Summer of Love (6 page)

“Um — hello?” I stand next to her in the bathroom as she squeezes out a wash cloth to finally rid her skin of its botanical beauty regime.

“Oh — someone wanted a late coffee,” she says.

I put my hands on my hips. “And did you give this person the last of the stale brew?”

“First off, it’s not stale — you just made a fresh pot an hour ago. And second — I just told them to serve themselves.”

I’m out the bathroom door by the time she finishes her sentence and I tell her, “It’s not a cafeteria, Arabella.” What I want to say is that Aunt Mable’s café isn’t open to the public at all hours. It isn’t her place to let post-bar strangers in to help themselves to the leftover croissants and coffee. Arabella’s so relaxed in such a debutante way sometimes that she doesn’t think about the practicality of the situation.

“It’s no big deal,” she mumbles from under the wet washcloth.

“Never mind,” I say and start down the stairs. “I’ll sort it out.”

Of course I was so busy being quasi-critical of Arabella’s ease with the café and her lax attitude toward all things normal that I never bothered to ask her who had come a-knockin’ for that late night brew, but had I thought about it, I might have come to the conclusion that Chilton Pomroy, AKA Chili, would be perkily waiting for me downstairs.

So when I take the stairs two at a time, arriving in the café with barely acceptable boxers, tee-shirt so worn it’s nearly see through, and no bra and see Charlie and his Hippie Girlfriend, I’m a awash in fast-reeling thoughts: why the hell and I in my pajamas, at least my hair is clean and that it’s down — I feel prettier when it’s down even though I think it looks neater when it’s back, glad I met the Hippie girlfriend before so she — if not Charlie — doesn’t think I parade around like this all the time. And note to self — or rather — note to Arabella: thanks for not telling me to don a sweatshirt. I cross my arms over my chest and look defiant for no reason, but it’s better than baring my breasts for the world.

Admission — despite my desire to appear calm and cool at all times, I am in fact a flustered mess at present.

“Did you get some hippy?” I ask and am horrified by my slip up so I talk really fast to try and cover it. “I mean, coffee? There’s lattes and mocha, if I can find the leftover hot chocolate — or maybe you’re more in the mood for frozen lemonade which is in the freezer — of course, I mean it’s frozen right?”

Charlie — stunning in his navy blue tee-shirt — the kind that must feel like silk it’s so worn in — and his gorgeous girlfriend (in stable boots, a sleeveless cotton dress that looks like an antique slip, and an armful of thin, gold bangles) stare at me like I’m deranged.

And I kind of am. Could I chalk it up (oh, school year imagery and it’s summer) to the late hour, the lack of sleep of late, the constant whir of the coffee machines and my ever-slurring thoughts of love, college, loss, and Aunt Mable’s treasure map? Sure. But only part of that would be true.

I am a flustered mess because of the guy in front of me.

Charlie does this to me whether I like it or not. Unlike that calm feeling I had with Henry this afternoon, or that connected feeling I had with Jacob, around Charlie I feel stereotypically weak-kneed and racy, blushed and beating fast. Thoroughly crushed out — not in a teenage movie kind of way where I notice him one minute and the next I’m distracted by a pair of expensive shoes or the prom committee, but a very real feeling of being crushed by my own emotions.

“You’ve met Mike,” Charlie says as if this serves as a hello. He thumbs to his girlfriend (AKA Mike — of course she has a cool boy-name). Mike promptly slides over to me and sticks out her hand.

“Not formally,” she says and then looks at Charlie and back at me. “That’s a fine greeting, Charles.”

Her use of his full name startles me — as if I’d never considered that he had any moniker other than Charlie (or Boat Boy). Somehow, it doesn’t fit him. Charles is someone in a button down shirt, reciting Victorian poetry or talking about stocks. Not the guy in front of me with a day’s worth of stubble, hair dipping into his eyes, long-sleeved tee-shirt streaked with white and green paint, and a body that begs to be hugged.

“Oh, Charles, is it?” I ask him with a grin. If I have to be enamored, I might as well try to get my sense of speech back so I can form somewhat clear sentences.

Charlie rolls his eyes and smirks at Mike. “Okay, Mikayla,” he says to her and she smirks back.

