I sit up and pull the towel around me. “Oh, great. I’ve been expecting you.”
Without the light in my eyes, the delivery guy’s face becomes clearer. He’s an older black man I’ve seen around many times.
“I need you to sign for these.” He holds out a clipboard and leans the long cardboard box against the lounge chair.
I take the board and sign. “Hey, can I ask you a favor?”
He narrows his eyes. “You can ask.”
“Would you mind helping me mount those flags? My dad is really anxious to get them flying. I’ll pay you.”
He stares at me, then glances back at the house, and back at me. He scratches his salt-and-pepper hair thoughtfully. “When you ask if I’ll help you, does that really mean you’re going to help?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’ll hand you the tools and get you a glass of water.”
He frowns.
“I mean beer. And money.”
“All right.” He heaves a sigh. “Let’s go.”
We walk up to the deck, and I leave him unwrapping the box to search for cash and a beer. The beer is easy, but when I count my cash, I’ve only got eighty-seven fifty-two. And one of the pennies is Canadian, so he might not accept that.
“Here’s your beer,” I say, strolling out on the deck. “Bad news on the money front. I’ve only got eighty-seven dollars and fifty-one cents. Fifty-two if you count the Canadian penny.”
“Just give me the beer, and we’ll call it even.”
“I don’t mind paying you.”
“I know.” He pulls out the first flag and unfurls it. It’s the Massachusetts state flag.
“My dad’s family is from Boston,” I say.
He nods and starts on the next one. “Like I said, you keep your money. You go buy yourself one of them pretty dresses like you used to wear when you were a little girl.” He gives the ugly black cover-up I’ve pulled on a disapproving look.
“You knew me back then?”
He shrugs. “’Bout as much as you knew me, but I seen you around. Always wearing that princess outfit.” He chuckles. “You were a handful.”
The next flag unfurls, and it’s white with a huge cocktail glass on it. We both frown at it. He looks up at me.
“Hey, my dad ordered these. I’m just accepting delivery.”
“Whatever you say.” He starts on the next flag.
“So when did you see me in my princess dress?”
“Oh, often enough. I remember you when you was—oh, let’s see—probably four years old. Your ma was dragging you along the sidewalk downtown and you were sucking your thumb and frowning at her, stumbling over a pile of pink skirts, a lopsided crown on your head. Pretty soon your ma looks down at you and sees that thumb in your mouth.”
“Uh-oh,” I say. I don’t remember the time he’s talking about, but I remember the Thumb Wars.
“Uh-oh is right. Your ma says, ‘Get that thumb out of your mouth. Little girls don’t suck their thumbs.’ You looked up at her with those big green eyes and you says, ‘I’m not a little girl. I’m a princess, and princesses do what they want.’”
I wince. “It’s a miracle I’m still alive.”
“It’s a miracle you turned out to be a decent person. Least it looks that way so far.”
He unfurls the third flag, and it’s got a lighthouse with the words The Holloways around it.
“I’m Jebidiah, by the way. But you can call me Jeb.”
“Okay, Jeb, what do you need to get these things flying?”
He rattles off a list of items, and ten minutes later I hand him a hammer, a screwdriver, and measuring tape, then watch him go to work. After a while he says, “So, now I’ve got my own kids. All three in college, but the littlest girl always reminded me of you. She used to dress up like a princess, too.”
I sip my Diet Coke and nod, thinking about the little girl at the first house we made over for the show. “I bet she was adorable.”
He leans over to shove a flagpole into the bracket he’s attached. “She was. But she was always comparing herself to the other girls, and what she had was never good enough. So one day when she was about twelve, I sat her down, and know what I told her? I said Sheila, I’ve lived here a long time, seen a lot of princesses, heard about even more from my daddy and granddaddy. Those girls, they look happy on the outside, but inside they’s dead. I told her that being rich or famous ain’t gonna make you happy if you aren’t happy with who you are in here first.” He taps his chest.
It’s as if someone’s just turned on the light in my brain. You have to be happy with who you are inside. You have to stop trying to make yourself perfect, and just be you.
“Me, I prefer a simple life,” Jeb says. “I may not have much, but I’m happy. And I’m healthy.” He slips another flag in its mount. “I can still do an honest day’s work.” He steps back and gestures to the three new flags.
“Looking good,” I say. “Where’s the fourth one?”
He frowns and checks the box. “This is it.”
“Let me see the invoice.”
He hands it over and I scan it. “The last one is backordered. Damn. I hope it gets here before my dad comes up. He’s got a thing about these flags.”
Jeb drains the beer and hands it to me. “Looks like I’ll be seeing you again. Thank you for the beer and the conversation. You have a good afternoon.”
“I will. And Jeb, thanks for telling me about your daughter.”
