Page 55 of Summer Romance

Thursday I cleanout my bedroom and actually get Marco to come over and help me carry the old treadmill that hauntsmy bedside to the garage. Pete can have it, or I’ll give it away. Heck, maybe I’ll even use it. Strange things are happening around here at a pace I can barely keep up with.

When my kids are home from camp, I sit them down in the very tidy family room. I feel like our house is suddenly bigger by half. “So we don’t have anything this afternoon, but lucky for you I’ve hired you the services of a professional organizer until five o’clock.”

“For what?” asks Greer.

“Let’s go upstairs and I’ll show you.”

By the time it’s five, they are starving and exhausted but kind of excited about the way their rooms look. Cliffy’s created a reading nook in the corner of his tiny room with pillows and exactly six stuffed animals. We ceremonially bring two bags of stuffed animals to the garage.

Friday morning islight work in my bathroom. Everything but shampoo and a bar of soap must go, so there isn’t a lot of self-talk to wade through. I keep the candles because I wonder if they’ll actually be relaxing in a clean bathroom. Also, they cost thirty dollars.

I nearly throw my back out organizing Serena Howe’s garage early that afternoon and mentally recommit to updating my résumé. Two days of work per week are not enough, though hauling gardening equipment to a shed feels like a bit too much.

Ethan texts at four: Stopped for gas. I’ll be back in an hour. Too late to see you today right?

Me: Oh good! But no I’ve got my kids here

Ethan: Ok, maybe see you tomorrow?

I stare at the words “maybe” and “tomorrow.” I don’t like either of those words and am overwhelmed by how much I want to see him. I want to invite him to dinner. I try to picture this in my mind, Cliffy thinking it’s fun and the girls being politely cautious. He’s a family friend, and they’ve met him already. Also, I really want to see him. I text: I’m barbecuing chicken later. Want to come? Like at 6?

Ethan replies immediately: Fun-tastic! See you then

“What?” Iris asks. I’m smiling at my phone.

“Nothing. Scooter. He’s on his way back from Devon. He’s coming for dinner.”

Iris seems confused. “Here?”

“Yes.”

“Is Frannie coming?”

“No, just Scooter.”

“And Brenda?” Cliffy asks.

“I’ll ask.” I text him: Kids want to know if you’re bringing Brenda. We’d love it

Ethan: I’ll see if she has plans

31

We move a folding table from the garage to the backyard and cover it with a blue and white tablecloth. Cliffy cuts a few hot-pink hydrangeas and arranges them in my mother’s cobalt-blue vase. We are having one person and a dog over for dinner, but we are all acting like it’s a big occasion. I try to think of the last time we used a tablecloth.

It’s five o’clock and I have potatoes and carrots roasting in the oven. The chicken is ready to grill and I have corn on the cob to cook at the end. It’s five o’clock and dinner is all organized. Literally everything has changed. The TV is off; this is rare. Greer has a friend over; rarer still. I can hear them upstairs laughing in her bedroom. Cliffy’s brought all of his trucks outside and there is a happy amount of zooming in the mud.

Greer comes downstairs with her friend and says, “Oh, we’re just having some friends over later,” like we are the coolest family in the world.

Ethan rings the bell at six o’clock. I’m carbonated again, so I ask Iris to get the door. He says something that makes her laugh and then there he is, standing in my kitchen, with a cold bottle of white wine, a box of chocolate-covered pretzels, and a dog. These are three of my favorite things, and I briefly wonder if I mentioned it in my graduation speech.

“Hi,” I say, and don’t move toward him. I am at a total loss as to how to proceed. I want to run into his arms, but my children are standing here. I need to act casual, and that doesn’t appear to be in my arsenal right now. He’s in a white button-down shirt and navy blue linen shorts, and his shoulders look like something I need to look away from. I’m just standing there, carbonated.

“Where’s your mess?” he asks. “I thought you said the cobbler’s children have no shoes.”

“We have shoes,” says Cliffy.

“It’s been a really productive week,” I say. “I can’t even explain it, and if you saw all the stuff in my garage, you’d flip.”

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