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“Thanks, Trev.” I blink back the pathetic tears that his offer—and probably my beloved Scorpion Bowl—invoke, then mentally slap myself. Jason is not worth any angst or woe. It’s just that what Jason said…it hurt. Even if he was a patchouli-reeking jerk.
“Come on. There’s a booth.”
Trevor grabs the nachos, I grab my Bowl.
Trevor—five foot eleven and a half—occupies an odd spot in my heart. On the one hand, he’s like my fifth brother. I’ve known him since I was in third grade, and he’s the best friend of both Mark and Matt, two of my four brothers. In fact, Trevor has spent more time with my family than I have in the past ten years. He works with—and reveres—my father, who is Trevor’s captain. He’s godfather to one of my nephews. He’s arguably my mother’s favorite child, biology be damned.
On the other hand, and this is probably the hand that matters, he’s Trevor. Trevor James Meade. Beautiful name, beautiful man. And though he’s a longtime, very close family friend, and though I find him very, very attractive, Trevor is not a possibility. Don’t dwell on it, Scorpy advises. Scorpy has a point.
I try not to look at Trevor, turn my eyes to Jeter—sixthree, God bless him—and the other boys, but the score is, oh, heck, three hundred and twelve to two or something and the Yanks are on their eleventh batter of the inning, so it’s not exactly a nail-biter. I glance across the table. Trevor gives me a perfunctory smile, but he looks a little uncomfortable. I can’t remember the last time that he and I were alone together. Oh, shit, yes I can. When he came down to New York City and told me he was getting married. How can a girl forget? Another grim, embarrassing memory. I sigh, sip and take another layer of nachos.
Trevor signals effortlessly to the waitress—being female, she noticed Trevor the minute he walked in, and she stumbles to a halt at the joy of being summoned. Typical.
“Is that your first drink, Chas?” Trevor asks.
“Yes,” I reply. “Just one little Scorpion Bowl. They’re kind of cute, aren’t they?”
Trevor smiles more genuinely. “Hope you won’t mind if I walk you home tonight.”
“Not at all, Firefighter Meade.” I grin back a little sloppily.
“What can I get you?” the waitress breathes in a Marilyn Monroe sex-kitten voice. “Would you like a beer? The wine list? A few kids and a mortgage?” Actually, she didn’t specifically say that last one, but it was clearly implied.
“I’ll have a Sam Adams,” Trevor says, smiling up at her.
“I’d like another Scorpion Bowl,” I tell her.
“I’m Lindsey,” she breathes, ignoring me. “I’m new here.”
“Nice to meet you, Lindsey,” Trevor says. I don’t bother to reply, since I’m not part of this conversation anyway. On the television screen, Jeter clips the ball over the first baseman’s head and flies off down the first base line, stretching the hit into a double. I get the feeling he knows I’m feeling down and is doing his utmost to cheer me up. Oh, now he’s stealing third. Yes, it’s clear. Jeter loves me.
The waitress is slipping a piece of paper to Trevor. Her phone number, no doubt. Possibly her bra size and the preferred names of their unborn children. What am I, bleeping invisible? How is a woman who is five foot eleven and three-quarters invisible? And what if Trevor and I were on a date? We’re not, but it could happen!
Trev has the grace to look sheepish, and my irritation fades. It’s okay. I understand. Trevor is, though not exactly handsome, one of those guys who renders women helpless. His features taken one by one are not so special. Put them together and you have the male equivalent of death by chocolate. An utterly appealing, absolutely luscious man. Damn him.
I eat some more nachos and finish my beloved Scorpy. Maybe I should try being as bold as Lindsey, the sex-kitten waitress. After all, she’s been here for a minute and a half and a really nice, good-looking firefighter has her number.
“Sorry about that,” Trevor says.
“Sorry about what?” I say casually, looking out again at the restaurant half of Emo’s. There’s the New York Times model. He is so handsome. His bone structure suggests an icy reserve, if such a thing is possible, not like Trev’s instantly loveable face.
Another Scorpion Bowl appears before me, as if by magic. No, not magic. Stu, the bartender—who noticed me when Lindsey the waitress did not. Good old Stu. Too bad he’s married and sixty years old. Otherwise, I’d be all over him. I take a grateful sip, wince as my taste buds protest, then swallow. I need the booze, frankly. It’s not every night that I nearly choke to death and get dumped, after all.
“So what did your dumb-ass boyfriend say, anyway?” Trevor asks, taking a slab of nachos for himself.
I pause. The Scorpion Bowl demands that I answer honestly. “He said I’m not attractive enough.”
Trevor stops chewing. “What an asshole.”
