Fools Rush In

CHAPTER SEVEN

FOR THE NEXT PART OF MY PLAN, I again turned to Curtis and Mitch.

My suffering over the past two months had paid off. By late April, I was a comfortable size eight and pretty damn pleased about it. The last time I’d been this tiny, this light, was at about age twelve. Time to see what the boys and I could do about finding me some better clothes.

In a moment of self-delusion, I had briefly entertained the idea of asking my mom and Trish to take me shopping. Last weekend, Trish had come up to visit Danny, and when I’d seen her car in my parents’ driveway, I couldn’t help the pretty little scene that had flashed through my head—Mom, Trish and me, laughing, shopping, going out for lunch. Of course, that was about as likely as a great white shark befriending a wounded harbor seal, but still…

My parents and Trish were seated at the kitchen table, laughing about something. Trish leaped up the moment I came in. For a second, I thought she was going to greet me, but in more characteristic fashion, it was to show me how busy she was and how unimportant I was.

“Hi, Millie. I’m just on my way back home,” she said, emphasizing the last word. “Dinner in the city tonight. Nobu.”

“Hi, Trish,” I said flatly. I hated her constant namedropping. We looked at each other for a minute; she was even taller than usual, thanks to the sleek black heels on her feet. I wore sweats and a paint-stained turtleneck; she wore a horribly expensive-looking red knit dress that clung to her chiseled, perfect figure.

“Well, must run,” she’d said curtly. “Bye, Mom, bye Dad. Talk to you soon. Bye, Millie.”

It was always like this. Trish never let me forget, even though it had been almost thirty years now, that I had interrupted her starring role as Only Child. Millie’s here. Party’s over. Message clearly received.

So Curtis and Mitch it was. They met me at my house, and we headed out in their beautiful, buttery-yellow Mercedes.

Hyannis is the elbow on the arm of the Cape, the town that has the airport, the ferry, the hospital, and, most importantly, the mall. Given my tight funds, I couldn’t afford the Provincetown boutiques where Curtis and Mitch did their own shopping, so it was to the soulless but affordable mall that we headed. As I was armed with two men whose wardrobes were fabulous even by P-town standards, I was confident that I would emerge well dressed.

We started with underwear. Curtis and Mitch had no interest in me as anything but a friend, and yes, they picked out my underwear. Gone were the days of Hanes purchased at the supermarket, I noted as the boys chose my panties in shades of lavender and rose and black. Matching bras! Thankfully, the boys let me try those on all by myself, and once I found a model that was both comfortable and made the twins look perky, the boys went to town.

Next was pants. I hated pants. Not only was I short, but I had no waist to speak of, and pants were always a challenge.

“No pleats,” Curtis stated, looking at me scientifically.

“Absolutely not,” Mitch agreed. My opinion, clearly, was not required.

“Nothing flared.”

“Dear heavens, no! And let’s not even consider those ghastly low-risers….”

“Classic, tailored, clean lines.”

“You’re so right.”

As the boys scoured the department store, I wandered around, fingering the sleeveless blouses, wondering if I could get away with showing my plump arms, deeply grateful to have friends who loved both me and the challenge of clothing me. I pulled a bright green top with a square neckline from a rack. “How about this?” I called to my boys.

“Put that down!” Curtis ordered sharply.

“My dear girl, how could you? Green!” Mitch murmured, in shock.

“Honey, just go sit and wait for us, okay?” Curtis said, trying to recover from the obvious horror I’d presented. “We’ll call you if we need you.”

I found a chair and waited, occasionally hearing Mitch or Curtis exclaim over some item of clothing, some accessory. As this was an alien world, I passed the time with my favorite hobby: daydreaming about Joe Carpenter.

The last time I had seen him was a week ago. Another wave and “Hey, Millie!” from the rooftop, like some demigod calling from the heavens. My thoughts drifted….

I am walking into the senior center, wearing tailored, classic pants with no flares and a sleeveless, non-green blouse that shows off my contoured but feminine arms. Great shoes, great purse (though I couldn’t picture either). Joe leaps off the ladder as I cross the parking lot.

“Whoa, Millie!” he says, giving me the once-over.

“Hi, Joe!” I respond.

“You doing anything this weekend?” he asks, staring at me, his dimples just showing.