Jeb waves and heads back to his truck, and I sit sown on the deck. Just who do I want to be? And who am I inside?
That’s easy. A sister, a daughter, a designer.
With a nod, I go inside to clean up. After a shower and a nap, I’m ready for business. I find an old passbook Rory and I used to write each other notes in school, turn to an empty page, and start scribbling ideas for my new business.
That doesn’t take long, since I don’t have many ideas, so I sketch an office layout and decorate it on paper. Then I decide to check out what I need to start my own business, and by the time I log off the Internet and shut my laptop, it’s almost nine at night.
I’ve filled the passbook and a few napkins with all my notes, but I don’t feel like I’ve learned anything. I don’t even know where to start. I frown. Maybe I should go to the library tomorrow and see if the librarian can help.
I stand and stretch, then hop off my parents’ bed and walk onto the balcony. The lake is quiet and dark, and there’s a smattering of stars above. Just for fun, I twirl around.
Then I glance at my cell phone. It’s lying on the night-stand, right where I left it, right where it’s been the last two hundred times I looked at it. I am such a chicken. I’m such a chicken I’m growing feathers.
All night I’ve been thinking about calling Dave, but I’m too much of a coward. That doesn’t stop me from thinking about him, especially now that I’m putting his business idea into practice.
Screw it. Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab the cell and walk back onto the balcony. Curling up in the lounge chair, I scroll through the numbers until I find Dave’s. I stare at it.
In my head I hear, Bock-bock-bock-bock-bock! Stupid chicken!
I hit Call and try to remember to breathe.
“Yeah?” It’s Dave, and he sounds sort of distracted.
Bock-bock.
“Dave? Hi, it’s Allison.”
No response. Complete silence. Except for the chicken: Bock-bock-bock-bock-bock.
“Um, don’t hang up on me, okay?”
“Okay.”
That’s two words out of him, and one of them was an agreement not to hang up, so that’s good, right? Bock-bock!
“So, I’m at my parents’ lake house, and I was thinking about you.”
No response. Bad sign. I stare at the dark water of the lake. “I was thinking about what you said about me starting my own business.”
“Yeah.”
I roll my eyes. He’s not making this easy. “I’m going to do it. I’ve been working on it pretty much all day, and it’s not just going to be a regular firm. We’ll do community service projects, too.”
“Uh-huh. Why are you telling me?”
I shrug, hugging my shoulders tightly as the breeze comes in over the water. B-b-b-bock! “I needed a reason to call.” As soon as the words are out, I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for him to cut my head off. Now’s his chance to lay me on the chopping block, pluck me, and fry me in cutting remarks. He can take revenge for all the times I hurt him.
“You don’t need a reason,” he says after three heartbeats. “You can always call.”
I bite my lip. “Thanks. Dave, I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t mean for you to overhear. I wasn’t even thinking when I said it. I didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, you did.”
I don’t argue. The evidence is sort of against me.
“You don’t think I’m good enough for you,” he continues when I don’t protest, “and no matter how often you tell yourself otherwise, you can’t get past it.”
“No,” I say forcefully. “I’ve just got this idea of who I should be with, but I don’t care about that anymore. It’s a fantasy. You’re not.”
“You say that now, but we’ve been through this before. Let’s not—”
“No. Don’t tell me it’s over. I like you, Dave. Really. Like maybe I might even—” Love you, I think, but I still can’t say it. My throat closes up, and I have to take a shaky breath before I can go on. “If it’s over, then make it be because I’m not your type or something, not because I fucked up. Not when I’m trying to make up for that.”
There’s a long silence. I mean, long. I’m afraid Dave might have put the phone down and walked away, it’s so long. The chicken threatens to start bocking again, but I push it down. I’m trembling all over because the words, though unsaid, hang in the air between us. I could really fall in love with him. But what he said is true, too, and I could screw this up all over again.
Finally Dave takes in a breath. “Okay.”
Okay? What does that mean? “Okay, what?”
“Okay, you’re still my type.”
The trembling eases a bit, and I’m able to breathe. “Rory and Hunter are coming for the Fourth. Will you come, too?”
“I’ll think about it. Look, I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”
And that’s the end of that. I lean back in the chair and stare at the lights in the houses on the other side of the lake. I don’t feel worse, but I don’t exactly feel better, either.
By the Friday before the big weekend, I’ve read every library book I could get on starting your own business, made a rough business plan, filled out some loan applications online, and asked my dad to fax me a list of available properties.
I’ve also had my dad contact Baxter about a possible lawsuit against Nicolo. Why should I be the only one who suffers because we fraternized? It takes two to fraternize. Not to mention, after some of the comments the photographer made on TV, I might have a good case against Nicolo for defamation.
Baxter’s working on it.
