bring a book. Sit on the bench in her woods with the hills outstretched beyond, and read while Bert splashed.
But she had to stop thinking about the future. She had to deal with the right now, or the coming evening.
“All right.” She signaled the dog, kept her distance as he raced out to shake a storm of water in the air. “‘Brooks,’” she began, while they walked, “‘while I find you attractive and certainly enjoyed having sex with you, I’m not in a position to pursue a relationship’—no, ‘I’m not willing to engage in a relationship.’ That’s firmer. ‘I’m not willing to engage in a relationship.’ He’ll ask why. That’s his pattern, so I have to have an answer ready. ‘My work is my priority, and involves not only a great deal of time but requires my focus.’”
She repeated it, trying different inflections.
“It should be enough, but he’s tenacious. I should say something about appreciating his interest. I don’t want to make him angry or upset, or to damage his pride. ‘I appreciate your interest. It’s flattering.’ Flattering is good. Yes.”
She took a long breath, relieved the panic didn’t come again.
“Yes,” she repeated. “I could say, ‘I’m flattered by your interest.’ And I am. It’s easier to sound sincere if you are sincere. ‘I’m flattered by your interest, and I’ve enjoyed our conversations.’ Should I bring up the sex again? God. God! How do people do this? Why do they? It’s all so complicated and fraught.”
She lifted her face to the sun, breathing in the warmth and light as she came out of the trees. And looking out over the hills, she wondered. So many people out there, with so many connections, all those interpersonal relationships. Parent, child, sibling, friend, lover, teacher, employer, neighbor.
How did they all do it? How did they mix and mingle and juggle all those needs and dynamics? All those expectations and feelings?
It was easier to live quietly and alone, with your own schedule, your own goals, meeting your own expectations and needs, without constantly being required to add others to the mix.
It’s what her mother had done, and certainly Susan Fitch was successful on all fronts. Yes, the daughter had been a disappointment in the end, but then again, that’s what happened when you added another individual.
“I’m not my mother,” Abigail murmured, as she laid a hand on Bert’s head. “I don’t want to be. But even if I wanted relationships and complications, I can’t. It’s not possible. So, let’s try it all again. ‘While I find you attractive,’” she began.
She worked on the content, tone, structure of the speech, even the body language, for nearly an hour, fine- tuning it as she and Bert walked home again.
Assuming the discussion and dinner should be civilized, she opened a bottle of Shiraz. And had a half-glass to steady her nerves. By six-thirty she had to order herself not to pace, or pour another half-glass of wine.
When he drove up at six-forty-five, her nerves had taken the time to build again. She repeated her prepared speech in her head, using it to calm herself as she went to the door.
15
He really was pleasant to look at, she thought. It might take some time for the chemical reaction she experienced around him to dissipate.
“Sorry, I’m late.” With a grocery bag tucked in his arm, he walked to the porch. “I had a couple things come up.”
“It’s all right.”
“Hey, Bert.” Casually, Brooks rubbed a hand over Bert’s head as he walked into the house, then he shifted his angle, laid his lips on Abigail’s. “How’re you doing?”
“I’m fine, thank you. I can take the bag to the kitchen.”
“I’ve got it.” He nodded toward the wine on the counter as he set the bag down. “Nice.”
“You said steak. This should go well with red meat.”
“Good, because I’ve got a couple of fat New York strips in here.”
“You didn’t say what you wanted to have with the steaks, so I wasn’t sure what to fix.”
“Nothing. I’ve got it.” He pulled out two boat-sized potatoes and a bag of salad mix.
“What is that?” Abigail tapped the bag.
“Salad. It’s a bag o’ salad.”
“Bag o’ salad.” Despite the nerves, her lips curved. “I have plenty of fresh vegetables for salad.”
“That you have to chop up and so on. The beauty of bag o’ salad is it’s already done. Why don’t you sit down? I’ll get the potatoes on.”
She didn’t think she should sit. She hadn’t practiced sitting down. “Would you like to have our discussion before dinner?”
“Do we only get one?”
“I’m sorry?”
He glanced back at her as he took the potatoes to the sink to scrub. “Only one discussion? How about we talk before dinner, during, even after.”
“Well, yes, of course. But the discussion of the situation. Should we have that now, or would you prefer to wait until dinner?”
“What situation?”
“You and I … This social connection. The interpersonal relationship.”
He set the potatoes on the counter, and with a smile so warm it made something inside her ache, he took her face in his hands. “Interpersonal relationship. I’m next door to crazy about you.” He kissed her, strong, long, until the ache spread. “Would you mind pouring me some of that wine?”
“I … yes. No, I mean, I don’t mind pouring the wine. We need to discuss—”
“You know, ‘discuss’ sounds like we’re going to get into politics.” He frowned at the oven for a moment, then set it to bake the potatoes. “Why don’t we stick with talk?”
“All right. We need to talk.”
“About our social connection and interpersonal relationship.”
In reflex, her back stiffened. “You’re making fun of me.”
“A little. These are going to take a little while. Maybe we could go sit down. I could build us a fire.”
Too cozy, she thought. “Brooks.”
“So you can say it.”
“Say it?”
“My name. It’s about the first time you’ve used it.”
That couldn’t be true. Could it? “You’re confusing me. I haven’t even started and you’re confusing me.”
“You’re worried about what’s happening between us. Is that right?”
Relieved to begin, she took a breath. “While I find you attractive, and I enjoyed having sex with you, I’m not willing to engage in a relationship.”
“You already have.”
“I—what?”
“This is a relationship, Abigail, so you’ve already engaged in one.”
“I didn’t intend to. I’m not willing to continue to engage in a relationship.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m flattered by your interest, and I’ve enjoyed our conversations. However, my work requires a great deal of time, and complete focus. I prefer not to be distracted, and believe you require a more amenable and socially oriented companion.”
He took a sip of wine. “Did you practice that?” He pointed at her. “You did.”
Every inch of her body stiffened with mortification. “I fail to see why the fact that I wanted to be certain I articulated my thoughts and opinions clearly is amusing to you.”
The arctic tone of her voice did nothing to dim his grin. “I guess you’d have to be standing on my side of the room.”
“That’s just another way to say point of view, which is your rationale for a great deal.”
