Full of Grace Page 10

“I don’t know.” She shakes her head, wiping her pooling mascara away with the heels of her hands. “I look like shit.”

  “Go pull it together then. I want you to see this place.”

  She snortles, a really unattractive sound, but she follows it with a flimsy giggle that is like fine wine to an alcoholic.

  “Alright,” she says. “I’ll get ready.”

  ***

  I should’ve known better than to say, get ready, without setting a time limit. Sher doesn’t go in and reapply make-up or drag a brush through her hair. No. She jumps in the shower. The water runs until the steam leaks out from under the door. I turn on the news.

  Half the broadcast is over when she finally comes out in a poof of fog. I slide to the edge of the couch cushion with my hopes up. She’s got a towel cinched around her. I ease back and watch the second half of the news without saying a word. She’s still in the bedroom when the news ends and a sitcom starts up. When I finally decide to rap my knuckles on the door and ask if she’s ready, she shoves the door from the other side.

  “Don’t come in!” she squeals, and I pull my head back just before my nose gets bashed in.

  “Are you almost ready?”

  “Almost!” she says and I settle back onto the couch for the rest of the sitcom. She comes out at the end, only to scurry across the floor to the bathroom and shut that door. Some trashy, tabloid show comes on and I change the channel.

  “Are you done yet?”

  “Just a sec!” she calls. “I’m just doing my hair!”

  The hair, the make-up, the whatever-it-is-she’s-doing-in-there, takes another hour. I spend the entire time flipping through channels, pausing on a swimsuit competition that doesn’t last long enough. She emerges only after I finally shout through the door, “Come on, Sher! My stomach lining is eating itself!”

  She’s gorgeous, but I’m too hungry to pay the right amount of attention to how short her skirt is and how her legs look like stems, reaching to the Earth for water. I want to grab her hand and drag her out the door just to ensure she doesn’t disappear again. When she ducks half-way into the bathroom to fool with her the hair on her forehead, I groan.

  “Where are we going?” she asks.

  “You’ll see,” I say, urging her toward the door. She slips on her shoes. “Let’s just get out of here before the surprise is gone.”

  “Gone? I’m coming,” she says and the smile on her face kind of erases my frustration. It doesn’t stop my stomach from growling, but it takes enough edge off that I glance at her skirt. It only covers a little bit more than her rear end. She pulls the door closed behind us, but I pause on the welcome mat.

  “That’s kind of a short skirt, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She giggles as she starts down the steps. If I ask her to change, it might take another couple hours before we’re out the door again. I catch up to her instead, sliding my hand down her back as I guide her down the steps. At the bottom, I let go and watch her scrap of a skirt sway like God’s own breath is moving it, as she’s walking to the car. She giggles for no reason at all.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” she says, letting loose of a second flood of giggles. “I just feel good. You know how it feels when you get cotton candy at a carnival? I feel cotton-candy good.”

  “Good.” I smile at her. Buying cotton candy? It’s never made me wildly happy, but if she’s happy, that’s what makes me wildly happy too.

  “Can you tell me where we’re going yet?” she asks when we’re in the car. Her giggling bubbles up. She must be nervous.

  “Nope. You’ll know it as soon as we get there.”

  “How long will it take to get there?”

  “I’m not telling.”

  “Landon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I have to pee.”

  “You didn’t do that while you were in the bathroom for the last five hours? We’ve got about a twenty minute drive. How bad do you have to go?”

  “I was lying. I don’t have to go. I just wanted to know how long it would take.”

  I dodge a glance at her and she giggles.

  “I’m going to have to remember that about you,” I say.

  “What?”

  “That you’re a liar,” I laugh. I scan down her bare legs.

  “Great. Remember that,” she says, reaching for the radio. She flips stations until she finds oldies from the 70’s.

  “I would’ve thought you liked pop music,” I say.

  “Pop? Why?”

  “It’s light and fun.”

  “No, I’m not pop. I’m oldies, alternative, country, rock.” She counts off the categories on her fingers. “Some pop, I guess. But hardly any. I like music that’s got a message and a beat. But I don’t like New Age. Or the screamer music, that stuff is nuts. How about you? What do you like?”