I smile. Another show of loyalty. “Thanks.” Taking a chip devoid of any cheese or olive, I break it into crumbs and arrange them in a pattern on the table. This is good, because if I look up, the room spins a little. Scorpy the Second suggests that I pick Trevor’s brain. After all, Trevor is an expert on women. And, Scorpy continues, hasn’t Trev known me long enough to be honest, if nothing else? “Trevor, tell the truth. Am I…pretty?”
His eyebrows rise in surprise. “Of course you’re…well, okay, maybe pretty’s not the right word. Striking. How’s that?”
I roll my eyes. “Kind of crappy, to be honest. Striking. As in striking out, as in ‘When will A-Rod stop striking out in the post-season?’ Or as in a protest, as in ‘We’re striking because conditions suck.’”
Trevor grins. “Let’s switch you to some water, what do you say?”
“Come on. Tell me.”
“Tell you what, Chastity?”
“Well, you slept with me. You must have found me attractive, right?”
Trevor freezes, his beer halfway to his mouth.
“Columbus Day weekend, remember?” I continue. “My freshman year of college. You—”
“Of course I remember, Chastity,” Trevor says, his voice low. “I just wasn’t aware that we were going to discuss it. It’s been, what, twelve years? Maybe I could get a little warning next time.”
“Don’t get all prissy,” I say, taking another sip of my drink. “So?” My tone is nonchalant, but my face, I note, feels warm. Scorpy II tells me not to worry.
“So what?” Trevor says, his face stern.
“Well, you must have found me somewhat attractive, right?”
“Of course I found you attractive,” Trevor says carefully, shifting his gaze to a point to the left of my head. “You’re very attractive.”
“But…” I prod.
“But nothing. You’re attractive, okay? You’re unconventionally beautiful. Don’t let that scrawny little weenie make you feel insecure.”
“I’m not. Just wondering—if men find me attractive.”
“Well, I’m wondering if you need something a little more substantial than nachos. How about some dinner? Want a burger?”
“I’m not hungry,” I say around the last mouthful of nachos.
Trev runs his hand through his wavy brown hair, hair I’ve always loved. Thick, rich, wavy and tousled, the color of black coffee, silky smooth…I’d better stop. He’s looking at me oddly. “So what do you want from me?” he asks.
Four children. “Just be honest.”
“About what?”
“About men and me.”
There must be something in my expression that makes Trevor take pity on me. “Chastity,” he begins. “Men love you. You’re lots of fun. In fact, you’ve always been one of the—” He breaks off suddenly.
“What? One of the what? One of the guys? Is that what you were going to say? That I’m one of the guys?” My voice is shrill. And possibly a little loud.
“Uh, well, in a good way, you know?”
“How is that good?” I demand.
Trevor winces. “Well, you know a lot about sports, right? And many men enjoy sports.” I groan; Trev grimaces. “And you play darts and pool and stuff like that. Um, we all had a good time doing that triathlon with you a couple years ago. The MDA thing?”
I sigh and reach for my Scorpy, but Trevor has moved it out of reach. He pushes a glass of water toward me instead. I roll my eyes…one seems to get stuck…and look once more at Mr. New York Times. I wish I was married to him. I wonder if there’s a way I can convey this somehow. Look over here, buddy. Marry me. He smiles at something his white-haired companion says and continues to be unaware that his soul mate sits just yards away.
Just then, the pretty, slutty, number-giving-out waitress reappears with yet another Scorpion Bowl. Even in my tipsy state, I realize that Trevor is right and I shouldn’t drink another drop. Then, realization dawns in a glorious sunburst. Someone is sending me a drink!
“From a potential friend,” Slutty Waitress says, her voice loaded with meaning, and sets the glass in front of me.
Well, this is a change! Someone is interested in me! How thrilling! My cheeks flush in pleasure. Thank God! Talk about the cavalry rushing in just at the right moment! Just when my ego lies twitching in the gutter, someone has sent me a drink! Oh my God, could it be from Mr. New York Times? No wonder he wouldn’t look at me…he’s waiting to see my reaction! A surge of adrenaline floods my chest, and my eyelids seem to be fluttering. I glance over. He’s still not looking. Must be shy. How adorable!
“Is it from the—” god “—man at that table?” I ask, gesturing in his general direction.
“No. From the…person? Over there,” the waitress says. “At the bar.”
Heart thumping, I crane my neck to see who it is. Trevor does the same.
Sitting at the bar, looking at me with a smile, is a woman. She lifts her beer glass—I’m guessing Miller—and salutes me. Because I don’t know what else to do, I wave back weakly. She’s fairly attractive, with short dark hair and a pleasant plumpness to her, and she seems to have a nice face. However, this doesn’t erase the fact that I’m not a lesbian. Trevor covers his eyes with one hand. I suspect he is laughing. His mouth twitches. Yes. Bastard.
