Girl Meets Boy, concluded

Here's the end of the Girl Meets Boy chapter. I didn't write this one longhand, just sat down with the laptop on my lap and a beer at my elbow and typed it out. It took about 2.5 hours. Next, I want to finish up the Backstage Accident chapter.



True to his word, Ben arrived at Maura's house just before 8:00 the next morning. He found us in the kitchen, where Quill, wearing one of his mother's ruffle-trimmed aprons over jeans and a t-shirt, was flipping pancakes and singing opera at the top of his lungs. Maura watched over skillets of bacon and sausage. Thanks to my invalid status, I was in charge of the quiche, which was baking nicely without much help from me. I lounged in a kitchen chair with my foot up, sipping a Coke.

Ben entered the house without knocking, clearly at home there. He greeted his aunt with a peck on the cheek, then laid one on Quill. Though I had no right to be jealous, I was.

"Hey!" Quill protested, smearing pancake flour on his cheek as he wiped it.

"Sorry, little cuz, but I couldn't resist — you look so pretty," Ben laughed. To me he said, "I can't believe you drink that stuff for breakfast." Skirting the table, he delved into the fridge and helped himself to a Coke. He downed half of it in a series of gulps.

"You're going to regret that," I told him.

"No regrets, cherie. I need the caffeine." He lounged back against the countertop, barefoot again, crossed arms stretching the sleeves of a grey t-shirt bearing the logo of the South Atlanta Judo Academy. I noticed the athletic tape was missing from his right hand.

"Yeah, how late did the party go last night?" Quill asked.

"I gave up around 1:30, when the groom's brothers started the conga line around the pool."

"Dear dear," Maura tsked. "Roger's going to be in tough shape this morning."

"Maybe not too bad. He didn't actually drink that much. But he's going to be plenty tired. I brought extra Visine for the photo shoot." He patted the pocket of his faded Levis.

Quill had left off singing and was nodding at his pancakes, a faraway look in his eye. I knew he was thinking ahead to his own bachelor party and groom's dinner, still many months in the future. I had never known a man so eager to get married. Too bad his fiancée didn't seem to share his enthusiasm.

Quill roused himself from his reverie to say, "So you're driving the Jag today, Benjie. How's it running?"

"Purring like a big ol' kitten. Thanks again."

The kitchen windows faced the back of the house, not the driveway. I wondered how Quill had known what Ben was driving, so I asked him.

"I know the sound," he said simply.

"Ever since he was a baby, Quill has been able to identify everybody's cars by sound," Maura clarified. "It's part of that perfect pitch ear of his."

Ben added, "It also makes him an excellent mechanic. He tunes an engine like he tunes a guitar. Keeps all my vehicles running smooth. And that's saying something, because that Jag is as temperamental as they come."

Quill grinned. "My best classes in high school were choir and auto shop."

"Can I make that a trivia question on the blog?" I asked. The girls would go nuts visualizing grease under his manicured fingernails.

"Sure, why not," he shrugged, expertly flipping pancakes from griddle to serving plate.

"So Ben, what did you mean by 'all my vehicles?' Do you have a fleet?" I waited while he polished off his Coke with a satisfied sigh.

"Naw," he said. "Just the Harley, which is my runaround wheels, and the Jag, which I drive to impress clients and for special occasions, and the Honda, which is for being inconspicuous."

"Ben is the most sought-after private detective in Georgia," Maura put in. "He doesn't need that car to impress people. But it sure doesn't hurt." She heaped bacon and sausages, still sizzling, onto another platter.

"Aunt Maura exaggerates," Ben demurred.

"No I don't. If you Google him, you'll see for yourself. Oh, that sounds improper," she giggled.

I was a step ahead of her. In bed with my laptop, I had Googled Benjamin Shea thoroughly the night before while wishing I was in fact doing something else. Maura wasn't just boasting about her favorite nephew; Ben was highly regarded and highly successful. He was high-profile, too, specializing in corporate security and industrial espionage. No wonder he was fond of Coca Cola; the Atlanta-based cola giant was a client of his.

Changing the subject, Ben said, "Well, I didn't come here to talk business. I came to see how Kielle's ankle is holding up. Can I have a look?"

The oven timer dinged, signaling an end to my cooking duties.

"Why don't you get the quiche out instead?" I suggested, tossing him my oven mitt. "And no smart remarks about the eating habits of real men."

"Yes, ma'am." He pulled the baking dish from the oven, inhaling the aroma with pleasure, and placed it on a trivet to cool. "This needs to sit for a few minutes — just enough time for me to take a quick peek at your ankle. Shall we adjourn to the living room?"

Clearly I was not to be let off the hook, so I accepted his supporting arm and limped the few steps into the next room. His unshaven chin brushed against my temple as he helped me settle on the couch. He unwound the elastic bandage as deftly as he'd wrapped it the night before, quizzing me about how much I'd been walking and how much pain I'd had during the night. The answer to both questions was, "Not much."

