Chapter 8
WHEN I rounded the corner toward Mick’s, his compound was again busy with activity: The redheaded twins (and a young boy I didn’t recognize) sat cross-legged before a crackling fire, spearing marshmallows with sharp twigs; two middle-aged women strung laundry on a makeshift clothesline; and a trio of beautiful young ladies huddled together over trays of polished stones.
I wondered about the three beauties. Were they Mick’s cousins? I couldn’t remember what he’d said about them, but they seemed very approachable.
I conjured my happy-to-meet-you smile. “Ahem,” I croaked, hoping to draw the girls’ attention. But apparently they were so entranced by their work that my existence didn’t register. I tried again, “Ahem.”
In unison, the girls jerked their heads in my direction, which was kind of jarring, really, since it made them seem like puppets instead of real people.
“Um, hi. I’m Flora,” I squeaked. “I’m looking for Mick. Is he here?”
The girl in the middle perked up. “Oh, Flora, it’s nice to meet you,” she said, hopping up and offering me her hand. “I’m Mick’s cousin, Penny. And these are my sisters, Helen and Abby.”
“Hi,” the sisters chirped in harmony, as I clutched Penny’s outstretched fingers.
But just then a curious sight in the distance caught my eye. “Hi. Nice to meet you,” I mumbled, distracted. “Um, are those Mick’s parents?” I asked, pointing out an attractive woman with lush red hair and a hot older guy with Mick’s raven locks and lean, muscular build.
“Uh-huh. That’s Stella and Cy…and Jo-Jo and Kat and Sean,” Penny confirmed, rattling off the list of names with a little laugh.
“Sean? Is he your brother?” I pried, still trying to arrange the labels on Mick’s family tree.
“No. Sean is Cal’s brother,” Penny explained. “They’re Billie’s kids. Our brother is Donny. But he’s not here right now. He went fishin’.”
My mind was swimming with names, but I was still pretty sure I’d connected a few dots. And if I’d connected them right, the boy with the marshmallows was the brother of Cal the Creeper, and Donny the fisherman was the other card player I’d tripped over at the rest area.
“So…did you say Mick was here?” I asked again, attempting to get myself back on track.
Penny pushed a small pair of pliers across the table to her sister. “Oh, yeah. He’s out back working. Come on. I’ll show you.”
With my happy-go-lucky new friend in the lead, we slipped out of the compound and into the trees. And that’s where we found Mick working on some horribly complicated automotive task involving nuts and bolts and metal and rubber and wires and…
“There you go,” Penny said with an approving grin. “He’s all yours.”
“Uh…thanks.”
Mick must have heard us coming, because when I took a step toward him, he crushed me with his sad, hurt eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted. “I was wrong. I like you. I love you. I didn’t mean what I said before. I just said it because of my parents. Forgive me?” I begged.
Without a word, he swallowed me in his strong, muscular arms. And from the tight, hungry way he squeezed, I knew he not only forgave me, but he also loved me back. As hard as it was to believe, the most exquisite creature on earth belonged to me. Flora Fontain. Little Miss Ordinary.
I let out one of those little sucking gasps people sometimes make in the middle of a good cry. “Shh…” Mick cooed, kissing little circles around my eyes and stroking my hair. Meanwhile, I clamped my arms around his waist like a needy toddler. And we stayed like that—stuck in an understanding, apologetic embrace—until the sadness between us dissolved into sweet, unadulterated love.
“Wanna go for a swim?” he asked, once things had finally shifted out of crisis mode.
Even though I wanted to move on, I was still stuck on what my mother had said. “What’s your name?” I asked.
He squinted and blinked. “Huh?”
“I know it’s Mick, but Mick what?” I asked again. “What’s your last name? You never told me, and my mother made me feel like an idiot for not knowing.”
He chuckled. “It’s Donovan. Mickey Donovan,” he said. “If you want my full legal name, it’s actually Mickey Reed Donovan. I guess you probably should know it, just in case we run off and get married or something,” he joked with a wide, perfectly-crooked grin.
So his first name was Mickey. I’d sort of been right about that, at least. “Reed? What does that mean?” I asked. It sounded sort of nature-y and a little bit hippieish, like my middle name: Moon. “Isn’t it something…botanical? Like some kind of plant or something?”
“Very good,” Mick said, sounding impressed. “It’s a type of tall grass that grows in the wetlands.” He paused for a moment, then said, “You know, you never answered me about the swimming.”
The sun was still lingering on the horizon, and I could tell it was going to be one of those oppressive nights where, at home, we wouldn’t have even been able to crack a window for fear of suffocating. Perfect swimming weather.
“Sure,” I agreed. “But do you know any private spots? I mean, my parents are probably still pretty ticked at me about the fit I threw earlier, so I’m trying to fly under the radar.”
“I haven’t had much time to explore, since I’ve been a bit preoccupied,” he said with a wink. “But Donny did mention a good fishing spot. A cove past the main beach. We could try that.”
I tiptoed up, slung my arms around his shoulders, and planted a soft peck on his cheek. “Perfect.”
“Here we are,” Mick said, as our feet hit the grainy sand. He paused to survey the area. “It looks like Donny was right about this place,” he said, nodding in approval. “It’s very secluded.”
“It’s gorgeous!” I gushed. “I love it!”
Like I said, I’m normally an indoor girl. And back in Punxsutawney, that’s pretty much where I stay. But the way the sky over the lake dissolved from pink to yellow to orange—like a fabulous painting by one of those dead French guys—well, you’d have to be dead yourself not to appreciate the beauty of it.
At the edge of the water, I dipped my toes in, expecting a shock of cold. But instead, a gush of slippery warmth washed over me. “Come here. Try it,” I prodded. “It’s nice. I swear.”