Then Mike looks at me, “Daddy favored the Russian writers — thus, Mikayla.” I stare at her, probably drooling until she raises her eyebrows and goes on. “As in Vladimir Mayakovsky?” Of course she’s on e of the girls that refers to her parents in the familiar — like we all call her mother mummy and her father daddy. Before prep school I would have heaved, but it’s so commonplace at Hadley I hardly notice (okay, I notice — but then, I notice everything).

“Oh, right,” I say like I have any idea what Mike’s talking about — but I note the way she used a Russian accent to pronounce the name. Then I realize I do have some knowledge of Russian literature (bow now to the Hadley gods) so I say. “Hey — could have been worse — you could be Gorky or Pushkin.”

Charlie gives me a side glance and for a second I allow myself the indulgence that he is impressed that I came up with two other Russian authors — not that this is a huge feat, but after my silent shock when I laid eyes on him (alas, only eyes…), this might be a step up.

I think Charlie will explain why he’s here at midnight, why he stumbled into the café — my café (sort of) — just to flaunt his girlfriend? I mean, he knew this was Aunt Mable’s place since I showed it to him last year when we met. But rather than explain himself (something he doesn’t seem to do all that much) he says:

“I still remember that amazing moment you appeared before my sight…as though a grief and fleeting omen…” he looks out the window as he says this like it’s a regular part of conversation and I can’t help but wonder what the hell he’s talking about.

Then Mike touches my shoulder and says, “Pushkin — he’s reciting Pushkin just to show off.”

I perk up a little and my heart starts its laps again — showing off? For whom? Does he want to inspire a cat fight between Hippie Mike and me? Not going to happen. To prove this I make myself stop staring at Charlie even though it feels painful to turn away from him.

“So, Mike, what brings you to my…to the café?” I decide I will befriend Mike. She is friendly, faun-like, and so willowy I kind of want to push her over but this is only due to the fact that she gets to be with Charlie all the time and I just have to get over it.

“I just felt like cocoa,” she answers. Mike wanders from the coffee station over to the plush chairs by the front window and sits on the arm of a large leather one and shrugs. “And Charlie likes to give girls what they want.”

No — she did not just say that. Now I do want to heave. Except her tone is so blasé; maybe she’s just one of those girls who assumes everyone wants to give her what she wants. So why should I be any different?

“Is that so, Charles?” I ask.

Charlie comes up so close to me he could press himself against me and kiss me but instead he just reaches behind me for a packet of sugar that he taps on his palm. “It’s Charlie. The only people who call me Charles are my parents.” Mike laughs at some reference I don’t get and Charlie backs away from me and shoots her a look. There’s a lot of subtext between them but even though I consider myself a sleuth of subtext, I just don’t get it.

“Well, it’s getting late,” I say and touch my watch like I’m in a play and need to show the audience just how much past midnight it is. “And I’m on the early shift.”

Charlie nods. “Yeah, me, too. I have to get the boat out by dawn.”

Mike tosses her hair over her shoulders. “Why bother sleeping — just stay up and do it.”

Charlie shakes his head. “It doesn’t quite work like that, Mike. Some of us work around here — and boat work is extremely taxing physically. And mentally.”

Mike holds up her hand like a stop sign. “Hey —I’m not the one you need to convince.”

I raise my hand grade-school style. “I’m confused?”

Charlie finally sighs and shakes his head. “It’s nothing — just a difference of opinion. Mike’s of the mind that working is for…what did you say?” He looks at her.

“People who aren’t creative enough to come up with another option,” she says and sips her cocoa.

“She’s naïve — but then — aren’t we all?” He shuffles his feet back and forth on the bare wood floor then holds his cup of coffee up as if he’s about to make a toast to me. “Thanks for indulging me.”

“Bye, Love,” Mike says as she wafts over to the trash, deposits her cup, and heads to the door. I don’t remember telling her my name but then again it’s hard to recall facts and figures as I watch Charlie saunter down the moonlighted street. He has his hands in his pockets, his girl (as in not me) at his side, and I just sit there in the café, indulging myself as I indulged him. Then, if the poetic vision of him weren’t enough to send me reeling, Mike sidles up to him and drapes her arm over his shoulder. They’re down the street now and I have to rush upstairs and open the bathroom window to lean dangerously far out to see Charlie return the drapage — his arm over her shoulder, her head on his chest.

“Just shoot me now,” I say out loud.