I spent the morning on the phone with Josh, trying to convince him to give up his lucrative, safe job at Interiors by M to come be my partner in my shaky new venture. I don’t mention that 50 percent of small businesses fail in the first year, and 95 percent fail in the first five. Josh can do the research himself if he wants those statistics.
They don’t matter because we’re not going to fail.
I can’t fail. I’ve never worked so hard in my life. My hair hasn’t been washed in two days, my nails aren’t painted, and I haven’t touched my makeup bag. I glance down at my clothes. I think I wore these yesterday.
After lunch I take the books I have on marketing onto the deck and start reading. I’m trying to understand market segmentation when I hear someone come up behind me. The last flag is supposed to be delivered today, so I turn, expecting Jeb.
“Hey, Jeb. Want a—” My voice dies as Dave climbs the steps to the deck.
He’s wearing black jeans, a tight black T-shirt, and dark sunglasses. His hair is tousled and almost gold in the sunlight.
“Hi.” He leans a box on the rail.
I stare, openmouthed. “Hi.”
“Am I still invited for the weekend? You don’t look like you’re expecting me.”
I brush my hair out of my face and straighten my tank top. “Um, everyone is coming tomorrow. Work.”
“So I have you all to myself.” He glances around, not looking in the least like he’s going to explain why he’s not at work. “Who’s Jeb?”
“The delivery guy.”
“Oh, yeah. Here’s your delivery then. I signed for it.” If he thinks it at all strange that I haven’t moved or strung more than five words together, he doesn’t act like it.
“Thanks. It’s a flag for my dad.”
Dave glances at the flags behind him. “He doesn’t have enough?”
I swallow and force myself to stand, wishing I’d worn something more attractive than this paint-stained tank top and gym shorts. “He’s got this thing about one-upping the Boyds.” I point across the water, then step closer so I can see the Boyds’ house, too. “They’ve got six flags, so my dad’s got to have seven. It’s like flag envy or something.” I stare at the Boyds’ flags, flapping in the breeze, and shake my head.
When I look over at Dave, he’s looking at me. He reaches out and I tense. “Relax,” he says, taking an errant curl between his fingers. “I’m not going to bite.” He looks down at my hair and then at my face and then at my clothes. “You look”—he pauses to consider—“natural.”
We’re standing very close, and I can smell that soap and Frank Sinatra scent of his. I take a shaky breath.
“I’ve been redecorating and working on my business plan. I would have cleaned up—”
He drops the curl. “Why? I like you better this way.”
“Guys always say that,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Then you marry the girl and complain that she let herself go. Fudging typical.”
He’s grinning. “Now this is the Red I know. When I first walked up, I thought you were going to have a seizure.”
I frown at being so transparent. “I was just surprised to see you. When I didn’t hear from you, I thought—”
“You weren’t my type?”
I nod and step back, nervous again at the way he’s read my mind. “Something like that.”
Dave catches my wrist before I can step out of reach. Our eyes meet, and he gives me a long, assessing look. He doesn’t tug at me or grip my arm. He just holds me still and very slowly brings me to him.
When I’m pressed against his chest, my emotions a mixture of fear and desire, he murmurs, “You’re still my type, Red. You’ll always be my type.” He brings my captured wrist to his lips and kisses my palm. I shiver, and he smiles. “Maybe I shouldn’t say always. I guess if you run me over or something, then all bets are off, but right now you’re very much to my taste.”
“Toad,” I mutter, pulling away, but he hauls me back and slides his arms around me.
My heart pounds with excitement, and I can’t catch my breath. This is what I wanted. This is what I’ve missed. I can’t resist wrapping my arms around his neck and melting against him. I like the way being held by him feels—a contrast between the pleasure of connecting with his body and the pain of having all my senses on edge.
“So if I’m your type,” I say, “does that mean you forgive me?”
“Don’t push it, Red.” But he leans down and brushes my lips with his. “I missed you,” he confesses. “And I thought about you, what you told me that night at my house. But I wanted you to call me. I’ve always chased you, and you make it so hard sometimes. I wanted you to show me you were willing to work at this, too. Then you called.”
“So all I had to do was call?”
“Not so fast. You’re still on probation.” He kisses me again, then pulls back and looks over my head at the house and the grounds. Swinging me around, he then surveys the lake. “Not too shabby.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“I don’t know. You still need one more flag.”
He releases me and we—okay, he—hangs the last flag. It’s green and white and says, “19 TH HOLE.”
Once we get the flag up and I take a digital photo to e-mail to Dad, I’m hoping Dave will pull me into his arms again.
He doesn’t. Instead, he takes a seat at the table on the deck and pulls a file folder out of a briefcase I didn’t notice before.
“What’s this?” I say, taking the folder and sitting next to him.
“Few things I pulled together for you.”
I open the file and flip through the pages. “This looks like a marketing plan.” I smile. “I was just working on that.”
