Page 29 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
I roll my eyes but I’m smiling too hard for my annoyance to be convincing. I like it when he teases me. It never feels mean. It feels like a way of building comfort with each other.
Pulling Aggie’s wagon over the threshold, I step into a shockingly bright living room with sunlight streaming through a pair of big, arched windows. I always forget the units at the front of the building look out over the main street, unlike the other units, with our views blocked by adjacent buildings, leaving only dimly lit alleys through any given window.
The kitchen area is significantly larger than mine, complete with a breakfast bar and two stools, full-sized appliances, and a table that seats four. The living room has a wall of tightly but tidily occupied bookshelves and a neatly arranged cluster of furniture that includes a sofa, two armchairs, and a coffee table. The furniture is from different eras and styles, but in good shape and tied together with coordinating curtains, throw pillows, and rugs in olive and teal textiles that give off a mid-century modern vibe. Houseplants perch in corners, on the bookshelves, and on windowsills, maybe a dozen in total, adding color and life without overwhelming the space.
I’m not sure what I expected, beyond a lot of plants and a certain level of vintage eclecticism that mirrors Everett’s wardrobe,but I’m struck as I look around by how artistic the space is. It’s not assembled by chance, with whatever he found in an alley or thrift store. Every piece feels deliberately chosen and arranged carefully in relationship to the other elements of the room. The space has a mood to it, a design, a personality that goes well beyond functionality, a hint of the outdoors brought indoors, not just with the plants but with the colors and textures.
Now that I see it, it’s so obvious. Everett is an artist. He hasn’t used that term to describe himself, not directly, anyway. He’s said he’s in marketing, or makes social media content, or develops branding strategies and improves search engine optimization. What he’s grossly undersold is how creative that work must be.
I feel like I’ve just peeled back a layer of an onion, not to find another layer, but to discover a blossoming flower inside. Also, he has a bedroom, a real one with a door through which I can see the foot of a bed, though I decide to save exploring that part of his habitat for another time.
“Well?” he asks as he shrugs on a canvas jacket. “What do you think?”
“I think I can’t believe we live in the same building,” I tell him honestly. “That’s a real sofa. And a real bedroom. And those are real windows. And real books and framed photos on your shelves. You probably have real food in your fridge, too.”
As I spin toward his kitchen, still taking it all in, he steps up behind me, wraps me in his arms, and sets his chin on my shoulder so his cheek rests against mine, smooth and warm. I lean into him, following the instinct before I can second-guess it, and he tightens his hold in response.
“I do enjoy a well-balanced meal I don’t pour from a box,” hesays. “And I make a decent living, though I have to find a way to pull back on work or it’ll drown me.” He gives me a quick squeeze before releasing me. “But today isn’t about work. You have about two hours, right?”
I check the time on a brushed-steel clock over his kitchen window. Just past nine-twenty.
“About that,” I confirm. “And I planned to spend it with Aggie.”
“I assumed.” He gives her another scratch on the neck while she looks up at him with her eyes bright and her tail wagging. “Good thing I have a plan that includes all three of us.”
TEN MINUTES LATER, after Aggie’s done “her business,” we turn the corner onto the Ithaca Commons, the pedestrian mall that runs through the old downtown with its three- and four-story nineteenth-century facades transformed by an urban renewal project in the 1970s and again in the 2010s. It was once home to a lot of banks and department stores, but now it houses galleries, trendy retail outlets and coffee shops, a library I haven’t been into yet, and a 1915 vaudeville theater that’s been converted into an indie cinema. It’s also the home to five of the eleven obelisks in the Sagan Planet Walk, a three-quarter-mile scale model of the solar system that spans several streets across town, and one of Ithaca’s quirkiest quirks. It’s a tribute to Cornell professor of astronomy, Carl Sagan, anchored in the Commons by the sun obelisk in its black and gold glory, and with Mercury, Venus, Earth, and Mars nearby.