  “Oldies. Rock. A little bit of anything that’s good.”

  “So you’re musically constipated,” she chirps. “We’ll have to change that. I can listen to almost anything. Well, not jazz. I like the instrumental brainiac stuff too. Except the harpsichord. I hate the harpsicord…”

  She rattles on, over all the songs on the radio, for the entire drive. I listen to how she doesn’t take a breath until she has to, how her giggle weaves between her sentences like punctuation, how she flits from one subject to the next without any concern over whether or not I’m actually listening to any of it. Sher just likes to talk. Every now and again, she’ll stop and ask me something and I uh huh and she continues on. It’s kind of musical and I find myself smiling for no real reason at all.

  “What?” she asks as I pull into the drive of the restaurant. Her eyes are on me and the sun is blinding as it sets over the top of the dashboard, so she doesn’t see the surprise right away. “Why are you laughing?”

  “I’m not. I’m smiling, because I like hearing you talk to me.”

  “Oh.” She sits back against the seat, trying to figure out if I’m pulling her leg or being real, but then she looks up over the dash and gasps, “Oh!”

  We drive up to an attendant station, where two men in tailed tuxes and white gloves open the car doors for us.

  “Welcome to The Moveable Feast.” One of the attendants greets Sher and offers his hand to her. “Your name?”

  “Sher.” She puts her hand in his white gloved one, dazed. The attendant takes a quick peek at her tiny skirt and I clear my throat.

  “Grace. The reservation is for Mr. Grace.” I say over the hood of the car. I know it makes us sound married. I don’t care. The guy just better get his eyes off her skirt.

  The attendant snaps to attention like he should. He drops his eyes and goes to his podium, gluing his eyes to his reservation book. He slides his finger down the entries.

  “Ah yes, Mr. Grace,” he says, keeping his eyes strictly on me, with a polite grin. “Party of two. If you wait here, your carriage will be along promptly.”

  “Thank you,” I say. The second attendant drives off to park my car.

  “What is this place?” Sher breathes beside me.

  “You said that you never got to ride a horse,” I tell her. “Since you’re pregnant, I don’t think a doctor will okay it, but you can ride in a horse-drawn carriage, at least. They send dinner with us.”

  Sher squeals so loud, I have to stick my finger in the ear closest to her. She grabs my arm and hangs onto it.

  “Are you kidding me? Landon!” She stomps her foot and bounces, all at once. Her skirt flutters dangerously around her thighs. The attendant rolls his eyes to the sky before I catch him looking again. Sher doesn’t notice any of it. She grabs my arm and pulls on it as she hops. “Are you kidding me?”

  A radio system, hidden beneath the podium, crackles. A stray voice reports through the static, “Schwertner, party of four, arriving for final departure.”

  “Your carriage will be ready in a moment,” the attendant tells me. The approaching carriage veers off the main path to another
curved drive that leads to an alternate attendant station. The attendant at that podium helps the party from the carriage and hands car keys to the man in the party. The family climbs into the sedan that the attending valet pulls up behind the carriage. I guess that is where we’ll end our evening too.

  A second carriage approaches. A man sits on the high bench seat, wearing a tux and a top hat. The carriage is open in the front and has a high back. The back is a shield from rain or street dust, and with the sides wrapping around slightly, I guess it offers a little snuggling privacy. Unless the driver turns around to gawk.

  The driver brings the horses to a hoof-tapping halt in front of us. Sher is mesmerized, staring at the flicking tails as the horses snort behind their blinders.

  “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” she chants as the attendant opens the carriage door and offers his hand to her. It’s like the snorting Percherons are rock stars and we’ve just gotten back stage passes. The attendant carefully averts his eyes as Sher gets in. She fans her face as she sits down.

  “Are you alright, Miss?” the attendant asks. He’s the consummate professional now.

  “Yes, yes, I’m great!” The giggles explode out of her like hiccups. “I’m so great!”

