Richie stands up and wipes his hands on his light denim jeans held up by red suspenders. Along with a pilly button-down, he isn’t so much wearing his clothes as they’re dangling off him, like laundry drying on the line. The crown of his head nearly touches the lamp hanging from the ceiling, and Cece thinks she can smell burning hair. He reminds her of a Puritan preacher, about to rain fire and brimstone from the pulpit, cursing his parishioners for their sins. Cece’s persistence seems to fluster him while herummages through his shirt pocket for something. “It’s nothing personal,” he says, giving Cece a forced smile full of tobacco-stained teeth.
“I understand.”
Richie digs out a toothpick from a shirt pocket and pops it cavalierly into the corner of his mouth. “If you can sort it out with him, I’m good with it.”
Cece thanks him and leaves before he can change his mind. Aware Richie might be watching, she holds her head high until she’s out of view. Not until she exits the warehouse into the blinding sun, jumps into her suffocatingly hot car, and puts the windows down while she drives out of town, avoiding the drawbridge in favor of the interstate, does she allow the disappointment to wash over her like a thunderous ocean wave.
The idea ofwinning over Santiago seems nearly impossible. Cece is caught off guard by her emotional investment in the job. What had initially seemed like a good way to pass the time and disengage from the tumult of her life feels suddenly urgent and necessary. Even if it just means getting to work on the dock with the sorting equipment, Cece wants to feel like she’s making progress, learning something, proving everyone wrong. The urge is juvenile and petty, but there’s no way around it.
Thankfully, Cece can’t linger too long on her conversation with Richie. Dinner with Morgan is tonight, and she finds herself excited and hopeful. At first, she’d balked at the idea, fearful that she might be giving him the wrong idea. Or was it that shewas fearful of giving in to an idea, a feeling, that had felt wrong since they’d met? Cece isn’t foolish enough to think she can sleep her way through her current problems, which is why she set ground rules: no sex, no sleeping over, under any circumstances. At least she won’t have to cook dinner. Pulling into the gravel driveway, she thinks about potential reasons for going out, just in case Lorraine’s home and asks where she’s headed. If possible, she’d like to avoid the distinction of fraternizing with the enemy.
Cece can smellthe cooking before she knocks on the door. From an open window: the aroma of butter and garlic wafting out into the summer night. Morgan appears, kitchen towel slung over his shoulder, a large Band-Aid on the top of his hand. Nothing serious, he assures her. Just some culinary hubris.
“It smells delicious,” Cece says, thankful she doesn’t have to lie. In her experience, when men say they can cook, they usually can’t. How many mediocre meals had she sat through? A pleasing smile on her face. Can cook, Cece thinks, adding the attribute to the positive category. She’s decided to keep a mental checklist in her head, weighing Morgan’s qualities. It’s a crude but necessary tool to combat her current state of confusion. And yes, Cece is willing to admit she’s confused—confused and intrigued all at once. Why else would she be here?
The inside of Morgan’s house is nothing like Cece remembers. Then again, the only room she can really recall is the main bedroom. Perhaps she’d had more to drink than she’d initially thought that night. Thankfully, she’d had enough time to showerbefore dinner, but Cece still sniffs her armpits when Morgan isn’t looking, paranoid she smells like sea scum. While he grabs them drinks from the kitchen, she takes the time to look around the living room.
Contrary to its run-down exterior, Morgan’s home is warm and inviting inside, with its new hardwood floors and freshly painted walls. A worn but sturdy leather sectional dominates the living room. A grand white ash coffee table rests in the center of a circular jute rug. Shelves on cinder blocks form makeshift bookshelves and line the walls. To Cece’s astonishment, they are overflowing with books of every shape and size: thick encyclopedias, clothbound atlases, humble dog-eared paperbacks, and well-preserved hardcovers. Next to the couch, more books stacked in precariously leaning towers along with piles of newspapers, creased and ruffled. Before Cece can examine the shelves more closely, Morgan returns with her beer. For a moment, Cece thinks he’ll say something about the books, but he doesn’t; instead, he offers her the tour. She considers making a joke about already having done the tour, but she holds her tongue, not wanting to ruin the moment. Between the living room and the kitchen, Morgan’s demolished a wall and used the extra space to install an oversized island crafted from repurposed wood, ruts sanded smooth, knots swirling and dark. The rest of the house is still very much a work in progress with rooms that more closely resemble a construction zone than a home: the guest bedroom with Sheetrock for walls, the powder room floor, stripped of its linoleum, a plastic tarp in its place, a slop bucket catching water from the suspect plumbing underneath the sink. Even with theinescapable whiffs of paint and plaster, Cece feels at ease here, where she can’t be reminded of her previous life.