He lifts the marketing books on the table in front of us. “How’s it going?”
“Um, not too great.” I study a chart Dave’s included in the folder. He reaches over and turns it right-side-up. “Oh, thanks. I read to the part on market segregation and—”
“Segmentation.”
I glance up. “Yeah, whatever, and then got confused and had to go back. Oh, my God!” I pull a paper out. “You did one of the zip code thingys for me. I was reading about that PRIZM thing right before you got here.”
Dave lifts the passbook. “Are these your notes?”
“Some of them. There’s more on those napkins.”
“Who’s Cody Anderson?”
“Huh?” I peer over his shoulder. “Oh, those aren’t my business notes. That’s an old passbook Rory and I used to write in. My notes are in the back.” I try to flip the pages, but he seems more interested in the junior high exchanges.
“You really had a thing for this Andrew Ridgeley, huh?”
“Rory called dibs on George Michael.”
Dave frowns at me, uncomprehending.
“Wham! You know, ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’?”
He groans and flips to the business scribblings. A moment later he says, “Red, I think you better take a look at some of those financial books again.”
“Why?”
He points to a page. “Because DG does not stand for Dolce & Gabbana. It’s the stock market abbreviation for Dollar General Corporation.”
I frown and scan my notes. “Oh, that makes more sense. I’m kind of new to the stock market thing. But no worries. Rory said she’d help with that part. I need you to help me come up with a great marketing and advertising plan. I want to make everyone in Chicago sit up and take notice.”
At midnight, I tell Dave that I refuse to listen to one more thing about SBAs, SBICs, CDCs, or LowDocs. And if he even thinks about mentioning EWCP, I’m going to hit him.
I trudge upstairs alone, shower, brush my teeth, and fall naked into my parents’ bed. Dave’s all the way downstairs in the guest bedroom, not that we discussed the sleeping arrangements. He put his duffel bag in there, and I didn’t ask.
When Rory and Hunter get here, they can have Gray’s room. Unless Josh and Carlos come. In that case, I’ll take my room, give Rory and Hunter the master bedroom, and Josh and Carlos can take Gray’s room.
My head is pounding and my eyes are burning, but I can’t fall asleep. It’s freaking me out that Dave is here.
And, as usual, I don’t know where we stand. I mean, he said he forgave me. But he’s down there, so maybe he meant it when he said I was still on probation. Or maybe I place too much importance on sex. He can forgive me, even if we’re not having sex. Right?
I snort and flip over. That is so not how guys work.
I stand. In my rush to get here, I neglected to pack any pajamas, so I pull on my mom’s white silk robe and step onto the balcony. Dave and I moved inside after the sunset, so I haven’t been outside all evening. It’s surprisingly mild for July. I lean my elbows on the rail, and as the breeze ruffles my hair, I close my eyes.
The house feels different with Dave in it. When Nicolo was here, I felt young again, like I’d stepped back into my princess dream. But were those really my dreams, or just fantasies I’ve been too stupid to let go of?
Dave isn’t my fantasy, but when I’m with him my heart races and my breath catches, and he makes me feel alive. I’m all grown up when I’m with him. I can’t play princess, and I don’t always get my way, and it’s actually kind of nice.
Jeb’s right. Being a princess ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.
I open my eyes and stare out at the lake, like I have a thousand times on a thousand nights like this one. Still no bad-boy pirate prince coming to rescue me. A flash of movement catches my eye, and I focus on the edge of the dock. Dave’s standing there, between the wooden planks and the grass, looking up at me. A moment later, he’s gone.
When he steps onto the balcony, I don’t move. I let him wrap his arms around me and rest his chin on the top of my head. We stare at the dark water and the stars, breathing together.
“When I was little, I used to come up here and keep watch.”
“What were you looking for?” His voice is a deep rumble vibrating through me.
“A pirate ship.”
He chuckles. “Do pirates frequent Wisconsin lakes?”
“This one did. He wasn’t just a pirate, either. He was a pirate prince.” I feel Dave stiffen slightly, and I turn to face him. “I was thinking about that fantasy tonight. Then I looked out and saw you.” I stop, not sure I really want to say this.
“Then you saw me,” Dave prompts.
“I saw you, and I thought”—I swallow, lower my voice—“maybe all this time I was just waiting for you. Maybe I never really wanted a prince after all.”
He leans down and kisses me, his lips brushing softly against mine. The tingle of pleasure flows all the way to my toes. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine. “I’ll help you with the marketing plan, I’ll hang up your crazy flags, I’ll even play the pirate. But I draw the line at wearing an eye patch.”
I nod. “A guy’s got to have limits.”
“Exactly.”
“And I don’t really care about the eye patch.” I kiss him lightly. “As long as you have a sword.”