“This weekend?” I reply. “Well, I have plans for Friday, but…what did you have in mind?” (I know better than to be immediately available…it’s in all the books).

“Maybe we could go out or something.” He smiles.

My reveries about Joe were not that, well, imaginative. I was a realist, I liked to think. I had no illusions about Joe; I loved him for who he was, a blue-collar kind of guy with a heart of gold. And I never had silly, overly romantic dreams about him rescuing me from muggers or anything like that. Just his noticing me would be more than enough.

“Come, child.” Curtis interrupted my thoughts with a wave of his manicured hand. “Time to try these on.” He had a pile of clothes draped over his arm. Mitchell had a similar load. Each item was either beige, black, ivory, red or royal blue.

I took the heavy piles from them. The fabrics felt great, silky and cool over my arm. “Are these my colors?” I asked.

“Yes, precious. You’re a winter,” Mitchell explained, striding into the ladies’ dressing room without hesitation. Good thing there was never any help around in a department store.

The boys waited outside the stall as I tried on the clothes, instructing me through the slatted door.

“Everything is mix-and-match, Millie,” Curtis informed me. “That way you don’t have to worry about what goes with what.”

“I know what it means, Curtis,” I said. “I’m not stupid.”

“Only when it comes to fashion!” Mitchell said.

I stuck my head out of the dressing stall. “Be nice!” I ordered. “Or I won’t buy you lunch.” But it was impossible to be mad at these two, and truthfully, I loved being Eliza to their Henry Higginses. And, hell, they knew what they were doing. My God, I thought as I surveyed myself. I looked great!

The boys had chosen lovely, nondramatic pieces, all of which could be, in those complicated fashion terms, mixed and matched. Three shirts, two short-sleeved sweaters, four pairs of pants and a long skirt. Tailored, professional, classic. I couldn’t believe how I looked. Of course, my hair would have to be worked on and I wasn’t wearing any makeup, but still…I actually looked the part of confident, smart, well-dressed doctor.

“Guys,” I said, coming out garbed in the long black skirt and red sweater. “Guys…” My throat closed with sappy gratitude.

“Ooh! Honey, you’re so pretty!” Curtis exclaimed, darting in to adjust a shoulder pad.

“I always knew a beautiful woman was hiding in there,” Mitch added, kissing my cheek. I grinned wetly back.

But they weren’t finished. “The outfits are just the foundation,” Mitchell pronounced, leading me to the shoe department. To save time, Curtis went to the jewelry counter. One hour and $775.39 later, we were done. I was a well-dressed woman. I weighed 134 pounds. I was a size eight. I had a decent haircut. I owned makeup.

It was time.

CHAPTER EIGHT

IT WAS ALL VERY WELL TO PLOT and stalk and plan about getting Joe, but it was another thing altogether to go out and start doing it. What exactly should I do? What was the first step? I needed input, so I called Katie. I could hear crashing and shrieks in the background as she answered the phone. “Hi, it’s me,” I said brightly. “Bad time?”

“No, it’s fine,” she answered blithely. “Hold on, I’m going in the closet.”

I waited as she hid herself away from her sons. There was a sharp scream from one of them, followed by another crash.

“Do you need to go?” I asked, envisioning one of my godsons with blood streaming down his face.

“No, no, they’re just playing,” she answered. “What’s up?”

“Well, a couple of things,” I said, stretching luxuriously on my couch. There were fringe benefits to being single and childless, and talking uninterrupted on the phone was one of them. “Sam was here the other day, and I thought we really should take him out some night. He’s still a little glum.” Actually, Sam had seemed just fine to me, but I sensed he was only happy when he was doing stuff with Danny.

“Sure,” Katie said. “Just give me a couple days’ notice.”

“Great. The other thing is…well, it’s about Joe.”

“So what’s going on?”

“Well, I’m kind of ready. To make my move.”

“Good for you!” Katie said cheerfully.

“So can I run the plan by you?” I asked, feeling very eighth grade.

Katie laughed. “Sure. Go for it.”

“I was thinking maybe I could have him see me out running, so he could notice that I’m, uh, in shape or whatever. And he’d see Digger and then he’d realize that we’re both dog lovers. And then we could talk about that when we saw each other next.”

