Page 7 of Feels Like the First Time
Fitting since husband number six was twenty-five years her junior.
“Hi, Marty, you’re looking as rugged as ever,” she said with an appreciative once-over.
And the way she looked at Marty, like he was tonight’s prey, had Ali taking a protective step between them. But it was too late, Marty was already entrapped by the silky voice and copious amounts of cleavage on display. “Gail, glad you could make it. I’m sure Ali is over the moon. Aren’t you, sweet pea?”
“I don’t know, she seems put out,” Gail teased. Then, as if Ali wasn’t standing right there, looked at Marty with her heart in her eyes, “I would hate to think I ruined her plans. Did I ruin her plans?”
“No plans to be ruined, Mom. This was just a casual dinner to celebrate the news that I was in the running. The actual decision won’t be for a few weeks. If a miracle happens, I’m sure my friends will throw a party in town. If that happens, I’ll make sure you get an invitation,” Ali said, wondering why she felt the need to explain herself, make sure her mom didn’t feel left out.
“That would be wonderful, Aliana. Now let me take a look at you,” Gail said, and Ali had the sudden urge to go wash up. “Oh, my! Is that a blister?”
“Nah, just a little burn,” Ali said with a shy shrug, feeling all kinds of ridiculous.
“Little burn? That is going to leave a scar.” Gail took Ali’s arm and inspected it further, like a mother would do. And something about the concern in her voice made Ali want to cry.
Gail had been there two minutes and already Ali was being drawn into empty promises of milk mustaches and chocolate chip cookie afternoons. Gail had gone from Mrs. Robinson to Mrs. Cleaver so fluidly, everyone seemed to discount that she hated baking. She hadn’t even hugged Ali yet, and already the woman had her swaying.
“Marty, the girl’s going to scar. Get me some ice to put on this.”
And as if two decades and a handful of divorces hadn’t passed, Marty headed to the ice box to fetch a cube of ice and save the world from tiny scars. Or maybe he was running for the exit—either way, Ali wouldn’t blame him.
Ali wasn’t one to give in to dramatics. Filling Hawk’s condom box up with lottery tickets or repurposing a few stolen cider kegs was about as dramatic as she got. But this whole doting mother moment was playing on all of her weak spots, making her want to give in to the fantasy.
But that’s all it was. A fantasy created by a little girl who believed with all of her heart that her love could fix everything—even a broken family.
“It’s fine.” Ali shoved her hands in her pockets. “I’m fine.” A state Ali had mastered—since it left little room for disappointment.
“It might fester. That alabaster skin of yours is just like your grandmother’s.”
“It won’t fester, Mom.”
“I have this lotion that might help,” Bridget offered with a sweet grin. “My doctor gave it to me for the scars from the girls.” She gave hergirlsa jiggle and smiled.
Ali smiled back, with a stealth finger scratch to the cheek. The middle one.
“Seriously, though,” Bridget continued. “It is some kind of serum that promotes skin repair. A few weeks of using it and the scars practically disappeared. I can send you some if you want.”
“I don’t think it would help much. Scars come with the territory. One of the downfalls of working with metal.” Kind of like the blisters one got when thinking about an irritating man instead of how hot the metal had become.
“You’re still working with metal, then? In Marty’s shop? How nice,” Gail said, sounding anything but nice.
“She had the grand opening last year. I posted a picture on Facebook. Didn’t you see?” Marty asked, offering Gail a beer.
Gail waved it off. “I’ll wait for the bubbly.”
With a shrug, Marty took a hefty swallow. Ali didn’t bother reprimanding him. Gail was going to kill them both long before the diabetes.
“Of course I saw it. I just didn’t know if she’d found her own space, maybe moved to that gallery in town.”
“Some of my work is in that gallery.” Her work was in galleries all around the world. “And it’s not like I’m squatting in Dad’s shop. I bought it off of him last year when he decided to retire.” A huge difference in her opinion.
An awkward silence filled the room at the wordretire. Everyone there knew that Marty hadn’t welcomed an endless supply of sailing time with open arms. His diabetes had been the leading factor in his decision to sell the shop.
And Ali had just been commissioned for her biggest project and needed the space. It had seemed a win-win all around. Only sitting idle, it seemed, was doing more damage to her dad’s mental health than the diabetes.
Marty loved turning wrenches, fixing problems, chatting with the townsfolk. And being stuck this far out of town with nothing but his sailboat and Old Man Joe next door for company was wearing on him.
“You know, Ali made that big arch over the highway when you came into town,” Marty said, his voice thick with pride. “Her design was chosen over a dozen other artists.”
