Love, Life And Linguine Part 14

Peeling off his T-s.h.i.+rt, Joe hands it to me like I'm a towel girl in his corner of the boxing ring. His long, muscled torso looks capable of anything. Joe strides through the shallow water until he is waist high in the ocean. Then he swims. Long, smooth strides take him out, then farther out, farther, then too far for my comfort. I look around for a lifeguard, but they have already called it a day. Squinting at the horizon, I see that Joe has stopped swimming. Facing east, his back to the sh.o.r.e, Joe raise his arms above the water, fists clenched. What the heck is he doing?

His head tilts back and it looks like he is saying something, but I can't hear him over the roar of the ocean. He punches the air with one fist, and I realize that he is shouting something. Something no one else can hear. Something between Joe and the ocean.

Surrounded by earth for most of his days, maybe Joe finds G.o.d in the ocean. Maybe he's mad at G.o.d. Maybe G.o.d has some explaining to do. On the other hand, Joe could be thanking G.o.d for his gifts. What is Joe saying? I won't ask. It's between them.

When Joe steps out of the ocean, I hand him a beach towel. "Feel better?" I ask.

"Much," he says, smiling. He kisses me, leaving salt on my mouth.

Jersey Girl We walk up the dune, down the dune, and back onto Bay Avenue. As we cross the street, Joe takes my hand. That makes me smile.

We walk from the ocean to the bay, which is only a few blocks. West Avenue opens into a cul de sac that hosts a small marina and several restaurants whose verandas are open and waiting for island diners. But it's that in-between hour, when people are home showering sand from their bodies, having a c.o.c.ktail, deciding where to dine. The absence of people makes the marina temporarily quiet, and moody. Boats are tied to ancient-looking driftwood poles that poke out of the bay at various heights. The boats are bobbing dutifully in rhythm with the soft lapping of the water against the dock. Nearby stands a red-roofed bait and tackle shack with a white box marked "Ice" in orange letters.

Joe leads me onto the walkway overlooking the bay. We stand and look at nothing. No boats pa.s.s, no fish leap. There's nothing but water, and I become hypnotized by the movement of the blue-gray peaks. Joe puts his hand on my shoulder, near my neck. The simple pressure and warmth of his hand makes my neck muscles relax. Closing my eyes, I lean against him. Then a raindrop hits me square in the face.

"Uh oh," Joe says. We run.

An hour later, it's still raining. From the shelter of Chez Hunter's covered back patio, I watch the rain while Joe cooks burgers on an old but clean grill. We eat quietly, in the light of citronella candles. When the rain stops, Joe suggests returning to the beach. "It's going to be wet," I say. Joe smirks and gets me a pair of swimming trunks, which are huge but tie at my waist, and a green sweats.h.i.+rt that says "Hunter Farm." We go to the beach carrying two chairs and a cooler of beer.

We sit on a blanket, drink beer, and watch the ocean. Then Joe says, "I'm going to get my guitar." He leaves me on the beach in the dark.

When he comes loping across the sand with his guitar on his back, neck pointing downward and the strap across his bare chest, Joe looks like a Jersey cowboy drunk on corn and tomatoes.

The diva rises.

After tuning the guitar, Joe strums, then sings the first words of "Jersey Girl."

"I haven't heard this song in a long time," I say. But I remember the words. I sha-la-la through the chorus with Joe. The sha-la-laing goes on for a while, until I tell Joe, "I have to pee."

He points at the ocean.

"Nay," I say.

We pack up and head back to Chez Hunter. I dance across the sand. When we get to the top of the dune, I close my eyes, spread my arms wide, and shout, "I'm a Jersey girl!" And then of course I fall.

First, I tilt. Unable to right myself, I stumble in the sand. As I'm about to do a header down the dune, Joe throws his arm around my waist and puts me onto my feet. "Guess I've had a little more to drink than I thought," I say as Joe laughs at me.

When I come out of Chez Hunter's bathroom, Joe is leaning against the wall with his hands in his jean pockets, his white s.h.i.+rt open and blowing in the breeze. I walk to Joe and put my hands on his chest, leaning against him. His skin is warm, his chest hair soft. Turning my chin up, I give Joe my mouth and he kisses me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders.

The diva shudders.

Pulling away from Joe's body, I say, "I'm getting a little tipsy, so let me tell you now that, contrary to what I may say or do in the next few hours, I don't want to have s.e.x with you tonight. It would be great if one of us could remember that."

Joe smiles.

When Joe comes out of the bathroom, I'm sitting on the couch. Sitting might be an overstatement. I'm propped up on the couch and trying not to look drunk. "Sing me another song," I say to Joe. Or that's what I mean to say. It comes out kind of slurred.

Joe sits across from me, on the coffee table next to the couch, holding the neck of his guitar. "Falling asleep?"

"No. No, Joe. Joe? You have a great voice. s.e.xy. Very s.e.xy."

"Yeah?" he asks, as if he doesn't know that. Joe takes off his s.h.i.+rt, spreads his legs, and puts the guitar on his knee.

Zounds! the diva shouts.

"Do you know the song 'If I Needed You'?" Joe asks as he tunes his guitar.

"Yes." I don't.

Who cares? the diva says. I want him.

The Morning After Naked is how I wake up. Did we...?

I wish, the diva mumbles.

Sun streaming through the dormer windows tells me that I am in an upstairs bedroom and it's at least midmorning. Putting two feet on the floor, I see my clothes in a heap near the bed. I remember stripping and diving under the covers. Alone.

There's a shower in the upstairs bathroom, but I don't have a change of clothes, or underwear, so why bother bathing? I put my clothes on and root around in my bag for a piece of gum in lieu of a toothbrush. Aha! Chiclet.

