Page 81 of Lovebug
“Oh! Sure! Okay!Den lille havfrue,the Danish fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen!”
I give the pronunciation a little extra pizazz by adding a Danish accent to the proceedings. Also, for the record? I have no idea how to do a Danish accent.
Louise chuckles. “Um. I was thinking more of the animated Disney movie with music by Alan Menken and lyrics by Howard Ashman? You know, with Sebastian the crab and Ursula, the sea witch?”
“Oh, okay. I never saw that one,” I admit.
Suddenly, a male voice vibrates past me.
“Not into Disney movies myself, but I agree. She definitely looks like Ariel after she got legs.”
Wally cruises by and gives us a wink. He somehow manages to surreptitiously skim his eyes down past my denim skort—yes, I’m wearing a skort—while hoisting a huge, bulky cooler in his arms. He nods to James and starts unloading at the stand next to him, the muscles in his forearms flexing the whole time.
“That man wants you,” Louise croons.
“That man destroyed my mother-in-law’s business and ruined my relationship.”
“What?” Her voice goes up in pitch. ”I’m pretty sure Bert is responsible for ruining the relationship.”
“Can we not talk about him, please?”
“Who? Bert or Hot Guy?”
“Hot Guy!” I say with exasperation, then turn to face him as he assembles what looks to be about a hundred tiny jars filled with amber-colored liquid. What is he doing?
“Hey, what are you doing?” I hear myself tossing the question his way before I even realize my mouth is open.
“Setting up,” he shouts back with a shrug.
“Setting up what?” I huff.
“My stand.”
Ugh. I don’t like it when people do that. When they act like something should be obvious when clearly, it’s not. It’s not obvious. Since when does the groundskeeper get a stand?
I stomp across the grass toward him with Louise hot on my heels. “No way am I missing this interaction,” she murmurs excitedly.
“Since when does a groundskeeper get a stand?” Boom. Look at me being all sassy. He deserves it. Business breaker. Relationship ruiner. Watch out, mister, because Bad Mabel is coming out to play. I put my hands on my hips and try to look intimidating, but let’s face it, the guy towers over me, and I don’t think I’ve ever intimidated a living creature in my entire life.
“Sweetheart, I do a lot more than just ‘keep the ground’ around here. And hey. You’ve been avoiding me this week. What gives?”
“Don’t call me sweetheart. And no, I haven’t.”
“Don’t call me ‘The Groundskeeper.’ And yes, you have.”
“Today, you can call him ‘The Sugarmaker,’” James adds as he pokes his amused face between the two of us. “It’s one of the many titles my boy Wallace holds.”
As soon as James approaches our little group, Louise averts her eyes to the ground and hightails it back to her booth. James opens his mouth like he’s going to call after her but seems to think better of it and returns to his own station.
There is definitely a story there. But I can’t focus on anything other than the infuriating man in front of me.
“The Sugarmaker,” I repeat with a slight frown. “I don’t get it. You make sugar?”
“Syrup,” Wally says as he returns to his stand filled with tiny jars. My legs follow him without my brain’s permission. ”Someone who makes syrup is called a sugarmaker. Though I wouldn’t say Imakeit really. The tree is the maker. I’m just her partner.”
“How do you mean?” I approach and lean my palms on his table. I’m giving him a fair amount of attitude, and I can’t seem to help it. But the man did cause the end of my relationship and my business Monday night. Right?
“Tree produces the sap. I collect the sap through plastic tubing, boil it down in a special evaporator, monitor it for viscosity and sugar density, then get it filtered, graded, and hot-packed,” Wally mansplains all the apparent steps of syrup making.
