Since I was pretty sure that everyone liked Graham better than me, anyway, what if I just slipped out the front door?
“Mel.” I heard Graham’s voice. He came out of the kitchen and joined me in the living room, where I’d stood waffling.
“Oh, hey,” I said, playing it cool. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Your sister called and invited me.”
“Oh . . . wasn’t that nice?”
“I would have wound up on your doorstep one way or the other, anyway. I wanted to apologize for this morning.”
I shrugged. “No big deal.”
“I acted like an ass. My only excuses are that I was tired . . . and that I worry about you putting yourself in danger.”
“Okay.”
He studied my face, frowning slightly like he was trying to read my mind. I concentrated on remaining inscrutable.
“So, we’re okay?”
“Of course.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“Ah, I almost forgot.” Graham pulled a book out of his bag. “I happened to stumble across this at Christopher’s Books.”
The dainty little sage green book was wrapped in a cover illustrated with a stark sepia-toned photo of an abandoned urbanscape. It was entitled, simply, Grief: and Other Works of Poetry. By Hubert Lawrence.
“How did you know?”
“I talked to Luz, and she filled me in on the whole story. She’s worried about you. I have to say, I’m impressed that you’re hobnobbing with California’s poet laureate.”
“You knew who he was?”
“Just because I’m in construction doesn’t mean I don’t keep up with the cultural life of our country.”
I gave him the stinkeye.
He grinned. “Also, Luz told me who he was. Pretty interesting stuff there, though I’m not sure I understand it. It’s a bit like rap to me. I’m pretty sure it’s worthy and worthwhile, but can’t comprehend enough to say for sure.”
Twisting
driftwood memories Bent, cracked and gray
he is he, I am he
blood in the night
rooftop slick
we all fall down
“That’s just plain depressing,” I said.
“It’s beautiful in its stark view of the world, though, right?”
“I guess I’m just not a poetry kind of gal.”
“With an exception for Neruda?” he said with a wicked smile.
Graham had been wooing me for several months now, but I’ll admit I hadn’t been making it easy for him. I had moments of petulance and irritability, with selfishness and outbursts that Luz informed me were meant more for my ex-husband than for Graham. And yet he didn’t go away. He didn’t take my grumpiness seriously, which simultaneously annoyed and charmed me. Instead, he would smile an enigmatic, Mona Lisa–type smile and sit back, almost preternaturally relaxed.
So one unseasonably warm night, Graham had begged me to join him for a drive in the country. We had set out in his old truck, and he drove us to a spot he knew, deep in a redwood forest. Almost without a word he grabbed a packed picnic basket and a blanket, took my hand, and led me to a beautiful little clearing. Overhead was a thick blanket of stars, underneath the soft sponginess of the meadow. Crickets chirped and the full moon shone overhead.
He lay down a blanket and unpacked red wine, crusty bread, stinky cheese, and fragrant nectarines from the farmer’s market.
Along with a book of poetry.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I’d said. “A bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou?”
Graham smiled and handed me a glass of cabernet. “I’m romancing you. This is a courtship. Get used to it.”
I had taken a deep drink of the wine, and gave myself a little talking-to. Why was I so sure of myself, so kick-ass when it came to construction, but so insecure when dealing with this sort of thing? Graham may or may not be the love of my life, but one thing was certain: He wasn’t my ex-husband. I couldn’t judge him on the same criteria. I should give him a chance.
And then he had started reading poetry. Neruda, to be precise.
Then I couldn’t take it anymore. “Seriously, Graham . . . ? You’re an employed, good-looking, interesting man in San Francisco. You’re telling me that you can’t get a date?”
He looked taken aback. “I can get a date. I happen to be on a date right now. What’s your point?”
“Why would you want me?”
“You’re impossible—you know that? I’m thinking you do better with action than with words,” he said, leaning over to me, winding my hair in his hand, and kissing me.
And with that, we proceeded to do a few things that might have gotten us a ticket in the state park.