“Could you…could you tell her…I…it’s just that…” My face is flaming.
“She’s spoken for,” Trevor manages to say somberly. “Thanks anyway. You can take the drink back.”
The waitress nods, takes the glass away and undulates her ass inches from Trevor’s shoulder. I put my head on the table.
“Oh, Chas,” Trevor laughs. Without lifting my head, I give him the finger.
He gets out of his seat and comes to sit next to me, putting a brotherly arm around my shoulders. “Don’t be glum, Chas. Things will work out.”
“Blah blah bleeping blah,” I mutter, resisting the urge to punch him in the kidney. Such platitudes are as about as helpful as tossing a bowling ball to a drowning man. I hate the fact that I put up with the tepid and freckled Jason, even for a few weeks. Hate it that Mr. New York Times is miles out of my league. Hate the fact that I’ve just been mistaken for a lesbian.
It’s not fair. Here’s Trevor, the vagina magnet, able to seduce in ninety seconds. My brothers, ranging in age from thirty-eight to thirty-two, have to fight women off with a Taser and a sturdy chair. Yet somehow, at just past thirty, I’ve become a pariah. Mention my age to a man and he looks stricken, as if I’ve just told him exactly how many viable eggs I have sitting in my ovaries and how very much I’d like them to be fertilized. It’s not fair.
As I sit next to Trevor, the embodiment of everything good in a male, my first love, the first man I slept with, the man who I’m just going to have to get used to seeing with other women, I make a vow.
Things are going to change. I need to fall in love. Fast.
Chapter Two
I ALWAYS KNEW I’d move back to Eaton Falls. It was my destiny. The O’Neills go back six generations here, and I want my future children to emulate my own wholesome childhood—fishing on Lake George, hiking the many mountain trails of the Adirondacks, canoeing, kayaking, skiing, skating; breathing pure, clean air; knowing the people at the post office and the town hall; and of course, being near the family.
Granted, I’d imagined that the day I moved back, it would be because my adoring husband and I were ready to settle down and raise those four kids. Instead, though, I moved on my own. I’d been working at the Star Ledger, living in glamorous Newark, when fate intervened. The Eaton Falls Gazette, my hometown paper, was looking for an editor—soft news and features. I’d done my time at a big-city paper and was ready for something else. Everything fell into place at once—I took the job, moved back in with Mom, and two weeks later, made an offer on a tiny and adorable house. Because the mortgage was a little steep, I took on my youngest brother as a tenant, slapped on a few coats of paint and moved in.
That was six weeks ago. It’s all been a little rushed, but it’s really come together.
Today is a soft, beautiful Saturday morning in April, possibly the most perfect day ever made. The sky is pale blue, fog swirls off the mighty Hudson River, and the trees are topped with only the palest green blur of buds. I don’t see a soul as I run down Bank Street, my sneakers slapping the pavement. At the end of the lane is a large shed made of corrugated metal. I stop, sucking in a breath of the clean, damp air, simply, utterly, deeply happy to be back in my hometown.
I rent this shed from Old Man McCluskey. It’s a far cry from the boathouses I’ve used in the past, but it will do. I twist the combination on the lock and open the door. There she is, Rosebud, my magnificent wooden King rowing shell. “Good morning, sunshine,” I say, my voice echoing off the metal walls. Grabbing my oars, I take them out to the dock, set them down carefully, then go back in the shed, take Rosebud down from her canvas harness and carry her outside. She may be thirty feet long, but she’s light as a feather—well, a thirty-five-pound feather. I slip her into the water, set the oars and then, holding her steady against the dock, I climb in, tie my laces and off we go.
I began rowing when my brother Lucky joined the crew in college and needed someone to impress. I was that person…what are little sisters for, after all? Lucky let me try out his scull, and we instantly discovered I was born to row. When I went to Binghamton University, I was on the exclusive four with three other brawny, proud girls. While in New Jersey, I belonged to the Passaic River Rowing Club, but now, back home, I row alone, and I think I’ve discovered the true, Zen-like serenity of the sport. Last week, I saw a V of geese returning, like me, to the Adirondacks from their southern sojourn, flying so low I could see their black feet tucked against their downy bellies. Thursday, it was an otter, and yesterday, I saw a giant blur of brown that may have been a moose. In the fall, our famous glowing foliage will light up the hillsides like yellow and golden flame. Bleeping glorious.
The narrow shell slices through the river, the only sound the gentle lapping of the water against the hull. I check over my shoulder and pull harder, feather and square, feather and square, gradually increasing the load of the water against my oars, cutting them into the river at precise angles, my body contracting and expanding with each stroke. Little whirlpools mark my progress up the river, and the dripping oars leaving a map of where I’ve been. Feather and square, feather and square.
