Author: Kristan Higgins

“A loser?”

“Jeez, Sam! I was trying to be diplomatic!” I darted a quick look at his face, and he seemed okay. “I too suffer from…the Trish curse, after all…We’re home! Thank you, dear, dear Jesus.”

I stumbled to an abrupt halt in my rutted driveway, bracing myself against a sticky pitch pine and gasping. My dog whined to be let off the leash, and I obliged, amazed as always that he could circle madly around the yard or chase chipmunks in the woods after our ordeal.

“No, no, you don’t,” Sam the know-it-all instructed, grabbing my arm and towing me toward the house. “You walk until you’re cooled off. Then you stretch. Come on.”

“I really do hate you, Sam,” I said. He smiled but otherwise ignored me, leading me up the driveway, which was a good fifty feet long. Then he proceeded to force me into myriad stretches designed to relieve the strain my poor body had been under. But it was good, because where was I going to learn this stuff otherwise? Even though I felt kind of like a jerk, I paid attention as he showed me what to do. And by the time we were done, a mere ten minutes after arriving home, I wasn’t sweating anymore and my legs weren’t trembling; I didn’t feel like throwing up, and I could breathe normally again. So it worked, I guess.

“Thanks, Sam,” I said, letting Digger inside. “Come on in, I’ll give you a drink of water for all your hard work.”

As we leaned against my counter, I brought Katie up again.

“So, Sam…what about Katie?” I asked. “What do you think?”

Sam petted Digger’s silky head. “Uh, I don’t know, Mil,” he said awkwardly, avoiding my eyes and concentrating on the dog.

“I think she’d say yes, you know,” I encouraged.

“Have you guys talked about this?” he asked suspiciously.

“No! Come on, Sam. This is not eighth grade, though it probably would have been easier back then.”

“I don’t think I want to date anybody just yet,” he said, scratching Digger’s ears vigorously, not looking at me. Digger began to moan with joy, a sign that he was becoming aroused. Soon he would be humping Sam’s leg, but Sam didn’t need to know that.

“Sam, it’s been, what, six, seven months since Trish left you? Don’t you want some female companionship? It’s only Katie! She’s not going to expect a ring and a marriage proposal, for God’s sake.”

Sam slid onto the floor to better scratch my dog’s proffered tummy.

“I’ve got you and your mom for female companionship. And Ethel.” Ethel was Sam’s partner on the Eastham P.D. She was about sixty years old, with a leathery face, nicotine-stained teeth and the ability to curse so obscenely that she could put a Portuguese sailor to shame.

“Ethel is not a woman,” I said. I sat down on the floor with him, and Digger wriggled over to me, his tail thumping loudly on the fridge as he enjoyed the simultaneous tummy scratch.

“Well, Mil, I don’t know if Katie’s really my type,” Sam murmured.

“Not your type? She’s gorgeous! And she’s nice, mostly. Plus, you already know her.”

“Sure, I like her. She’s great. I just…I don’t know. I don’t really think it’s a good idea.”

“Why not? Just say, ‘Hey, Katie, want to grab a bite sometime?’ How bad is that? Is that so hard, Sam, dear? Is it?”

He laughed. “Okay, okay, lay off. I’ll ask her out. But you know, nothing romantic. Just two old pals.”

“Perfect!” I exclaimed. “God, you are so stubborn.”

“Me? No, Millie, kiddo, I’m not the stubborn one on this floor,” he replied with a grin.

“Then you must be referring to Digger,” I said, smiling back.

“Digger’s a good boy,” Sam crooned at my puppy, who then mounted Sam’s leg. I giggled as Sam, horrified, pried him off. Aha! I was thinking. Love, and not just from Digger, was just around the corner.

A FEW NIGHTS LATER, Katie, Sam and I were seated around a table at the Barnacle. Katie had said she didn’t mind going there, though I suspected this was to give me a chance to see Joe. Whatever her reasons, I appreciated it.

If Katie suspected that I was trying to fix her up with Sam, she hadn’t said anything, and I took this as a positive sign. Many times in the past three years, she had told me that she just needed to concentrate on her sons, that a boyfriend was the last thing she wanted and the thought of being married again gave her the cold sweats.

But of course, she was thinking of being with someone like her horrible ex-husband. Not someone like Sam. Never before had Sam been free for speculation, and believe me, there was speculation. Every single woman in Eastham under the age of seventy was hankering for a shot with him. I didn’t want Katie to miss the boat.

We had to raise our voices to be heard over the din of the packed restaurant. From the bar, a crowd cheered as the Sox scored. Servers and busboys hustled about, rattling plates and silverware, keeping the customers content. Tonight was the night. I smiled at my friends across the brightly colored tablecloth, imagining the nice couple they’d make. Sam, clad in khakis and a white polo shirt, shifted in his chair, glanced at me and began peeling the label off his beer bottle. Katie gazed out at the crowd, no doubt assessing the flow of the service and the contentment of the patrons. I sighed. They needed help, these two.

“So, Sam, how’s Danny?” I asked, hitting on Sam’s favorite subject.

“He’s great,” Sam answered. Katie turned to look at him and smiled, too.

“Is he playing baseball this summer?” she asked.

“Yup. He’ll be shortstop for Bluebeard’s Bait and Tackle.” Sam returned his attention to the label.

“Two of my brothers are playing, too,” Katie said. “I think Trev is playing for Bluebeard’s. And you’re playing for Sleet’s Hardware, right, Sam?”

