Chuck assesses my biking credibility which, since I’m wearing a skirt and ankle-strap sandals with heels, can’t be impressive. “What you been riding before?”
“Uh—nothing.”
Now Tim, too, is staring at me in disbelief.
“But you can ride a bike—or are we talking training wheels?”
“Look, I used to ride a bike to school all through high school, and I had a bike in Cambridge, and I shared one when I lived in London. Yes, that means it’s been three years since I sat on one, but—well, is it true or isn’t it? That you never forget?”
My words echo in silence. Chuck gives himself a mental shake and turns to Tim.
“Gonna do her for a Jamis, a 700C—over here.” The men converse in low voices about my options and present me with a choice of three bikes, which I try out on the parking lot behind the store.
“This one, I think.”
“Good girl. Helmet.”
“Awww…do I have to, Mommy?” I wail, but pipe down when Chuck gives me a stern look.
“Sure don’t look purdy, does it? Well, neither does brain matter on asphalt!”
When Tim lifts my new acquisition into the trunk of the Subaru (mental note: send photo of bike in car to derisive Liebermans in Queens), I can’t help grinning from ear to ear.
“This is so cool! Thank you very much!”
“You look cool on it, too. Now, will you be all right setting it up, or are you going to thank Uncle Timothy by inviting him to the tomato farm for pizza?” The round blue eyes are all innocence.
“Tim, I appreciate your help, and you’re welcome to come round to the farm any time you want. But if you were straight, I’d be thinking you’re coming on to me—big time. So what’s with the attention?”
He groans and contemplates the traffic rushing past for a few moments. “Martin’s parents are visiting.”
“Martin?”
“My…partner.”
“But being nice to the in-laws is part of being married, so—”
“I am not married!” he snaps. “I only moved in with Martin because my building was sold and the lease expired, and I didn’t want to commit myself to anything, property-wise, before my promotion is through. This is a temporary arrangement, completely unofficial, and I see no reason to become all lovely-dovey with his mom and dad!”
Lots of strong feelings, and none of my business.
“Well—” I shrug “—if you’re really up for the drive, and you know a good take-out pizza place between here and there—because the farm ain’t got no delivery service, dude—I got beer, and I got soda, and I got a porch to sit on and trees to look at. All yours for fixing the handle bar and adjusting the saddle.”
Judging by the cars clogging up the parking space on the farm, the Walshes are having friends round. Tim and I park as best we can; I carry the pizza, the pump, and the helmet; Tim pushes the bike.
“You. Are. So. Weird,” Tim breathes as I open the farmyard gate. Dolly and Jenny are playing with a girl their age and a toddler on the swing hanging from the chestnut tree, and Pop, Howie, and two other men are getting the barbeque going. Pop sees me, sees Tim, and I make sure to nod a greeting. First time the new tenant is bringing home a man—that will be food for gossip.
“Weird for wanting to live here? Living in Ameeerica…suits me down to the ground. Along here.” I direct him past the main house and the steel barn. The cottage comes into view, blue as the sky on this warm evening, and my heart glows with proprietary pride.
“Mind you, Cleve lives in the sticks, too.” Tim shakes his head. “More remote than this, even. Without the farmers.”
“Why do you call him Cleve?”
“Oh, from when we were at school. I don’t see the appeal, myself, of this rural living.”
“You were at school together?”
He grins. “I bet that gives you all sorts of salacious fantasies, doesn’t it? Foreigners invariably think English boarding schools are hotbeds of adolescent sexual depravity.”
“Aren’t they?”
“No more than other establishments that lock up several hundred males with each other. I had a good time.”
“You can’t have been there together long,” I try with an objective handle. “He’s quite a few years older than you are.”
“Swee’pea, I’m not as young as I look. Although I obviously prefer being older than I look to looking older than I am.”
“Well, three or four years older than me. Right?”
“I’ll be thirty-eight before the year is out.” Tim is actually