  “Wonderful,” the attendant gives her a patient grin as I climb up onto the seat beside Sher. “Are you both comfortable?”

  “Completely!” Sher giggles.

  “Perfect. Will you be serving from the basket, this evening, sir?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Then if you would sir.” The attendant hands me a huge picnic basket and I heft it up beside me. He rattles off what we need to know like any guy who’s had to say the same spiel a hundred times before. “There are blankets on the seat opposite to you, if you need them. It’s a decent night, but there might be rain. The carriage also goes along side the lake and sometimes there is a chill. Your dinner basket includes an assortment of cheeses and summer sausage, a loaf of French bread, a vegetable tray, fresh fruit, and pastry. There is also sparkling, non-alcoholic wine, as you requested. We ask that you keep your arms and hands inside the carriage and please deposit any and all trash in the trash container at your feet. If you should need anything, please feel free to ask your driver. This evening, Arthur, will be taking you on your journey.”

  “Thank you, thank you so much!” Sher bubbles. The attendant closes the tiny carriage door instead of looking at her. Smart man.

  “Definitely, ma’am. Please enjoy the evening.”

  “We will! We totally will!” Sher squeals and the horses whiny. I catch the lotsa-luck glance the attendant throws Arthur, the driver. Sher and her chainsaw giggle might just start a stampede.

  Arthur slaps the reins lightly and we’re off with another squeal from Sher.

  “This is so amazing! Oh my God, I can’t believe you did this for me!”

  I settle back on the seat, my stomach growling. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I’m starving too,” she giggles. “What’s in the basket?”

  She reaches across me, brushing over my crotch, and the alarm in my jean-submarine instantly flashes: Semen! All hands on deck! All the other thoughts drain from my brain.

  I’m staring into the basket and can’t put words to any of the food I see. All my words have drained into descriptions and images of Sher, naked. She pulls out a wheel of cheese and the return trip of her elbow across my zipper validates again just how hard she gets me with just an unintentional graze.

  Sher’s oblivious. She retrieves the long loaf of bread along with the cheese.

  “Look at this thing!” she hoots. It’s not nearly as long as I am right now. If she puts that thing near her lips, I’m going to lose it. I’ve got to get my head off this.

  Head.

  I look up and see the horse’s tail flicking, which makes me think of Sher’s skirt when she walks. That doesn’t help at all.

  I take a deep breath and think of the one thing that never fails to settle me down. Grandma.

  Grandma handing me a Christmas sweater. Grandma gardening. Deflation commences instantly.

  “This cheese tastes like feet. You’ve got to try it!” Sher giggles into my ear so Arthur doesn’t hear.

  “Well, now I can’t resist,” I tell her. I take a bite. It does taste like feet. She breaks the end off the bread and hands me a hunk. I dig through the basket and pull out the summer sausage instead.

  Sher gives a low moan of pleasure at the sight of the sausage. I’m sure Arthur’s up on his bench chuckling. Sausage. Erect bread. Bastards.

  I keep my control, thinking of the way Grandma’s lipstick bled into lines off her top lip. But Sher’s giggle even tears me away from my most steadfast thoughts of Grandma.

  “This was so nice of you to do for me,” she says, the edges of her lips quirk, as if she’s going to cry. But then her phone rings. She picks it up and answers after a quick, steadying sniff. She smiles. “Hales! You wouldn’t believe where I’m at right now, Haley Lane…I’m in a horse-drawn carriage…eating dinner…with Landon.”

  Even sitting so close, over the clop of the horse hooves, I can just barely hear Hale say on the other end, “Really?”

  “He knew I wanted to ride a horse and he knew I couldn’t, being pregnant, so he did this.” Sher smiles at me.

  “He’s a good guy, Sher,” Hale says and I hide my grin by turning away and reaching into the basket for the bottle of sparkling, fake wine and the plastic wine glasses. “Did you do what you were going to? Did you talk to him?”

  As I pour, Sher switches the phone to the ear furthest from me, casually bumping down the volume as she does it. Hmm.

  “I did,” she says into the phone. My mind races. What did she tell me that was so important? “He knows everything.”