It’s a good cure for the hangover I woke up with after my night with the Scorpion Bowls, and a good prevention for the headache I’m sure to get at Mom’s later today. Family dinner, attendance mandatory. That means Mom and Dad, my four brothers, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, better known as Matt, Mark, Lucky and Jack, and their spouses and progeny.
Jack is my oldest brother, married to Sarah and the proud father of four kids—Claire, Olivia, Sophie and Graham. Lucky and Tara are in hot pursuit with three—Christopher, Annie and baby Jenny. Sarah and Tara are better known as “the Starahs.” Mark, the third O’Neill boy, is in the middle of a bitter divorce from my oldest friend, Elaina. They have a son, Dylan. Then comes Matt, single, childless and currently my housemate, and finally me, the baby of the family.
Trevor may also be there, the unofficial O’Neill, practically adopted by my parents when he was a teenager and a frequent guest at family events. Good old Trevor. I pull harder, faster, streaking up the Hudson in a gliding rhythm. My muscles ache with a satisfying burn, sweat darkens my T-shirt, and all I can hear is the slip of the oars into the water and my own hard breath.
An hour later, I finish my row feeling substantially less polluted than when I started. I lift Rosebud into her sling, pat her fondly and jog home. Yes, I’m a jock. All that exercise lets me enjoy every junk food on earth, so if for only that reason, it’s worth it. I run up the front porch stairs, open the beautiful oak door and brace myself against the wall. “Mommy’s home!”
And here she comes, my baby, one hundred and twenty pounds of loose muscle, drooping jowls and pure canine love. Buttercup. “Aaaahhroooorooorooo!” she bays, her giant paws scrabbling for grip on the hardwood floors. I wince as she gathers her sloppy limbs and leaps, crashing against me.
“Hello, Buttercup! Who’s a pretty girl, huh? Did you miss me? You did? I missed you, too, beautiful girl!” I pet her vigorously, and she collapses in a grateful heap, snuffling with joy.
Being Buttercup’s owner, I feel that maternal obligation to lie to her about her physical appearance. Buttercup is not a pretty dog. As soon as I had my house secured last month, I went to the pound. One look and I had to have her, because it was clear no one else would. Part bloodhound, part Great Dane and part bull mastiff, her coat is red, her ears are long, her tail like razor wire. Bony head, awkward body, massive paws, drooping jowls, doleful yellow eyes…Well, she won’t be winning any doggy beauty pageants, but I love her, even if her only tricks thus far are sleeping, drooling and eating.
“Okay, dumpling,” I say after Buttercup has lashed me with her tail and slobbered a cup or so of saliva on my sleeve. She wags once more and falls almost instantly asleep. I step over her large body and head for the kitchen, weak with hunger.
As I rip open a package of cinnamon/brown sugar Pop-Tarts, I lean my head fondly against the kitchen cabinet. I love my new house, the first that I’ve owned. Sure, it has its problems—capricious furnace, tiny hot water tank, unusable master bathroom, but it’s pretty much my dream house. A Craftsman bungalow (Eaton Falls is full of them, and I’ve always coveted their petite charm), the house has sturdy stone columns on the porch, funky lead-paned windows and patterned hardwood floors. I have the bigger bedroom upstairs, Matt has the smaller one off the kitchen. Once we worked out the “toilet seat goes down” rule, my brother Matt and I have gotten along quite well.
“Hey, Chas.” Said brother emerges from the bathroom in his ratty blue-plaid bathrobe and a cloud of steam.
“Hey, pal. Want a Pop-Tart?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“Did you just take a shower?” I ask.
“Yup. All yours.”
“And of course, being the one considerate brother I own, you left me some hot water,” I say with great hope.
“Oops. I did kind of space out in there. Sorry.”
“Selfish, spoiled baby.” I sigh with martyrish suffering.
“Don’t talk about yourself that way.” He grins and pours us each a cup of coffee.
“Thanks. Hey, when are you guys going to start the upstairs bathroom?” I ask, taking a grateful sip. “No offense, but I’m really looking forward to a tub of my own.”
“Right,” Matt answers. “Hm. Not sure.”
Like most firefighters, Matt has a side job, since the city fathers don’t see fit to pay its heroes a livable wage. (This is a tirade I was raised on.) Matt, along with Lucky and a few other guys, do renovations, and so of course I hired them to redo my bathroom. Someday, it will be gorgeous—Jacuzzi tub, new tile floor, a pedestal sink, pretty shelves and all sorts of neat containers to hold my girly stuff. Unfortunately, other jobs from nonrelatives have taken precedence.
“Maybe you can get started before my death,” I say around a bite of Pop-Tart.
