irony.”
“What have you seen and done?” she whispered, seeing his defenses down, moving in. Tell me.
But he got up and held out his hand to her, pulled her to her feet. She hoped any sweat had dried, but if there was any, he didn’t notice or didn’t care.
He stood staring at her for a long time, debating something.
She held her breath, knowing somehow he needed this.
And yet not at all surprised when he was able to deny his own need.
Instead, he kidded, “What have I seen and done? Ice-cream flavors you wouldn’t believe.”
“Such as?”
“On the tame side, Philippine mango. On the wild side, ox tongue in Japan.”
“Ox-tongue ice cream?” she said skeptically.
“Or oyster, garlic, or whale. Seriously.”
“Did you try those?”
“Of course. Who could resist trying them?”
At the risk of confirming she was boring, she stated, “Me!”
“You only live once. Rose petal is a favorite in the Middle East. You might like that.”
“You’ve eaten rose-petal ice cream?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
And the moment when he had almost told her something, revealed a hidden part of himself was gone, but this was something, too, to have him relaxed at her side, remembering exotic flavors of ice cream, and unless she was mistaken, enjoying this little slice of small-town life.
“Surprise me,” he told her. “Order something other than vanilla.”
And then Sophie was duty-bound to order vanilla, since he had suggested something else!
“Not unless they have rose petal,” she decided. “Or if they have ox tongue I might try that.”
And he laughed, because they both knew she never would, not even if she was starving to death and ox-tongue ice cream was the only food left on the face of the earth.
After they had gotten their ice cream in chocolate-dipped waffle cones, they left their bikes lying on the grassy boulevard, unlocked, and strolled down Main Street. The evening was not cooling, and even as light leached from the sky it was so hot that the ice cream was melting faster than they could eat it.
There was something about this experience: walking down Main Street with him, licking ice cream while the sun went down on a day that had been scorching hot, that was both simple and profound. She didn’t know what it said about her life that this felt like one of the best moments ever.
And it didn’t hurt that other women were looking at her with unabashed envy, either! Or that he seemed oblivious to the fuss he caused, to the sidelong looks, to the inviting smiles, as if being with her was all that mattered.
Was he really that good an actor? No, he’d always had that gift. No matter who he had been with, it had always felt as if, when he focused on her, she was all that mattered to him.
He stopped in front of an art gallery, closed for the day.
“Like any of them?” he asked her of the paintings in the window. He crunched down the last of his cone, and licked some stray ice cream off the inside of his wrist.
It was so sexy she nearly fainted.
She studied the paintings with more intensity. “I like that one,” she decided, finally. It was safe to glance at him. No more ice-cream licking. “The one with the old red boat tied at the end of the dock.”
“What do you like about it?”
It took my mind off what you could do with that tongue if you set your mind to it. And she bet he had set his mind to it. Lots.
“The promise,” she stammered. “Long summer days that just unfold without a plan.”
Moments caught in time, she thought, moments like this one that somehow became profound without even trying.
“Somehow I have trouble imaging you without a plan,” he said.
“I’m not uptight!” Though a woman whose mind went in twisted directions over a lick of ice cream was probably, at the very least, repressed.
“Of course you aren’t,” he said soothingly, smiling at her in an annoying way, as if he was going to pat her on the head. Then he studied the painting.
“It’s been a long time since I spent a day like that,” he said, and something slipped by his guard. Wistfulness?
“You were never the type of guy who did things like that,” she reminded him. “A day fishing? Too quiet for you.”
“I know, I was the guy roaring down Main Street on my secondhand motorcycle with no muffler. Leaping from the cliff above Blue Rock, that outcrop that we called the Widow Maker. Jumping my bicycle over dirt-pile ramps at high speeds.”
“Which you have just proven you still are!”
He smiled, but the wistfulness was there. “After I wrecked my third bicycle my dad wouldn’t buy me another one. Everything seemed simple back then,” he said. With a certain longing?
Could she help him back to that? And also prove she could be spontaneous, not uptight? A girl who could surrender her plan?
“Want to try it?” she asked. “I could find a boat. Your dad has fishing rods. We could dig some worms.”
The new Sophie was appalled, of course, and her grandmother would be, too. What kind of romance plan was that? Digging worms? But the truth was she was suddenly way more anxious to see him enjoy himself, truly and deeply, than she was to manipulate his impressions of her.
Except for the impression that she had to have a plan.
“It’s not on the courtship list,” he teased her.
“I can adjust the list.”
He shrugged, amused. “You can?” he asked, with faked incredulousness. “It’s your courtship, Sophie. If you want to dig worms and go fishing, I’ll go along.”
Good. He’d be so much more amenable if he thought this was about her and not him.
“We can go tomorrow after work,” she decided. “I’ll track down a boat. Can you look after the worms?”
“Sorry, I’m not depriving you of the pure romance of digging worms with me.”
And then he was laughing at the look on her face, and that laughter was worth any price. Even digging worms!
Sophie