  Everything? She’s got to be talking about…I have no idea. Sher takes the drink I hand her and tucks her head to the opposite side while she mumbles into the phone.

  “I know, I know…I will…so, it’s going good with you and Ocker?...mmm hmm…still hot?...oh good, good…oh, that’s cool…wait, what? Way to shoot low...” Sher pauses for a giggle. “He’s a good guy, Mrs. Maree. I told you he was…okay, look, I’ve got to get back to my horse ride. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?...Yup, love you too. Good luck with your boring life choices.”

  She clicks the phone off and slides it into her pocket. She chases the conversation with a long drink.

  “So what’s new with Hale?” I ask, instead of blurting, what was all of that about? What did you tell me that I don’t remember?

  “Ocker was helping her to sign up for college classes. She didn’t know what to take, so they were sitting around, trying to figure it out together. She thinks she wants to be a guidance counselor.”

  “That sounds good,” I say.

  “Yeah.” Sher takes a sip and flips her hair again, hiding her face from me as she looks out the opposite side of the carriage. Something’s up.

  “You don’t think she should be a counselor?”

  Sher turns her head back, looking straight at the horse’s rear, as she holds her drink in front of her and taps her fingers on the round part of the glass. A streetlight pops on and as we pass under it and I suddenly see that Sher’s eyes are glassy with tears. When we pass out of the light, she answers in a tiny voice.

  “I was just kind of hoping we’d do things together, you know? We always said we were going to go to college together and we were going to get married and have kids at the same time.”

  “Oh, I see,” I say. “But she ran off and got married before you.”

  “And I ran off and got knocked up before her.” Sher sighs.

  Arthur, who must not have been listening, or maybe just doesn’t give a crap about the sensitivity of the situation, twists on his seat slightly and says over one shoulder, “We’re coming up on the lake front. It’s been a little chilly with the breeze, so feel free to use the blanket, if you should need it.”

  I reach down and s
coop up the blanket, because I think we need it already. I fold it out over the two of us, pulling Sher close. Her body is vibrating, holding in a sob. I press her to my side and duck my face down to hers.

  Instead of words, I cover her mouth with mine and leave two comforting kisses on her lips first. Inhaling both her sweet skin and the first waft of the fresh lake air, I forget all about Grandma and lose myself in Sher’s taste instead. I move my tongue through her mouth and pull at her bottom lip when she doesn’t respond enough. Weaving my fingers into her hair while my thumb stays on her jaw, I draw her closer and groan my appreciation for everything she’s doing and everything she’s sad about giving up, between her lips.

  The tears that drop on my thumb dissolve and Sher responds, her body adjusting to mold more fluidly against me. Twisted, I hover over the front of her, my fist on the seat beside her, blocking her view and blocking anyone’s view of her from the street. I deepen our kiss, as if it can surround her and insulate her against the world.

  Sher’s fingers move across my stomach and come to rest on my inner thigh. Her thumb grazes me and it takes everything I have, not to pull up her tiny skirt and yank her on top of me. She returns my kiss, hungrier with each second. She leans into me, pushing me back, until I am the one pressed against the high wall of the carriage. Her leg slides over the top of mine and she adjusts the blanket so it covers us both, hiding the lower part of our bodies. She sits on top of me, continuing our kiss, as I run my hands along her legs and get a tactile reminder of just how tiny her skirt is, since her skin seems to go on forever. I finally reach her smooth back end. My fingertips run across the smooth crease of her bottom and I throb up, hard, against my zipper. Her tongue slides against the roof of my mouth.

  Holy shit, this is not happening.

  Not with the horses clomping and with Arthur coaxing them on by making cricket noises between his teeth and cheek. My mind is blown as Sher grinds herself down on my lap. Standing at full attention, her grooves are like Braille. I tilt my hips up slightly, trying desperately to trace every word of her.

  She throws her head back. I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her back, before she thwacks Arthur in the butt. She sinks against me again. The touch surges me up, and Sher, feeling my hard-on thrust against her, lets out a tiny mew.