“Closer to, beautiful,” he said softly, gazing at her the same way. “Make sure it’s fresh. Got a lot of grillin’ to do.”
“’Kay, Dad,” she mumbled, shifting around him, eyes to the counter, eyes that assessed the situation immediately as she saw what Mickey had done, what needed to be done, and thus she left what was still needed while clearing away what no longer was.
Yes, she was a good girl who liked to take care of her family and I liked that, thus I started to fall a little in love with quiet, sweet Aisling Donovan too.
“Son, you wanna start the grill, get it ready for your dad?” Mickey offered.
“Totally!” Cill accepted loudly.
Mickey gave his grin to his boy. “Fire it up.”
Cillian raced away.
Mickey went to the fridge and came out with his own beer.
When he turned, he caught my eyes. “Let’s move this outside.”
“Sounds good,” I agreed.
He reached out and nabbed a packet of tortilla chips that were sitting on the counter and said to Aisling, “Grab the guac from the fridge before you head out, yeah, darlin’?”
“Yeah, Dad,” she replied.
We went out and I saw that when Rhiannon left the furniture, she also left the patio furniture. Further, I noted this was an outdoor family.
I knew this because there was a colossal shining grill against the side railing of the deck—a deck that spanned the living room and kitchen areas of the long house. Further, there was a four-seater, wrought iron table with umbrella and chairs that I knew would be comfortable because they had fluffy taupe cushions, high backs and they rocked. There were also two matching lounge chairs with matching cushions, angled toward the view of Mickey’s backyard, which was mostly trees. And last, there was a coordinating loveseat at the opposite end of the deck from the grill that had an ottoman in front of it and tables at each side.
All this, and in the densely wooded backyard that had a narrow wedge of grass close to the deck, I saw a tire swing in a tree. There were Frisbees lying in the grass (three, to be precise). And to one side, what appeared to be a narrow baseball pitcher plate set up, beyond it a tall, wide net to catch pitched balls.
I followed Mickey out but he went to the grill to survey Cillian’s activities.
I decided on the table, where we could all sit, eat chips and guacamole, and chat.
Mickey and Cillian joined me, Mickey opening the chips after he sat, tossing them on the table.
Aisling came out with the guac, which was homemade, had the perfect hint of cilantro, a nice tang of garlic and minimum tomatoes, making it sublime (Mickey’s creation, which made me look forward to dinner). She also saw the chips, rolled her eyes at her father and went back in, coming out with a bowl in which she dumped the chips (budding hostess, and a good one, for certain).
And we all sat, munching, sipping, Cillian doing most of the talking with Mickey and I interjecting.
Not long after, Mickey got up and went in to get the meat.
He started grilling.
At their father’s good-natured demand, without complaint, the kids got up and grabbed outdoor table stuff, including nice plastic plates, and set the table.
When it was time, Aisling went in to make the spinach salad.
In the end, I ate more than I had in weeks (and my stomach protested, but I didn’t listen because it was all so delicious) and surprisingly in Mickey’s company, did exactly what he wanted me to do.
I kicked back, drank beer, ate good food, sat with a nice family on the deck during a comfortable summer day in Maine, and relaxed.
* * * * *
“Babe.”
I was in the danger zone.
“Hey.” A hand was on my hip.
Highway straight to the danger zone.
That hand gently shook me. “Amy.”
My eyes fluttered open and I saw dark purple twill.
I knew exactly where I was.
I was in a home with a family that liked me.
A home where we sat in the sun on the deck and ate three different salads (all excellent), superbly grilled brats and chicken breasts slathered in barbeque sauce. This being followed by a heavenly chocolate cake that made my meringue-frosting-topped cupcakes seem like sawdust topped with pillow foam.
A home where I told a fourteen-year-old girl I felt that way about her cake, and she handed the world to me when her blue eyes started shining.
A home where we chatted and laughed and ended our meal playing Frisbee.
A home where I could run around the backyard with kids who enjoyed my company, demonstrating my Frisbee prowess because I was an awesome Frisbee player, seeing as my brother and I would go to the beach as often as possible (it was what you did, we grew up in La Jolla, we had a beach, we used it) and we’d play Frisbee. And being good at Frisbee was apparently a skill you didn’t lose.
A home where, during Frisbee, an eleven-year-old boy told me I was “da bomb” because I was an awesome Frisbee player.
A home where, after Frisbee, we camped out on a big cozy sectional to watch Tom Cruise and Val Kilmer play volleyball (amongst other things) and with beer, a full belly and wonderful company, relaxed and at ease, I’d fallen asleep curled into a corner of that big, cozy, purple couch.
Right then, still half-asleep, I turned my head and looked into Mickey Donovan’s amazing blue eyes.
This didn’t make me shake the dream.
No, the dream took hold of me and I stayed in the danger zone because I liked it.
And I liked it because I was in a home with a handsome man who protected me, fed me, laughed with me, was open, honest, loved his kids, didn’t hide his admiration of my Frisbee abilities, and who looked after me.
“Kids are in bed,” this handsome man in his comfortable home murmured to me words a handsome father, a handsome husband, a handsome lover would say to his woman. “You needed to crash, so I let you sleep. Now we both need to hit our beds, Amy.”
We did. We needed to hit our beds.
But half-asleep, staring at the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, having the only really good day I’d had in three years, spending time with him, being a part of his life, a part of his family, I decided first that I needed to hit him.
So I did, blinking at the dream that still had hold of me, unwilling and maybe unable to let it go, I leaned up and in, doing it deep. At the same time, I lifted a hand to curl around the side of his strong neck, feeling the muscle there and also feeling the thrill of knowing that hardness was probably everywhere.
And without delay, I pressed my lips to his, wanting nothing more, nothing else, nothing in my whole life, caring about nothing but living that dream.