Quietly, in case Joe is still sleeping, I step down the stairs. His bedroom door is open, the bed made, the room tidied. Walking through the living room, I see Joe sitting at the kitchen table. Plastic containers are on the table, emptied of their berries. The French press holds what looks like cold coffee. On the counter is a small carton of orange juice. A newspaper is spread out in front of Joe. He's been up, and out.

"Good morning," I say, walking toward the kitchen, and toward Joe to deliver a Chiclet-clean kiss.

"'Morning." Joe stands up and his chair sc.r.a.pes against the linoleum, making a loud, abrupt squeak. Joe walks to the sink. Back turned to me, he says, "I didn't know when you'd wake up."

Okay. Not the greeting I expected. Looking at the kitchen clock, I see that it is almost eleven, which is an average Sunday wake-up time. Maybe not for farmers. "You could have woken me," I say.

Turning to the kitchen table, Joe gathers the newspaper, cup, and carton. "We should probably get going."

Awkward is in the air. Why? Is it something I did? Or what I didn't do?

"I'll get my bag," I say.

When I come back downstairs, Joe asks, "Do you want some of the Times Times?" He points to the refolded New York Times New York Times sitting on the kitchen table. sitting on the kitchen table.

"Sure." I leaf through the stack. "I'll take Travel, Style, and the magazine. I just want the fun parts."

Joe nods, as if reading more into my statement than I intended.

In the truck, my tummy rumbles. We pa.s.s Fritz's Bakery, Chicken or Egg restaurant, and Uncle Bill's Pancake House. But Joe has already eaten. Can I make it home without food? Nope. Seeing a Wawa convenience store sign ahead, I ask Joe to stop and he does.

"Do you want anything?" I ask. He doesn't.

When I return, Joe looks at my twenty-four ounce cup of coffee and laughs. I say, "I need ma.s.sive doses of caffeine in the morning." I also need food in the morning. I bought a Wawa sausage, cheese, and egg sandwich, hoping the fat and carbs will soak up the vestiges of beer in my body. While Joe navigates an intersection, I take three big bites of the sandwich. When the truck is safely turned and merged, Joe looks at me.

"Why are you eating that?" he asks.

"I'm hungry," I answer with my mouth full.

"I was going stop for breakfast," Joe says.

I stop chewing. "Oh. I thought you'd already eaten. We can still stop. Let's stop." I put the sandwich back in its wrapper.

"No, it's fine."

"You're hungry," I tell him.

"I'll be fine."

"Eat the rest of this." I push the sandwich at him. "Then we can stop for an early lunch. Okay?"

"I'm fine, thanks." He smiles. Finally.

"I insist," I insist.

"Mimi, I don't want to eat that."

"Sure you do," I tell him, and unwrap the sandwich. Unfastening my seat belt, I scoot across the bench until my leg touches Joe's. "Hi."

He looks down at me. "Hi."

Dancing the half-eaten sandwich in front of Joe's face, I speak in the high, squeaky voice that makes my nephews laugh. "Eat me, eat me."

Joe raises an eyebrow. "I would..."

But I don't let him finish the sentence. I cram the sandwich into his mouth and move back to my seat, fastening my seat belt. Joe laughs.

Back at the farm, Joe walks me to my car. I'm not sure how to take my leave. Tossing my bag in the car, I turn to him. "I had a great time."

"Good," he answers. He looks at the ground.

"Did you?" I'm not sure and I want to know.

He thinks for a moment. "I guess I'm confused."

"About?"

"What you want." Joe puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "In the barn. On the couch last night."

Couch? I don't remember the couch.

Joe says, "You start. Then you stop."

I stopped. Good for me. Bad for Joe. I say, "What happened to letting things develop naturally?"

Joe says, "Making love to you would be the most natural thing in the world."

That makes me-and the diva-smile.

But wait just a minute. "Joe, I need to take things slowly."

"Why?"

"Because I've made some bad decisions in the not too distant past."

Joe nods, seemingly unimpressed. "And?"

"And I don't want to start a relations.h.i.+p that's only about s.e.x."

"Me, either," Joe says.

"Oh, please." I laugh, and Joe laughs, too.

"Listen, Mimi. I like you. You like me. How are we going to know where this can go unless we, you know, go with it. What's the point in waiting?"

"I don't want to wait on the relations.h.i.+p. I want to wait on the s.e.x."

Joe says, "s.e.x is part of an adult relations.h.i.+p."

"But s.e.x confuses the issue. I'm trying to be logical."

"Logical?" Joe leans toward me. "Where's the excitement in that? Where's the pa.s.sion? A relations.h.i.+p is an organic thing between two people that needs to be nurtured and fed or else it doesn't grow and blossom. Isn't that how you find love?"

More M&M's "Love and s.e.x are two different things," Madeline says.

Midafternoon, before I have to go to work, Madeline and I are relaxing at the pool in The Garden. Needing a.n.a.lysis of my twenty-four hours with Joe, I called her the minute I got home.

Our towels spread on lounge chairs, Madeline is dousing herself in full-bodied, Italian SPF 30 with citrusy aroma. I opt for a refres.h.i.+ng California SPF 15 that has a hint of wood and olives.

Madeline puts on her cat's eye sungla.s.ses, which are studded with rhinestones. She continues opining. "Joe was either being very romantic, or he wanted to get laid."

"Harsh," I say.

"Realistic," Madeline counters. "You were talking about s.e.x, and he used the L-word. 'Maybe I'll love you, Mimi, if you boink me.' Please. Do you really think he's in love with you? You hardly know each other. And since when are you a Jersey girl?"

"Since always. No matter where I've gone in the world, I've always been a Jersey girl. Now that I'm back home, I'm rediscovering my inner Jersey girl."

"Speaking of Jersey girls, where's your mother?" Madeline asks.