"All right, then. This looks pretty good." He rotated my foot in all directions, testing the range of motion, then massaged my ankle and lower leg to ease the aches he'd awakened there. His strong hands knew what they were doing, finding tender places I didn't think anyone else would notice. I grew slightly mesmerized by the rhythmic squeezing and releasing.

He glanced up to find me memorizing the curl of his hair. His hands stilled, and for a moment we gazed at each other. Then one of us blinked, or maybe both, breaking the spell. Looking down again, he muttered, "That ought to do it," and began rewrapping the ankle.

Noting that he still held the fingers of his right hand out awkwardly, I nodded at them and said, "Where's your tape?" Up close, I could see that his ring finger was swollen.

"Dani didn't want me looking all rough in her wedding photos, so I took it off for today. And I'll shave at the church so I'm nice and smooth." He stroked his jaw absently.

"How'd you hurt your finger? On the mat?"

Disgust in his voice, he answered, "Yeah. Stupid. I had a poor grip on a stiff lapel and tried to compensate by using strength instead of leverage. Bad idea."

"Not always."

"In judo, it is."

"True enough." I'd done just enough judo myself to know he was right.

"Speaking of bad ideas, I don't like the thought of you walking all over the airport. It'll just cause swelling and slow the healing process. I want you to hitch a ride on one of those golf cart things."

"Those are for senior citizens," I objected.

"Senior citizens and people who can't walk far, and today that's you. Tell me you will."

Mockingly I sighed, "Yes, doctor."

"I mean it, Kielle." When we locked eyes again, his fierce expression was back. I like a man who's intense. If he's intense about me, so much the better.

"All right," I agreed. "I'll ride."

Ben finished his work just as Quill hollered for us to come and get it. We returned to a table piled high with the best breakfast I'd seen in weeks. Hotel bagels and muffins just did not compare.

Quill and Maura joined hands and reached out to us. Ben and I took their hands and each other's, completing the circle, and Maura intoned a brief but earnest prayer. It had taken me quite some time to grow accustomed to the saying of grace at every meal with the Caravaners. While I still wasn't entirely at ease with the practice, I had begun spending the interval on a moment of mindfulness of my own, and that wasn't all bad.

We ate at a leisurely pace. The cozy atmosphere, fragranced with peanut butter, honey, and cinnamon, made me miss Sunday mornings around the table with my family in my younger days. We'd spent some of our best times in those four chairs, talking and laughing just like this. Sunday breakfast had always been my favorite meal of the week, even though it meant getting out of bed too early on a weekend. But now that my sister and I had moved to different time zones and Dad had passed away, those days were never to return.

Sitting back, full, we enjoyed a few more minutes' relaxation before Ben glanced at the clock. Folding his napkin, he rose to leave. He had to report for the photo lineup at 10:00 and needed time to make the drive and change his clothes.

"I'd better take off," he said reluctantly.

"I want to see that impressive Jag before you go," I said. "Give me a hand out to the porch." Gee, that's not a lame and obvious excuse to be alone with him or anything, I thought.

I leaned on him more heavily than I needed to for the short trip to the front door. When we reached the porch, I didn't let go, and he didn't withdraw. Side by side, we gazed at the sleek black Jaguar convertible parked at a jaunty angle in the driveway.

"Nice. Very nice," I said admiringly. I could almost feel the wind in my hair.

"Yes." When I glanced toward his voice, he was looking at me, not at the car. "Next time you're here, I'll take you for a drive. When will that be?"

Oh Lord, he's asking to see me again. Now what the hell do I do?

"We've got a week off, then another week on the road. I'm meeting the company in Tucson for the start of the tour, but the bus will bring us back to Atlanta. So I'll be back in town two weeks from now."

He nodded thoughtfully, then turned to face me, still supporting my elbow. "I'm serious about the golf cart," he repeated. "I want proof."

"Such a mother hen," I teased. "Have you got a picture phone?" He nodded. "Give me the number."

He recited it, and I stored it away. "You'll get your proof."

"Good. Uh, I'd better go. But I just need to apologize one last time for knocking you into the pool."

"It's history. I'm glad we got to meet in person. And thanks for taking care of my ankle."

And then we just stood there for a minute, awkward teenagers at the end of their first date, trying to decide whether to shake hands or make out. I knew which option I'd prefer, but now really was not the time to start anything.

Finally I said, "All right, give me a hug and get going. You don't want to be late."

I went up on tiptoe to slide my arms around his neck. His fit across my back just where they ought to. We held the embrace for a long moment, and I felt him sigh.

Then he pulled away and bounded down the steps to his car. He hopped into the driver's seat without opening the door, revved the motor, and tossed me a cocky salute. Then he was gone.

A couple hours later, I used my picture phone to send him an image of myself perched on the back of an airport shuttle cart. Fifteen minutes after that, I received one of him in his tuxedo, clean-shaven and grinning, giving the thumbs-up sign. I would, of course, remember the picture, so I didn't need to save it. But I did.