Monday afternoon I’m at the Wilder barn, trying to wrangle ideas about how to diversify Brody’s boat-based offerings.
It’s not easy. My mind keeps going back to last night.
I was up late. In the best possible way. It’s all Gabe’s fault, and I have nothing but warm feelings on the subject. And stubble burn on my chin.
That man can kiss. And unlike many men I’ve been with, he likes doing it. A lot. I haven’t made out that much with anyone in years.
Which means I’m thinking about it. Non-stop. Wondering if tonight, maybe, he’d be up for another round.
That’s when Amanda appears at my shoulder. Breathless. Frantic.
“Lucy,” she says. “I know you said no to modeling in the trashion show, but my model is in the hospital with a broken leg and I don’t know who else to ask.”
I start to gather excuses and denials.
And then, for reasons I will never totally understand, I say, “Sure.”
I don’t even really feel like I’m faking it this time.
“Oh, man, Lucy, I love you so much. You are a total lifesaver. It’s at six. Can you meet me backstage at five to make sure the dress fits and I don’t need to do any last-minute alterations?”
“Absolutely.”
Which is how I find myself, less than two hours later, in a very small, curtained backstage area, surrounded by other women in equally crazy getups. I’m being very gently oiled with cooking oil so the cheese-bag dress will slide over my skin and not catch.
I try not to think about how much the operation reminds me of condoms and lube.
“Blow out your breath,” Amanda says. She’s already made a few tucks and other alterations, while I gaped in wonder at how fast she could sew.
I do as asked, and she fastens several hooks at my back. Then we both examine me in the mirror.
The dress is remarkably pretty for something with the Tillamook cheese logo all over it. If it were made of blue fabric, I’d want one. It’s made of cheese bags stitched together, like a quilt. It nips in at the waist and fits like a (plastic) glove over my hips and butt. And Amanda’s right about my boob situation. The dress has straps, but the bodice is generous. I have to admit, I’ve worn designer dresses that didn’t flatter my breasts as much as this one does.
“You are a woman of many talents,” I tell her.
“And you look hot in my dress,” she says. “Gabe is going to lose his ever-loving mind.”
Startled, I turn to look at her.
“Oh, hon,” she says. “I knew the second he showed up at drinks the other night. That man doesn’t come anywhere near an open-ended social gathering without good reason. And then when he told me he was going to be at the trashion show tonight? I was like, either he’s the fourth horseman of the apocalypse, or he’s caught feelings.”
“It’s just—we’re just—” I try not to think too hard about the idea of Gabe Wilder catching feelings for me, because I might like the idea way too much. “I’m going back to New York in a week and a half. It’s just a fling.”
Her eyes flicker to mine, then away, and I see the small sigh. “I know,” she says. “But you can’t blame me for getting my hopes up. At least that someone would talk him into buying a coffee table.”
I think of the bare living room and my sense that there was a story behind it.
“Yeah, so, what’s up with the sold-all-his-possessions look?”
She sighs. “He did, literally. Or gave it away, mostly. After Cecilia left.”
“Cecilia?”
“His ex-girlfriend.”
She gives me a look, like she’s appraising me. Deciding if I need to know this story, if I can be trusted to know it. Then she pulls me away from the fray, to a corner of the backstage area, and tells me.
“She was here taking care of her aunt, who was dying. It was always going to be temporary. She was going to stay to sell the house and then she was going back to Chicago. Gabe knew it. We all knew it. And it was like watching a slow motion train wreck, him falling for her anyway.”
She watches me for a moment, that appraising look again. “I think you probably know by now that Gabe isn’t someone who falls easily or gets over it quickly.”
I nod.
“She kept telling him it was temporary. He kept doing everything in his power to convince her to stay. He let her decorate the house. Even then, she kept saying, As long as you know this isn’t because I’ve changed my mind about staying. She told him every way she knew how that she couldn’t stay. In the end, she left, like she’d said she would. She did ask him to go with her. But he wouldn’t. Because of Wilder. Because of us.
“After she left, he tore out everything she’d done. He left the furniture, but he got rid of the rugs and the pillows, the posters and art and stuff. Sold it. Actually, mostly, gave it away.”
My heart hurts, thinking of Gabe in that house, systematically tearing Cecilia out of it. Like Amanda said, it’s almost impossible to imagine Gabe, Mr. Hyper Competent, Hyper In-Charge, letting himself fall like that.
For a moment, I’m jealous of Cecilia, and furious with her for not understanding what she had.
Amanda looks down at her watch. “Oh, man, time to line up.”
I insert myself between someone whose mermaid dress is made of white plastic mailing envelopes and someone wearing a loose jumper made of bubble wrap and fashion magazines. The dresses are amazing. I’m in awe of the inventiveness and talent that goes into them.
I try not to think about the fact that in a minute, I’m going to have to walk down a makeshift runway in front of most of the town of Rush Creek, old and new. Amanda says the trashion show draws more audience than almost any other spring festival event.
“Did you make yours?” I ask the woman in the mermaid dress.
She nods. “This is my third year.”
“Carina’s dress last year was made of pages torn out of books discarded by the library,” Amanda says from behind me. “It won first prize.”
“There’s a photo on the website if you want to see it,” Carina says. And then it’s her turn, and she disappears between two curtains. I can hear the applause. My heart is pounding.
“And, go,” Amanda says, and I’m promenading down the middle of the aisle between two sets of chairs, showing off her creation.
There’s lots of applause, and some hoots and whistles. I take my turn across the stage and then it’s over.
“You look stunning,” a familiar male voice says, rumbling with amusement.
“Are you mocking the cheese bags?” I murmur, as he dips his head to brush his lips against my ear, my neck, and then a small, sensitive bit of bare shoulder.
“I might be,” he says. “Or I might be admiring the way you wear them.” His eyes move slowly, appraisingly, over the exposed tops of my breasts. My breathing speeds up, just from that.
“Do you want me to show you around the festival?”
“Be still my beating heart,” Amanda says, appearing from nowhere and giving her brother a curious look. “Gabe Wilder, enjoying the spring festival. Will wonders never cease?”
“I go to the spring festival,” he protests.
“What, when you were twelve? C’mon, Luce, let’s get you out of that thing and I’ll turn you over to Gabe for the evening.”