For some unknown reason, my sweet boyfriend had stopped to arrange our towels side by side on the beach, which was very cute but not all that important—unless, of course, he was channeling the way old people push their beds together when they want to do it. If that’s what he was up to, I guess I might have to reconsider the significance of the move.
So as my thoughts drifted from dead French guys to geezer sexcapades, Mick approached me from behind, cinched his arms around my waist, and tilted his head to my ear. “It is very pretty here,” he murmured. “But I’d rather stare at you for eternity.” With absolute precision, he delivered a pair of shivery, ticklish kisses to my neck.
“Mmm,” I purred, melting into a pile of humming happiness. “Me too. Stare at you, I mean.”
“Well, we could do that,” he offered. “Or we could get wet. It’s up to you.”
On that tantalizing note, he spun me around to face him. And that’s when I discovered he was naked from the waist up. From the waist down, he was sporting only a small pair of olive green shorts with white trim.
Confused, I glanced back at our towels, only to discover Mick’s ripped jeans and plaid shirt crumpled in a pile. Apparently the man of my dreams had stripped bare behind me while I’d contemplated trivialities. It figured.
Annoyed about the missed ogling opportunity, I decided, “I wanna swim.” But the problem was, I had nothing to wear. After all, I was still technically on the lam, which left few choices in the swimwear department.
I could skinny dip (but I wouldn’t in a million years). I could do the whole bra-and-underwear-as-bathing-suit thing (which was pretty tacky, if you asked me). Or I
could just jump in wearing the shorts and tank top I already had on (but then I’d have no dry clothes for later). My options were dismal.
I was still staring at Mick’s rumpled clothes—and imagining him naked—when an idea hit me. “Hey, can I borrow your shirt?”
“Sure,” he agreed, grinning like he was a step ahead of me.
“You don’t mind if it gets wet, do you?”
“Not if you’re wearing it.”
“Okay, turn around then,” I ordered.
Of course, my sweet, sweet boyfriend dutifully obeyed—not that it would have mattered anyway, since I changed out of my clothes like Houdini’s granddaughter. Anyone trying to sneak a peek would have been sorely disappointed.
“All set,” I said, approaching Mick from behind like he’d approached me. With a belly full of butterflies, I slipped my hands around to his bare chest and kissed him gently on the shoulder (which turned out to be an excellent kissing spot, by the way: soft and smooth and just a little salty).
And for a few blissful seconds, Mick let me have my way with him. Then he turned around and—staring at me like I was a once-in-a-lifetime cosmic event—murmured, “Unbelievable...”
Now as much as I love compliments, especially from hot guys, Mick’s over the top fawning was getting kind of embarrassing. “I know. I’m amazing,” I joked. “You’re such a lucky man.”
Dead serious, he replied, “Oh, definitely.”
That was it. I couldn’t take the hyper-focus anymore. Anxiously, I splashed into the lake, submerged myself, and disappeared. And when I came up for air, Mick was right there beside me. We were a little farther from shore than I’d expected—about waist-high on Mick and chest-high on me. As the balmy water danced over my bare skin, it tickled like a thousand tiny ants in velvet slippers.
“I love you,” I said, staring right through Mick’s eyes into his soul.
In response, my glorious, sparkling boyfriend pulled me to him and unleashed an avalanche of hungry kisses that consumed us so completely I could’ve sworn we were the last two people on earth.
Now things were happening pretty fast, so I’m not sure he actually meant to do it—if he even did it at all—but in the middle of our passionate grope-fest, I swear I felt Mick’s fingers slip inside his shirt and caress my boob. Of course, it also could’ve been a baby fish swimming in through the oversized arm holes, so there was still some reasonable doubt.
“I love you, Flora,” Mick whispered, pulling back to look me in the eyes. “You’re it, you know. You’re the one for me.”
At his warm, perfectly-crooked smile, a spike of pure happiness shot through me. And for some strange reason, just then I thought of Jessie in Europe. But this time, instead of feeling bad, all I could do was thank God for idiots like Jimmy Bickford. Because I didn’t know if it was fate, or luck, or sheer coincidence that I’d met the man of my dreams on a trip I was never supposed to take. But I didn’t really care. All I cared about was sucking up every last scintilla of bliss with my sweet, sweet boyfriend before our romance came to its inevitably sad, tragic end.
“I love you, Mick Donovan,” I said, fighting back tears. “Remember that. Forever. Remember me.”
I stayed with Mick longer than I should have, first in the water and then on a moonlit stroll around Wild Acres. Because once I’d started thinking about our imminent separation, it was all I could think about. And I didn’t want to let him go. The two-year-old inside me wanted to throw a gigantic temper tantrum. Yet somehow my almost grown-up self knew things would never work out for Mick and me—at least not right now. Our lives were just too far apart. I was Punxsutawney, PA—like it or not—and Mick was a mysterious nomadic adventurer. There wasn’t much crossover in our universes.
“Goodnight,” I said, tiptoeing up to peck him on the cheek in front of Tupelo-9. But on a night like this, a peck just wouldn’t do. So like he was going off to war and I might never see him again, I threw my arms around his waist and squeezed with a vengeance.
“Night,” he said, hugging me back just as tight. “And happy sixteenth, by the way. It’s past midnight, you know.”
I’d figured it was pretty late, but honestly, I’d forgotten about my birthday altogether. “Thanks,” I said with a weak smile.
“And don’t forget, we’re going to do something special tomorrow,” he promised. “It’ll be a surprise.” He loosened his grip on me. “And think about Michoacán. We could do it this year. There’s still time.”
I didn’t have the heart to ruin his hopeful, joyous dream; I mean, it would’ve been too much like telling a little kid there’s no Santa Claus. “Okay. I’ll think about it,” I agreed, even though I knew it was impossible. “See you tomorrow.”