tenth grade. The last report I’d gotten about Freddie was that he hurt the good leg trying to kick a Three Musketeers bar out of the vending machine at the Truly Laundro-Matic. I smiled diplomatically.

  “Well, I’m just out here for the summer, and you know how busy the summers are.” I glanced around. The lawn was filled with people I hadn’t seen in ages. My high school math teacher, Mr. Ryan. The Feeney twins, who ran the Gas ’n Sip out on River Road. Pearl McGee, who had cut my hair every six weeks from birth to high school graduation. All smiling, all with a little more gray or a little more belly, but otherwise contributing to the Brigadoon mystique. There was only one face I didn’t recognize, a tall man standing near the maple tree toward the back, flanked on either side by Mags and Vera. He was wearing a white button-down shirt with tan pants and smiled benevolently as Mags held him conversational hostage.

  Ian Beckett. Had to be.

  I sipped the glass of wine Marge had shoved into my hands and listened to her updates. Mark Feeney had gotten married; Greg Feeney had gotten divorced. Pearl McGee’s cousin died and left her a small fortune, but she still worked at the salon on Tuesdays and Saturdays. I let my eyes drift over to Ian Beckett. At that same moment, his eyes drifted toward me. We caught each other’s gaze for a minute, and each of us smiled before looking away. Seventh grade redux.

  “And there’s a novelist—”

  I held up my hand and silenced Marge. “I know. Trust me. I’ve heard about the novelist.”

  Marge linked her arm in mine and leaned her head conspiratorially. “You know, he’s very reclusive. Staying at the Babb farm, and people hardly see him except at the Piggly Wiggly, and then only on the rare occasion.”

  I raised my glass to my lips. “Well, you know writers.”

  “Not as well as you do, from what I hear.” I shot her a glance, and she backpedaled. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart. I wasn’t thinking. I just find it… interesting...that of all the places our mysterious nov
elist might show up, he shows up here.”

  I gave her a black look. “Have you ever tried to argue with the Mizzes?”

  Marge laughed. “I think you might have a point there, darlin’. Why don’t you come on over with me? I’ll introduce you.” Mags and Vera had been tossing me anxious glances since I’d stepped out of the house. Bev watched from the liquor table, about twenty feet away from where I stood, eying me as if to say, Hurry up, darlin, we can’t hold him much longer. I sighed. Time to bite the bullet.

  “That’s okay, Marge,” I said, not wanting my inevitable humiliation to be witnessed at close range by any more people than absolutely necessary. “I’m just going to say a quick hello to appease the Mizzes.”

  I stepped away and forced myself to hold my head up and smile as I took my tattered dignity and walked it right over to its doom.

  “Portia, darlin',” Vera said, linking her arm through mine as though to anchor me to the spot. “You just have to meet our new friend.”

  “Yes,” Mags piped in. “Ian, this is my daughter, Portia Fallon. She’s an English professor at Syracuse University.”

  “Uh, actually, I’m assistant teaching while finishing up my Ph.D.,” I corrected tightly.

  “Let me get you a fresh beer, Ian,” Vera said, snatching his half-empty beer bottle before he could respond. She winked at me and retreated so fast I could almost hear a whistle. I felt my face flush. These two were about as subtle as a train wreck, and Ian’s kind smile only fueled my embarrassment.

  Mags squeezed my arm, pulling me a touch closer to Ian. “Portia, this is Ian Beckett. He’s a novelist. From London.”

  “Hi, Ian,” I said, extending my hand. He took it in his, which was gloriously cool against the oppressive summer heat. His brown eyes locked on mine, and his smile had a flavor of camaraderie to it. Don’t worry, it said. Were in this together.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said. His voice was like coarse sandpaper, softened and complemented by the accent. Hoo boy. I released my grip on his hand and tilted my head, putting my back up against the plan I’d been mapping out all day while the Mizzes fluttered around me with mascara wands and curling irons. There was a brief moment of weakness, when I thought about actually buying into the Mizzes’ theory on Flying, but I took a deep breath and stiffened my resolve. Soft brown eyes be damned. Sweet British accent, get thee gone. If I’d learned anything during my time with the Mizzes, it was that following their advice was a bad idea.