Back in the kitchen, Morgan uncorks a bottle of white and gives the saucepan of steaming clams a splash. “Any dietary restrictions the kitchen should be made aware of?”
Cece tugs at the strands of her jean shorts. “All sorts. Unless those clams have lived fulfilling lives, I’m afraid I can’t eat them.”
Morgan gives a hearty laugh and checks on a large pot of boiling water, turning up the flame. He moves through the kitchen with supreme confidence, pulling a colander and cutting board from the cupboard, slicing lemons and chiffonading handfuls of parsley at a speed that almost alarms Cece, the knife blade small and nimble in his big hands.
“Where’d you learn to cook like that?” Cece asks, after they’ve taken their bowls of linguini and clams out back.
Morgan’s set a crude picnic table made of cast-off lumber and steel drums for them. Citronella candles burn bright in colored glass.
“You get real good at cooking when you live alone,” he says, raising his beer.
“I beg to differ.”
“To a good home-cooked meal, then,” Morgan says.
They toast and fall to eating. Pasta twice in the last week, Cece thinks. Too many carbs—then again, she’s burning more calories than she’s ever burned with the oyster crew. She can’t help but observe Morgan eat, chapped elbows on the table, twirling heaping mounds of slick linguini on his spoon, chewing thoughtfully, his eyes playful, garlic bread crumbs in his beard.Even though they’ve already slept together, even though she can remember the way his voice felt against her back—Up through the rabbit hole, round the big tree; down through the rabbit hole, and off goes he—she’s pushed off-balance by the strange intimacy of the moment, sharing a meal, eating quietly, only the whine of frustrated mosquitos. When Cece accepts the offer for seconds, the reason is twofold: The dinner is utterly delicious, and she’ll be less likely to break her own promise not to sleep over with a full stomach.
When they’ve finished for good, Cece helps clear the table and leaves the dirty dishes in the sink at Morgan’s insistence. Admitting defeat to the insects, they move to the living room couch, where Morgan’s laid out the home’s original blueprints, along with some future design concepts. He explains his vision to Cece, where he wants to install skylights, a half wall, and crown molding. There’s even a sharply drawn design for a screened-in porch. He wants to do everything himself, down to the roof work. Cece marvel’s silently at Morgan’s ingenuity and skill. How does one accrue such knowledge? she wonders.
Looking over his plans, Morgan seems to grow bashful, hastily rolling up the papers and securing them with a worn rubber band, like he’s embarrassed by his own optimism.
Cece can’t stop thinking about how the more time she spends with Morgan, the more questions she has. Part of her thought everything would make itself plain upon stepping foot in his house again—but nothing could be further from the truth. The sketch Cece’s been working on of Morgan—rough-around-the-edges, blue-collar bachelor—is getting hazier by the second.
She looks around the room again. “Have you read all these books?”
“Sure,” Morgan says, eyeing the shelves like he’s seeing them for the first time. “Half of them are cheap mysteries. The kind you used to be able to buy at the supermarket. Why? Think they’re just for show?”
Cece worries she’s gone bright red. “No, no. Not at all. I was just wondering.”
“You can check,” he says, nodding playfully toward the shelves. “They’re real, just like in Jay Gatsby’s library.”
Cece tries to hide her confusion and ignores the literary reference. Whyisshe confused anyway? Has she really become that snobbish? What was she expecting? Cable news stories and NASCAR highlights? The guy went to high school. He probably went to college, too! Get a grip! Cece thinks to herself. “No. I mean…it’s impressive. I just haven’t met anyone in a while that reads much. I don’t think I’ve read a book in five years.”
“It’s a good way to pass the time as any other.”
“Better than binging terrible reality television.”
Morgan promises he isn’t judging her TV-watching habits, which only makes Cece feel worse. He brings out coasters for their beers that are sweating on the coffee table. He doesn’t make a move to get closer, which brings Cece a sense of frustrated relief. Instead, he picks at the label on his bottle and says, “I was thinking more about your old job. About how hard it must have been.”
