Harrison dives into the social courtesies—starting with the weather (“Can you believe this heat? Brutal”), asking Caroline how she’s feeling, commenting on the delicious scents drifting in from the kitchen—while I murmur my agreement and look at the antique end tables, the guitar in the corner of the room, the worn patterned rugs, the dead ducks.
“They’re dreadful, aren’t they?” Oliver appears at my side gripping two beers by the neck in one hand and a stemless glass of wine in the other. I follow his gaze to the ducks I’ve been staring at as if they will come back to life if I concentrate hard enough. “Oh! I don’t . . . they’re kind of . . .”
“Morbid,” he says, fixing Caroline with a look. He hands me the wineglass, then reaches his beer hand across me toward Harrison, who takes one, still engrossed in conversation with Caroline.
She stops in midsentence. “I heard that.”
Oliver grins and lowers himself into the formal wingback chair next to me. “Well, I don’t understand why you haven’t gotten rid of them.”
“I think they’ve kind of grown on me,” Caroline says, then turns to us. “This was our great-aunt and -uncle’s house. They took us in when our mom died. Kidney disease.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I glance from Caroline to Oliver.
He waves me off, but there’s a sadness in his eyes. “It was a long time ago.”
“So Mia tells me you live in Philly,” Harrison says to Oliver.
“Yep. Headed back tomorrow actually.”
I jerk my head up at this, and Oliver’s eyes find mine briefly, then he glances away. My cheeks flush, and I train my gaze back on the ducks, trying to pretend my embarrassment is solely from my reaction at his news and not the way I felt when his eyes were locked on mine.
* * *
In the dining room, as we’re all tucking into big bowlfuls of spaghetti carbonara, Caroline sighs with pleasure.
“Oh, it’s nearly perfect, Ollie,” she says, chewing with relish.
“Nearly?” he says.
“Well, nothing is as good as Sorelli’s. Have you two eaten there yet?” Caroline asks. The name of the restaurant sounds familiar, but I can’t place it—maybe I’ve passed by it while downtown. “Best Italian food ever,” she continues. “It’s a shame, since I can’t ever step foot in the restaurant again.”
“Why not?” I ask, reaching for my glass.
“While I worked there, I had sex with the manager.”
I nearly spit out my wine.
“Turns out he’s married.”
“You knew he was married when you slept with him,” Oliver says, monotone.
“I know, but it adds something to the story when you say ‘turns out,’ doesn’t it? Anyway,” she says to us, “now I’m pregnant with his baby! And done with the job at Sorelli’s.”
“You know, you don’t have to share everything.”
And that’s when I remember where I heard about Sorelli’s. “Oh, right! This woman at the Blue-Eyed Macaw was telling me about the open waitress position there.”
Oliver sweeps his hand out, palm up. “And there you have it—one of the many perks of a small town. Everyone knows everything.”
“So, Caroline, are you currently looking for work?”
Caroline shakes her head as she swallows the bite she’s chewing and wipes the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Luckily I found something pretty quickly—I’m assistant to the manager of Parks and Rec.”
“Oh, that’s great,” I say. “So what kind of stuff do you do?”
Oliver leans forward. “Yeah, what do you actually do, Care? You haven’t really said.”
“Well, I get coffee and answer phones and that kind of thing, but I also get to sit in on meetings and make suggestions.” Caroline grins. “Like, you know how as a kid I always hated that Hope Springs didn’t have a Christmas parade?”
“No,” Oliver says.
“Yes, you do. I used to write letters to the mayor every November and I’d get that annoying form letter back about how they had plenty of wonderful celebrations like Shady Brook’s Holiday Light Show and that stupid train ride turning into the North Pole Express, even though it doesn’t even go anywhere. But what kind of small town doesn’t have a Christmas parade?”
“Hope Springs,” Oliver deadpans, and then he studies Caroline’s face, which looks positively fit to burst with news. “Let me guess,” he says. “They do now.”
“They do now.” Her lips curl into a smug smile. “I’ve already booked both the high school and middle school marching bands and a Santa to ride in a convertible tossing out candy at the end.”
“Sounds like fun,” I say.
“Thanks. So what do you do, Mia?”
“Oh.” I buy time by resting my fork in the bowl. “I’ve actually kind of been job hunting myself recently. Something part-time.”
“Mia’s an artist,” Harrison interjects. “A painter.” I warm at the pride in his voice. But I know what’s coming next—the subtle questions to determine if I’m a serious painter, if it’s an actual career or a cute hobby—and I’m not eager to delve into my failures once again, so I change the subject.
“I saw the guitar in the den—do either of you play?” As soon as I ask it, I realize I’m hoping it’s not—
“Oliver,” Caroline says. A man with a guitar might be a cliché, but it’s a cliché for a reason—it’s really hot. I used to think a man playing any instrument was sexy, until I went to Harrison’s parents’ home in Buffalo for our first Thanksgiving together and learned he played the trumpet in his high school marching band.
“Oh my god. You have to play me a song,” I said, late that night in his childhood bedroom.
“What? No. It’s too loud. It’ll wake my parents.”
“They’re not asleep yet.”
After a lot more cajoling, he acquiesced. Pursing his lips to the mouthpiece, he started blowing, his fingers moving rustily, his eyes bulging from the effort, as I stared in wide wonder at this new side of Harrison.
Then his dad banged on the wall, startling us both. “What the hell is that noise? We’re trying to sleep.” And that’s when I started laughing so hard, I couldn’t stop.
“Was that even a song?” I asked, through the fits and starts.