Arabella, good friend that she is, appears next to me and sighs for me. “Ah, unrequited love — bad for the heart but good fodder for the artistic soul.”

“I think my soul’s just about as artistic as it needs to be,” I say and give my teeth a perfunctory brushing before tumbling into bed.

“So if you look at your color you can find out your shifts for the week,” Arabella explains to me over morning coffee with Doug, Ula, and the couple of college students they’ve hired for the summer to steam, blend, and shout “mocha decaf”.

“Am I pink?” one of the college guys asks. “That’s cool if I am; I mean I have no problem with pink.”

“I’m orange,” says the other, “So — Monday morning then Wednesday night and…”

Doug announces, “Arabella you seem to have everything under control.” He smiles his way around the café, and then drags Ula — ever grim and grumpy in her dressed-as-the-evil-character-in-movie black pants and black long-sleeved turtleneck in summer — out the door.

“Bye,” Arabella and I wave, and I know we’re both thinking how glad we are to be rid of them. Doug and Ula leave to catch the ferry back to Woods Hole so they can oversee Slave to the Grind in Boston and Arabella and I give each other a high-five.

Back upstairs, I change into shorts and a tank top that used to belong to Arabella’s famous model-mother Monti. “This is so cool,” I say and slide it on.

“She wore it for some shoot with The Clash — or The Rolling Stones,” Arabella says absentmindedly. “I forget which. But she never liked it — that shade of blue…”

I look in the mirror at myself: my red hair is just starting to blonde up at the front, the dusting of freckles have continued to conquer my nose and cheeks, and my forever-SPF’d skin is as pale as it is in February.

“You need some sun, girl,” Arabella says and flicks my white shoulder.

I turn toward her summer brown face and sigh. “You might be naturally Coppertoned, but I will always dwell in the land of the translucent.”

Arabella shakes her head. “Maybe if you got out more…”

I sweep my hair into a ponytail and slick some lip balm on. “Yeah, man, I’m a beach babe at heart.” I say it like a surfer might, and then I sit on one of the Tiki stools and drink my orange juice from a fake coconut. Arabella’s sense of design leaves nothing out — and even the shower has a grass skirt curtain.

“That brings me to my next point.” Arabella shoves the work schedule chart in front of my face. “See? I made everyone have a color that way you just have to glance at the chart to see when you’re due to report in.”

“I know — I was at the meeting,” I nod. “Sounds good.”

“And you’re blue.” Arabella cocks her head and rubs her bare arms. It’s still early summer and the mornings are chilly. Oh — chilly makes me think of Chili Pomroy — note to self: call her asap to check in. “And I put you on a kind-of reduced time.”

“Blue — how fitting,” I say.

“It’s your favorite color, not a mental description.”

“I know — it’s just…” I wonder how to phrase so I don’t hurt her feelings. “It’s like you’re all in charge here and I’m the visiting coffee wench even though…”

Arabella completes my thought, “Even though it’s kind of your place. I get it.”

Arabella checks her watch and pulls me off the stool and down the stairs. “We need to work. Let’s keep talking while we grind.”

The morning customers stream in so I steam milk and plate croissants and cinnamon sticks while Arabella tends to the vats of coffee and hauls a couple of bags of ice from the freezer.

Over the blender noise while I make a frozen chocolate latte, I tell her the rest, “You know in my mind we just served a couple of coffees and hung out on the beach.”

Arabella nods and rings up the sales. “That’s pretty much what I’d thought, too. But being here…” she hands the customer some change and turns to me. “It’s actually better than I thought.”

“How so?” I wipe my hands on my white apron. Eight in the morning and it’s already dirty with grinds, chocolate, and wet from the ice.

“Growing up, I never got to have jobs…” she blushes and puts her hands to her cheeks. “This is going to sound so ridiculous — but because Mum and Dad are famous and arty, and…it’s not the culture I was born into. You don’t just work at an ice cream shop.” Arabella looks out the huge front window to the swinging sign for Mad Martha’s Ice Cream hangs.

“So you’re just reveling in the job aspects? Earning money? Which part?”

“All of it — the responsibility…I know you thought I was off partying before you got here, and maybe I did for a weekend, but I’ve really taken to having a routine, getting everything organized, and being…”

“In charge?” I ask. It’s not that I mind. Really — it’s more that I notice that I don’t want to be in charge. That I don’t want to work endless hours.