We just looked at each other for a moment, and then I could see that he was having a carnal moment because he gave me that look. Yes, Archie MacLean, this would be the moment the boy kisses the girl. He cleared his throat instead.
“Well, good night then,” he said.
“Good night.” I closed the door, leaned against it, and giggled.
Did I really want a guy with graying temples and double dimples? Did I really want those forty-year-old hands on my thirty-year-old skin? Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.
I decided to call Leslie and tell her about Momma. Here’s the thing: If I didn’t call her, she’d be annoyed with me, saying how could I do such a thing? If I called her, she’d be annoyed.
I poured a large glass of wine to fortify myself, from the box I kept on the pantry floor, and dialed her number. She answered on the third ring. I don’t know why, but she always said I should never pick up the telephone before the third ring. Maybe it was because she was always waiting for a boy to call her and she didn’t want to seem pathetically anxious.
“Hey, it’s me. There’s news from the island,” I said.
“Hey, yourself. I didn’t hear jungle drums,” she said, as though she was a comedian.
“Yeah, well, I had to put Momma in the hospital today.”
“Again?”
“Yeah. Very dramatic, as usual.”
“I’m sure. I already know the answer to this, but is she okay?”
“Of course, she is.”
“Well, what happened?”
“She fell out of bed again,” I said. “Second time this month.”
“She’s still there?”
“Yep, they wanted to rule out brain tumor, broken bones . . . you know, a whole litany of stuff.”
“Jeez. A zillion dollars in tests for nothing.”
“That’s what they do these days.”
“It’s practically criminal. Should I send flowers? I mean, I can do that. No problem. Would it cheer her up?”
“That’s your call. Would anything cheer her up besides you coming home? I expect I’ll bring her home tomorrow. Maybe send them to the house?”
“Okay. I’ll send her something fun. What about getting some kind of guardrails? You know, the kind you use for toddlers?”
I looked at the ceiling. Didn’t my sister know how impossibly juvenile our mother was? “Right! Then she’d crawl over them and fall on her head, and I’d really be in trouble. You know, she breaks a hip, pneumonia sets in, and pffft! She’s a goner!”
“Well? That’s one answer, isn’t it?”
“Leslie! You’re terrible.”
“Gallows humor, sister. Gallows humor.”
“Funny but not really. So how are you and Charlie doing?”
“We’re fine. Well, I’m fine. Charlie’s been acting sort of odd.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Just odd. He wants to go to Atlantic City. He hates gambling! But suddenly, he wants to go to Atlantic City and see a bunch of shows.”
“Sounds like fun to me.”
“Sounds like fun because you’re stuck on that miserable island with the Queen of Mean. You know I don’t like all that noise. And all that craziness.”
Wait. Was my sister no longer Miss Party Hearty?
“Well, darlin’? Maybe that’s why he’s got a hankering to go to Atlantic City! To inspire you!”
“To do what? Wear high heels to bed? Get myself a trashy see-through chiffon robe to wear while I fry the chicken?”
“And here I always thought you were the wild one!”
“Well, now you know. Anyway, we’re going to Atlantic City next week for four days. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“And I’ll keep you posted on Momma.”
“Do that. I’ll call 1-800-Flowers in the morning.”
“So, aren’t you going to ask me how I’m doing?”
I could hear a deep sigh.
“How are you doing?” she said. “What’s new? Nothing, right?” Everyone thought I was a pitiful old maid at thirty.
“Um, actually? I had Archie and his boys over for dinner tonight.” Maybe I said it a little too brightly. The minute she heard a drop of happiness in my voice, I knew I was going to get an earful.
Dead silence. Followed by a slowly drawn out, “Really? Is there anything to report?”
“Beyond one marginally awkward moment when he was leaving? Nope.”
“Hmm. What did you cook?”
“Chicken. Lemon chicken with mashed potatoes, peas, and hot apple pie.”
More silence.
I finally said, “Are you still there?”
“Yeah. Listen, Holly. You’re my little sister and I don’t want to see you get hurt. Archie has a Ph.D. in world religion from Harvard Divinity School, for God’s sake. You’re a nice girl and all that, but he’s light-years out of your league. Can’t you see