Page 36 of The Bloodfeather Promise
“Not a damn thing.” I breathe, unable to believe I’m stupid enough to question her attire.
“Should I change?”
“Don’t you dare.”
Emerson gives me an odd look then says, “Okay, well, we should get started. Do you want to practice first?”
I scoff. “Please. I was the ringleader of the bike gang in our neighborhood. All the ten-year-olds looked up to me.”
“But that was a long time ago.” Emerson pulls the yellow bike away from the fence, throwing a leg over so she’s straddling it. Placing her water bottle in the basket, she hands me the other one.
Instead of getting on my bike right away, I roll it to the gate, holding it open so she can cycle out. It’s so damn hard not to look at the cheeks of her ass riding that seat.
Emerson circles me, peddling gracefully as I climb on my bike. I’m grateful I heeded her advice regarding clothing. I’m wearing a pair of khaki shorts and black Converse. A black Struts t-shirt and a plain white baseball cap with the rocker signal on it complete my ensemble. I see the look of appreciation in her eyes. She likes how I look. As much as I like how she looks.
In spite of my big talk, it takes a few starts and stops before I remaster the art of riding a bike again. And, I realize today, I owe Emerson for one of the best memories of my life.
That afternoon we ride our rented bicycles through the charming streets of Sea Cove because she wants to show me how the little village has both grown and stayed the same. We stop by one of the splashing fountains to take a breather. I steadied her bike while she balanced on tiptoes, straddling the seat. My fingers closed over hers where she gripped the handlebars, and she smiled, wiggling her fingers so they tickled my palm. Nothing else, other than that. No kissing. All I touched was her hand. But it was special beyond what I could express.
The entire experience was both hilarious, as I found my own balance and the simple joy of the breeze in my face, and sweetly nostalgic. When we got hungry, we ended up at AlleyGators, sipping chocolate milkshakes to cool off, and eating hamburgers with fried pickles on the side. It strangely felt like a re-run episode ofHappy Days.
I loved every minute of it.
* * *
For the next two months,I pursue Emerson Jane Banner as if she is my job.
We meet for coffee at the DripDrop. We rock on the swing on her front porch, although she never invites me inside her house. One night I drive us to another beach town a few miles away for dinner at a tiny seafood place touting live music. Chowing down on boiled shrimp, we crack open crab legs and make a general mess. I laugh when Emerson sticks empty crab legs on the ends of her fingers. She waves them at me while speaking in a dead-on imitation of a Jersey girl.
It reminds me when I did something similar with Alex, poking him in the arm with the bony crab legs until Mom made me stop. Instead of making me sad, I tell Emerson about it. She laughs softly, reaching across the table to gently grasps my hand.
“What a fun memory,” she says. “I bet you guys had so many special times together.”
I can only nod, unable to articulate how sharing it with her somehow makes it all better.
After dinner, the house band plays hits from the eighties, and we slow dance toWicked Game.The band’s lead singer does sound a little like Chris Isaak, but I barely hear him. I am too caught up in Emerson’s eyes as we sway back and forth. When the song ends, I kiss her fingertips, then wonder why her mood turns so somber the rest of the evening.
Early one morning before the tourists clutter up the shore, we meet at a public beach access. Holding hands, we stroll the beach, picking up seashells and kicking our feet in the small waves rolling up on the sandy shore. We laugh at the quick sandpipers skittering ahead of us. After a mile or two, we turn back, retracing our footsteps that were not erased by the tide easing in.
The summer is slipping by fast. A month of days with Emerson. Thirty days. They are moments I treasure, although I cannot understand the reason behind it. Nothing is going as planned with this girl. Nothing like I thought it would be. I’m not fucking her. I’m not using her. Hell, I’m not even kissing her. I’m lucky she allows me to hold her hand gives me a hug.
Jack calls a few times, checking on me. It reaches his ears I ended the job with Holly. He doesn’t reference it specifically, but I know he’s happy I’m done seeing her. When I mention the time I’m spending with a local girl, he’s quiet for a long moment then says, “Be careful you don’t hurt her, understand?”
It’s strange he says that. Shouldn’t his concern be that it’s me that could get hurt?
On the Fourth of July, I help Emerson trick out her little golf-cart for the annual parade. We creep along The Run, Noah and Devon riding along with us, waving to people and tooting the horn while red, white and blue streamers and balloons flow behind us. The Sea Cove Tourism Bureau sponsors lunch on The Green afterward. Emerson saves seats on the bench outside the bookstore. We sit in the shade of the awning, hot and a little sweaty, eating hotdogs off paper plates with little bags of plain potato chips, drinking lemonade.
That night, we stand on the beach with Devon and Noah, and a few thousand people, watching the fireworks. Emerson and I avoid eye contact at the grand finale as her friends share a passionate kiss. The walk back to her cottage just before midnight is oddly silent. When we say goodnight at her gate, I force myself not to pull her closer when she gives me a hug.
A few weeks later we sit on the Green, watching the Sea Cove Theater Repertory’s rendition of “Some Like It Hot”. Our quilted blanket, embroidered with blue forget-me-nots, is a splash of brilliant white against the emerald green grass. We drink chilled Pinot Grigio from crystal glasses and snack on cheese and grapes she packed in an antique picnic basket once belonging to her grandparents. Between acts, we discussMansfield Park.I’ve made it through the first ten chapters. Emerson giggles adorably at my impromptu book report.
Her friends are conspicuously absent tonight. I did not ask where they might be. For all I know, they are hiding in the bushes, keeping a watch over us. I’m aware Noah is suspicious of me. Every time I’ve set foot in his store or when we are around each other, he is coolly distant. He’s rather protective of Emerson, and I am a tad jealous. Devon is much friendlier, her eyes twinkling mischievously when she asks how things are going with us. It seems she approves the relationship, and I feel slightly guilty following our encounters. She doesn’t know, just as Emerson doesn’t know, that I have no intention of forming a long-term relationship.
Lacey is there at the play, sitting with the girl Emerson hired just after Memorial Day. Leaving me for a moment, Emerson trots over so she can say hi. When she returns to our blanket, a grin lights up her face.
“Mara would love to have your autograph. She’s completely starstruck, which is why she’s not mentioned it. I told her you would, but that it would be rude to do so here. Everyone would think it’s okay to come up and ask you then, and I know you don’t want to be bothered. Besides, the play is about to start back up. We wouldn’t want to steal the limelight from the actors.”
Emerson’s consideration floors me. For me. For her employee. For the actors in the play. I’m used to women wanting the attention that comes with being the arm candy of someone famous. Someone like me. Emerson has no interest in that.