“That sounds great. Very well thought out.” Katie’s voice became muffled. “Michael, if you do that one more time, I’m taking that dump truck away for nineteen days!”

“I thought you were in the closet,” I said.

“I am. Doesn’t mean I don’t know everything that goes on here.”

“Nineteen days?”

“Figure of speech. He thinks it means forever,” she answered, and I could hear the smile in her voice.

“So the running thing is good?” I asked, seeking validation.

“Running thing sounds great,” Katie answered. I heard Mikey’s lisping whine. “They found me, Mil,” my friend said. “Gotta go.”

“Okay. And thanks, Katie. I’ll let you know about Sam.”

WITH KATIE’S APPROVAL IN HAND, I set about orchestrating the casual, coincidental encounter with Joe. This is what I pictured.

I am running down Nauset Road, Digger trotting adorably by my side. I am wearing nylon running shorts and a T-shirt with an adorable, pithy statement. And what’s this? Oh my goodness, it’s Joe Carpenter in his truck! He slows down, appreciating the feminine bouncing, then realizes it’s his old classmate, Millie Barnes! “Hey, Millie!” he says, pleasantly surprised. “I didn’t know you were a runner.”

I stop, not horribly out of breath (because my car is hidden at the ranger’s station a half mile back).

“Hello, Joe!” I answer, reaching down to pat my adorable doggy. “How are you?” Chatting ensues. Some laughter. A few appreciative glances at athletic form (his glances, my form). We talk until a car rudely honks its horn, and Joe, regretfully, must take off. He watches me in the rearview mirror as I run effortlessly and happily until his truck rounds the bend and he can’t see me anymore (when I start walking back to my car).

Joe left for work at 6:30 every morning. This I’d learned on a stalking expedition several years ago. But timing was everything for my little running venture, and I had to be sure.

We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of, haven’t we? Things we don’t want to confess to friends or parents or children. My obsession with Joe was one of those things. It was bad enough to have been secretly in love with a man for more than half of my life, but resorting to stalking at twenty-nine and a half was really embarrassing. Still, one does what one must.

Joe lived on a little dirt road on the bay side of town. It wasn’t close enough to the water to be ultra-desirable, and it was close enough to Route 6 to hear the traffic in the summer. Joe had lived there all his life. When his mom moved off-Cape three years ago, Joe took the place over. It was a rambling little cottage, with two additions put on since the original house had been built. Not a ranch, not a Cape, the house actually had no particular style at all. But it had a little deck and was private, surrounded on all sides by pitch pines and bayberry. Of course, I’d never been inside, but as Joe Carpenter was indeed a carpenter, I was willing to bet it was pretty damn cute.

And so at 5:45 in the morning, a time usually reserved for crows, fishermen and infants, I battled those familiar feelings of stupidity and exhilaration, drove across town, parked at the Church of the Visitation and walked to Joe’s road to begin stalking.

The birds’ springtime cacophony of song echoed around me, crows screeching and red-wing blackbirds chuckling. Though it was early May, the temperature still dropped into the forties at night, and the air was cool and damp. I shivered. Digger was at home, much to his dismay, but one can’t stalk properly with a licking, wagging, diarrheic dog at one’s side.

Until recently, Joe’s little road hadn’t been officially named; it was just a dirt road off Herringbrook Road. You know, where the Carpenters live? And the Lynches? And the Snows? Not John Snow—Nick Snow. That used to be how we Cape Codders identified this bumpy, sandy little stretch. But the out-of-towners who have invaded the Cape in record numbers in recent years liked signage for their summer addresses, and Joe’s road was now called Thistleberry Way.

I walked down the road, which was barely wide enough for one car. Joe’s driveway was the last one off Thistleberry Way. As I got close, my heart started to pound. The thing about stalking was, obviously, I might get caught. And how mortifying that would be! There was no good excuse for me to be near Joe’s house…well, no excuse other than the one I had ready. “Oh, Joe, great! I was coming home from an emergency at the hospital, and my car broke down. I was just going to see if I could use Mr. Snow’s phone…”

Well-researched and with no admission of guilt. Still, being caught would be dreadful nonetheless, because I knew for a fact that I would not be the first woman seen lurking on Joe’s street.

