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Daisy
As I walk backto the house and see Tom in the drive, I think, Well, that was stupid.
I believe this will be my refrain for the next few hours. Possibly days. I can only hope it falls into the same category as standing under a tree during a lightning storm—you realize it’s not the wisest idea, but ultimately, the chance of an actual lightning strike is rare, and it does provide temporary shelter from the storm. That tree is Tom. Temporary shelter that I’m far too eager to embrace. Perhaps not so much a tree in a storm as a blazing fire on a bitter cold night, luring me with the promise of warmth and light. A dangerous fire that I need to keep my distance from. Which works so much better when the fire stays in its hearth... and doesn’t hop in its pickup to come looking for me.
It’s a very fine pickup, too. Yes, I realize how much I betray my roots in saying that, and I don’t care. I check out his restored 1978 Li’l Red Express with lust in my heart. In other words, the same way Celeste is checking out the Dodge’s owner.
Her obvious appreciation catches me off guard. I have to squint and take a better look at Tom, which is laughable, really, because he’s obviously good-looking. But I knew him as a chubby boy and then as a gawky preadolescent. By the time I reached “that age,” Mom had taken me up North. Admittedly, there’d been a kiss or two—okay, four—during our last summer together, but we’d been ten, and it’d been a case of curiosity and availability, nothing more.
I can be forgiven, then, if I have to clear my mind and consider whether Tom is an attractive man. Yes, he is. Celeste notices, too, which surprises me. She’s dating a guy who is more conventionally handsome, and Tom really doesn’t seem like her type. Maybe it’s a fantasy for Celeste—that old chestnut of the uptight businesswoman getting down and dirty with the local grease jockey.
As for my stupid move, it’s sitting at Tom’s feet. A wooden box, presumably holding the tools I asked to rent. Yesterday, I’d dodged a bullet meeting Tom and not being recognized. So clearly, my next step should be to flee his garage and never return. What? No, that’s silly. Let’s ask to rent his tools. It’s not as if he’s a nice guy who’ll bring them over first thing in the morning.
If there’s a saving grace here, it’s that he’s too distracted to notice me while Celeste is batting her lashes at him.
Guess I’m not the only one who wants to rent his tool.
I chuckle under my breath, and I’m still too far away for them to hear, but Tom turns, as if he caught the sound.
His face lights up in a grin. “Speak of the devil.” He notices the orange and nods at it. “Don’t tell me you swiped that from the Hanson place. You know what’ll happen if Old Mr. Hanson catches you?”
“He’ll rise from his grave and demand payment?” I say.
He laughs, and I toss him another orange. He catches it easily, and that grin flashes broader still, a glitter in his eyes that sparks memories of the two of us sneaking into gardens, pillaging summer huckleberries.
Be careful.
Be so careful.
I explain that the neighbor told me about the abandoned trees. Celeste frowns. Doubting my story? It’s true. I don’t quite catch what Tom says, but then he’s heading toward the house, box in hand, as if he’s going to fix the leak himself.
“I can do it,” I say.
“Not disputing that. But I’m here, and Glory’s running the shop, so put me to work.”
He waves for me to go on.
Dangerous ground.
Such dangerous ground.
But how do I argue without it seeming suspicious? Without him wondering why I’d refuse free help? In the end, I proceed into the house, and he follows a moment later, having paused to speak to Celeste.
He starts to close the door behind himself, mouth opening to speak to me, but then Celeste’s there, and he says, “Sorry, didn’t mean to shut your door in your face. I thought you were going out.”
She says something. Again, I don’t catch it, too focused on how to escape this predicament.
You can’t.
And you shouldn’t. You could use an ally here. You trust Tom.
That was a very long time ago. I’m not foolish enough to think that means I can trust him now.
What if I do or say something that sparks a memory? Even tossing that orange to him had been a risk.
Really? Because you’re the only one who’s ever thrown fruit his way? It’s been twenty years. Two-thirds of your lives. He very clearly does not recognize you.
True. I’m not even sure that it would be different if I showed up looking like myself. It'd be like when an old classmate Friends me on Facebook, and I peer at their picture, struggling to see something I recognize, to form an image of the person they were, already faded in my mind.
