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Now what I'd really like is a nap, but when I emerge from the bathroom, I hear voices in the hall below my room. Who is my dad talking to? I towel off quickly and slip on a flowered dress, the kind that gathers under my boobs and flows over my hips. A nice, simple way of getting dressed in a hurry. My skin is still a little damp and my panties don't seem to want to slide back up, but it is nice to have them all neatly arranged in the dresser drawer. Sometimes at school I felt like I was living out of laundry baskets.
I braid my hair quickly over my shoulder and descend the stairs, listening to the voices in the front room.
“Oh, here she is,” I hear my dad say as I come into view. “Vanessa? Come on in here, hon.”
An older couple turns toward me as I walk into the parlor. I recognize them immediately as the people who were sitting out on their front porch when I pulled in. The woman is about seventy, I guess, with curly, wispy silver hair that frames her face like candy floss. She gives me a big smile and sticks out her hand.
“I'm Margie,” she announces. I shake her hand, surprised at how firm and supple her skin is.
“I'm Ben,” her husband adds, offering me his hand as well.
He's tall, slightly stooped. I imagine he was a baseball player fifty or sixty years ago, with broad shoulders and a lanky build. Now he looks like someone who gardens for fun. Probably knows everything about native plants or something like that. His blue eyes sparkle when he smiles, and I decide I like them both immediately.
“We just wanted to welcome you to our little neighborhood,” Margie continues. “Your dad tells me you're in college?”
“Done now,” I say. “For the summer,” I add when I see my dad glance at me.
“What's your major?” Ben asks.
“Um, well… didn't really pick one. Not yet.”
Ben raises his eyebrows, but Margie immediately intervenes by taking my elbow and angling me toward the doorway. I realize she's guiding me out of the room and am immediately grateful for the way she's
taken charge.
“Plenty of time to pick a major!” she declares. “Everything can be done in its own time. For instance, in this time… we need to think about dinner. Right, Ben?”
“Right!” I hear Ben agree as he and my dad follow Margie and me to the kitchen.
My mom is already arranging vegetables on a giant tray, a pile of flatbread dough sitting under a clean kitchen towel on the counter next to her. She's a wonderful cook, always making eclectic things with a creative but delicate touch. She's picked up recipes here and there, and always seemed to be asking whatever neighbor we had for their family secrets. As a result, her style could be called a Cajun, German, southwestern, comfort food hybrid. She will make everything from curry to biscuits, all in the same meal. Somehow, it always works out.
“That smells delicious!” Margie exclaims.
“Anita is wonderful cook,” my dad beams, sidling up to her and planting a kiss on her cheek. She smiles, crinkling deep wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and then raises her eyebrows at the fridge. My dad automatically goes over and retrieves two packages of celery, without even exchanging a word.
The older women immediately start working together, with Margie finishing tasks my mother had started, and my mother starting new tasks. It seems completely effortless, the way they work together.
When Margie takes over the cutting board, my mom steps to the side and begins rolling small bowls of the dough from under the towel. I know that's going to be flatbread and I see the cast-iron skillet heating up on the flame behind her. Her homemade flatbread is one the most beautiful things in the whole world. My mouth waters just thinking about it.
A shadow darkens the sliding glass doors to my left and I glance over, startled to see two huge figures blocking the light. My heart catches in my throat as the door opens and the hulking masses come into the back room.
“Oh, hey, boys,” Ben says. “You’re just in time.”
The figures step forward, entering a beam of light that comes down through the skylight in the kitchen. As the shadows fall away from their faces I’m startled to see that they’re exactly the same: twins.
Everything seems to stand still. I don't know if I'm startled they’re here, or startled by their size, or startled by their physical similarities. But for a moment, I’m frozen. I can't do anything. I just stare at their shiny, mahogany hair. The square jaws, the thick necks. The broad shoulders barely stuffed into tight, thick T-shirts.
“Oh, hello,” says the one on the left. “I'm Tim Braden.”
I swallow, not sure I can make a sound.
The one on the right raises his hands, holding out two gallon jugs filled with a honey colored liquid. Something about the way his thick wrists flex as he holds up the weight snaps something like a rubber band in my belly. I feel my body go taut with electric tension.
“I'm Tom Braden,” he adds stiffly. “We brought some wine. Wanted to say hello.”
“Fantastic, guys, fantastic,” my dad smiles, reaching out for one of the jugs. He doesn't even seem to notice the electrical current zinging back and forth between me and these massive, powerful men. They look like lumberjacks. Sexy, sexy lumberjacks.
“I think we’re about done here,” Margie announces as my mom plucks another steaming flatbread off the griddle and adds it to a pile that has somehow gotten at least six inches high. “Can we head out to the patio to eat? Boys? Grab a platter.”