Okay. There was his driveway. I took my place across the road, about thirty feet back into the woods, well camouflaged by the squat trees and dense undergrowth. Poison ivy was rampant, but I found a sheltered patch that didn’t appear to have any of the evil weed and also afforded me a fair view of Joe’s driveway. Squatting down, not wanting to get my bottom damp, I began to wait.

This stalking episode seemed a bit more humiliating than the last one, less fun. Of course, the last time I’d been here, I was a first-year medical student, no pride, nothing to lose. And Katie had been with me, so it was more of a hoot. We’d snickered and whispered and tried not to wet ourselves when we laughed too hard, snorting into our arms to muffle our noise. And although my running plan hinged on Joe leaving home when I thought he did, I was nonetheless acutely aware of how ridiculous this was. Local Doctor Caught Lurking Outside Handsome Man’s Home. Charges Being Pressed.

6:05. The birds had settled down a bit, getting to work, finding their worms and bugs and the like. The wind quieted, too, sighing gently through April’s new leaves. My feet tingled from lack of proper blood supply. The tingling quickly turned to pain. I stretched out a leg from my squatting position and instantly tipped over, plopping into the cold mud, which seeped through my sweatpants, freezing my already-cold skin. My sense of idiocy grew.

6:15. I began hearing the noises of people waking up and getting ready for the day. A dog barked. Don’t find me, I prayed. Doors opened and closed, cars started. Mr. Snow (Nick, not John) drove his blue Oldsmobile gently over the bumps and ruts as he left for work in Orleans.

6:20. I felt itchy. Could I have touched poison ivy, or was that just regular, unshowered, morning itchy? Couldn’t tell. Cramp in blood-deprived legs. I stood up slowly and let the old circulatory system have a break. Not too much of a break, though. Would rather suffer agonizing pain than have Joe see me here.

6:28. Thank God! A door slammed, a dog barked, an engine started, and Joe’s battered truck lurched out of his driveway. He didn’t see me. I waited a few minutes to make sure he wasn’t coming back, then stood up. On painfully buzzing feet, I made my way back to the road, brushing clumps of mud and oak leaves off my clothes. Luck decided to join me, and I didn’t see anyone I knew as I walked quickly down the road. Once on Massasoit, I was safe. I made it to my car as Father Bruce, my pastor, opened the doors for 7:00 mass. He looked a bit startled to see me but waved as I got into my car. I ignored him and drove away.

Back home, I showered, made some coffee and got ready for work. Now that the deed was done, my feelings of stupidity faded. I had secured my information. I was armed with knowledge. Tomorrow would be the Day of the Run. Day One of Getting Joe.

THE NEXT DAY, I WOKE UP at the horrifying hour of 5:30. I had gone to bed at 9:00 the night before but hadn’t been able to fall asleep for some time. The mirror was not my friend as I gazed at my puffy eyes, dark circles—and what was this? A pimple on my chin topped off my attractiveness for the day.

Never mind. I had to do this. If I didn’t get started, I’d never get my man. So this was just a tiny sacrifice compared to the happiness that I would find as Joe’s girlfriend/fiancée/wife.

I showered and shaved my legs, even though I would be wearing long pants. I washed my hair and conditioned it, then spent twenty minutes applying gel, drying and spraying it into place so it looked adorably tousled and unaffected. Because I was desperate, I drank one cup of coffee as I fed Digger. Then I got dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. I had finally settled on one that said Massachusetts Department of Correction.

At 6:10, I left the house with a leaping, frenzied, joyful dog and drove to the Little Creek parking area on Doane Road. This site was used for the beach shuttle in the summer, so as not to have too many cars clogging up the area. Tourists and locals alike could park here and hop on an electric shuttle bus that would chauffeur them right to the beach. It was convenient, environmentally sound and wicked fun. It was here that I would hide my car, only about a mile and a half from my house. I could, theoretically, run from home to the Joe meeting point, but this morning was not about exercise.

Little Creek was not yet open, but I drove down the fire road and parked illegally. Even if I was caught, most of the rangers knew my Honda (thanks to my M.D. plates) and wouldn’t mind, I reasoned. It was off season, after all. My watch read 6:19. In approximately thirteen minutes, I would be talking to Joe Carpenter. Time to go.