I fell in love with the Commons when I first arrived in Ithaca, which is a big reason I rented the apartment around the corner, despite its deficiencies. It’s like a cute small town in the center of a somewhat sprawling midsize city. It has a feeling of overlappinghistories to it, like it’s been through hard times and come back over and over again, transformed with every rebirth but always bringing its old selves with it. Sure, there’s a Starbucks and an Urban Outfitters now. There’s also the cutest pastel-explosion bakery I’ve ever seen, and a bookstore that always has at least one cat sunning itself in the window, usually two or three, and a knitting shop called Wool-to-Wool Yarns. And today, there’s a bustling outdoor market, with tents and tables in front of every venue, and a crowd already gathered, inspecting the wares.
“I saw the ad for the market on my way home from work yesterday,” Everett says as we merge into the flow of the crowd, him with his arm around my waist and me pulling Aggie behind us. “I thought it would be fun to check out together.”
“You thought right,” I say, though I refrain from confessing it’s thetogetherthat will make it fun. The Commons hosts a lot of markets and festivals. Earlier this month, it was the annual Apple Harvest Festival. There’s also a festival dedicated to chili and another to chowder, as well as open gallery nights and outdoor concerts. I came to a few of the events last fall, shortly after I moved here, but I never feel more alone than when I’m surrounded by people who aren’t alone: couples in cozy embraces, parents giving piggyback rides to kids, friends soliciting each other’s opinions on handmade pottery or jewelry, and, most notably, people walking dogs.
A year later, being here with Everett and Aggie, I can appreciate the energy without my prior envy toward the lovers, dog walkers, or clusters of laughing friends. I can just enjoy it.
“Tea or coffee?” Everett asks.
“Tea. Always. Coffee is overrated.”
“Interesting. And good to know.” He steers us around a group of slow meanderers and toward the side of the street. “How about pastries? Streuseltaler or a classic pain au chocolat?”
“I don’t know what that first one is.”
“Then I believe our decision is made.”
We weave through the crowd in no particular rush, which is good, given the not-insubstantial wagon I’m pulling behind me and the way it parts a crowd. When we reach the far corner of the block, Everett stops and pivots us toward Havisham & Harrison’s Tea Company. The old-timey storefront is carved from dark, polished wood with delicate gold trim and big bay windows. With the sign’s gilded typewriter font, the display of hanging antique teapots pouring lush bouquets of flowers into one another, and the ornate, faux-gaslight sconces flanking the windows and bright green door, the shop is straight out of a Dickens novel. I’ve admired it every time I walked past it, though I’ve never been inside, on the solid assumption that it’s well above my price range.
“This is my date and my idea, so I’m paying,” Everett says as if he’s reading my mind, something he’s remarkably good at, given our relatively short acquaintance. Also...date. Good. Phew. Noted.“We only have two hours to spend together before the week gets away from us, and I just want to do something nice for you. Okay?”
Wow.He really does know me, because I instinctively want to put up a fight, and he saw it coming. I’m still replaying my dad’s insinuation about my financial irresponsibility on our call yesterday, as well as our fights about the debt I’d incur by attending Cornell, and a hundred other arguments we had about money, security, and independence while I was growing up. However, Everett’s offer feelsreallygood, like someone’s taking care of me for a change, lettingme off the hook for taking care of myself. Is it so wrong to let him treat me to breakfast?
Warm lips meet mine, parting softly as Everett’s nose bumps my cheek and his hands cup my face. My breath catches with surprise, but as he coaxes my mouth open with his, the surprise fades and I melt against him, still holding the wagon extension with one hand while the other grips his sweater, which proves to be as soft as it looks.
The softness of his sweater is my last coherent thought. The rest evaporate like the flash paper that magicians use, which sparks into fire before vanishing, leaving no trace it ever existed. My knees go wobbly. My toes curl. My skin warms. My tongue finds Everett’s, deepening the kiss, but only for a moment before he pulls away, still cupping my face with both hands as his cheeks dimple and his beautiful hazel eyes sparkle with mirth behind his glasses.
“You were thinking too hard,” he says. “Did that help?”
I swallow, and swallow again, before managing a nod. Then I notice Aggie watching us from her wagon with her head resting on the front panel, looking as pleased with herself as if she orchestrated the entire morning. Just past her wagon, a pair of googly eyes is glued above a jagged, curved crack in a drainpipe, turning the crack into a crooked smile. It’s so silly I can’t help but smile back as I give in to the joy around me and steal another kiss from Everett.