“Yes. First base.”

Summer softball was regarded as almost a sacred ritual here. There was a league for women, which even I had played in many years ago, and another for men. Katie’s brothers played, Joe played, Sam played, even my dad had played, although he had retired from the sport in a ceremony rivaling anything at Fenway. When Danny had turned seventeen this past winter, he had qualified, and the fact that he was varsity baseball hadn’t hurt. Now with my nephew and the object of my desire playing, I would be going to my fair share of games.

I gritted my teeth as the silence continued. Speak to her, idiot, I silently commanded Sam. He didn’t obey.

“I haven’t seen a game in a long time,” I announced. “Katie, we’ll have to go. When do you play, Sam?”

“Well, um, we start in a few weeks,” he mumbled, picking away.

“Great!” I barked, hoping to snap him out of his fog. The urge to kick him in the shins was strong. I psychically threatened him to look sharp, and this time he seemed to hear me.

“So, Katie, how are your boys?” he asked, putting the beer bottle at a safe distance.

“They’re good. Fine. Thanks.”

I ground my teeth and gave her a look.

“What?” Katie asked.

“What are the boys doing? Give Sam some details. He doesn’t talk to you every day, like I do.”

“Um, okay, let’s see. Well, Millie had them for a sleepover a few days ago, and they loved that. They really love her dog, and now of course they want one, too. And, um, they’re in the library reading program, well, Corey is.”

“Oh, really? What’s he reading these days?” Sam straightened up and leaned toward Katie. See? I wanted to tell her. See how interested he is? See what a good daddy he would be?

“He likes the Magic Tree House series. And I’m reading Harry Potter to him, and he loves that. And Mike likes just about everything, especially stories about animals.”

“That’s great. The Magic Tree House is great for a six-year-old,” Sam said. “I miss those days…. Trish used to come back from the library with a huge bag of books, and we’d read to Danny every night….” Sam’s martyred look crept onto his face, and this time I didn’t resist the shin-kicking urge. He jumped and looked at me, his baffled expression a significant improvement from the tragic one he’d perfected.

“Well! It’s great when kids like to read!” I blurted idiotically.

“Sam, remember when we saw you at the market last week?” Katie asked, finally initiating some conversation. “Well, Mikey wanted to know if they could take a ride with you in the cruiser. I told them it was probably against the rules and stuff, but that I’d ask.”

Sam grinned, his eyes crinkling in the corners most attractively. “Well, for your boys, I think we could sneak a ride in around the block.”

I smiled, relieved that the ball was rolling. Soon I would be picking out my maid (or perhaps matron?) of honor dress for their wedding, planning Katie’s shower…

We ordered dinner and while we waited, I entertained Katie and Sam with stories from the clinic. “I saw eleven poison-ivy cases in two days,” I said. “Eleven! I had to put five of them on steroids, the hives were so bad. I think we should hang giant signs from the bridges. A big picture of poison ivy and the words Don’t Touch in ten-foot letters. Jeez. Is it really that hard to recognize? And why do people feel the need to bathe in it?”

My audience laughed. Sue brought us our dinners and we dug in. Sam had ordered what Katie referred to as “man food,” stuff that most females wouldn’t touch: a huge bowl of mussels and clams and scallops, complete with shells, atop a mountain of linguine and drenched in garlic and olive oil. Katie and I ordered the Barnacle’s famous gourmet pizzas. Mine had shrimp, mustard and pinoli nuts on it; Katie’s had clams, bacon and basil.

“What’s new on the Eastham P.D., Sam?” I asked as we ate.

“Oh, not much,” Sam answered. “Neighbors complaining, dogs barking, kids speeding, the usual stuff.”

At that moment, Joe Carpenter entered the building, wearing faded black jeans and a soft-looking T-shirt. He glanced around and saw us, waved and walked over.

“Hey guys,” he said amiably. “We meet again.”

“Hi, Joe,” I said, trying not to sigh.

“Great season for Notre Dame, hey, Sam?” Joe said.

“Sure was,” Sam answered.

“Go Irish,” Joe said, grinning.

“You got it. Want to sit down?” Sam offered.

A great idea leaped into my head. “Joe! You know what? My dad wanted to ask you something…um, listen, I can barely hear myself think. Are you going to eat at the bar? Let’s go over there.” I stood up and took Joe’s arm and steered him away from the table. Looking back at Sam, I widened my eyes and scowled, my personal sign language for Ask her out, stupid!

“What’s up, Millie?” Joe asked. He leaned against the bar and looked at me.

“Well, nothing, really,” I said. “I just wanted to give Sam a minute with Katie. Alone.” I smiled conspiratorially, supremely pleased with my quick thinking.

“So, are they going out or something?” Joe asked.

“No, Joe. Not yet. I’m hoping that will change any minute, though.” I laughed, and Joe smiled back at me, causing my knees to soften.

“Millie the matchmaker,” he said teasingly.

“That’s me. Now let’s watch.”

Sam was fidgeting like a kid in church. He toyed with his silverware, then glanced up at Katie. He said something, managing to make eye contact, though with great effort, it seemed.

“Here we go,” Joe commented. After all, he was quite an expert in courtship rituals of the Barnacle.

Uh-oh. Katie’s face had turned to granite in her classic “Don’t mess with me, boy” look. Sam was talking to the tablecloth, glancing up guiltily.