“I didn’t see a stove in that kitchen.”
“I’ve got a Coleman and cast-iron skillet in the Tahoe.”
I don’t take the chair. I stand there like an idiot, staring at him, trying to put my thoughts and the things that I’m feeling into some kind of meaningful order.
“Kate…”
Before realizing I’m going to move, I’m crossing the distance between us. I hear my boots scuff against the wood planks. The red-winged blackbirds calling. The next thing I know my body is flush against his. He’s lean and solid and warm against me. Somehow my arms find their way around his neck and then I’m pulling his mouth down to mine.
The force of the kiss sinks into me and goes deep. His lips are firm and moist. I take in the sweetness of his breath. When I open my mouth he’s ready. His tongue intertwines with mine and for a moment I can’t get enough. Vaguely, I’m aware of his essence surrounding me. His hands restless on my back. His breaths in my ear.
The sound of something scraping across the wood surface of the dock draws me from my fugue. I glance down to see his fishing pole clatter across the planks. It takes me a moment to realize what’s happening.
“I think you’ve got a bite,” I whisper.
“Shit.” Tomasetti lunges away from me, snatches the pole off the dock, and begins to reel. “I think this might be the big one,” he says.
“That’s what all you guys say.”
He casts me a look, but I see the grin in his eyes. For several minutes he pulls back on the pole and reels in the slack. I watch the line skim through the water as the fish on the other end fights.
“Gotta be a bass,” he tells me. “They usually put up a pretty good fight.”
I see a flash of silver beneath the water’s surface, then the fish is out. Tomasetti was right; it’s a bass, probably weighing in at six or seven pounds.
He kneels, grasps the fish in his right hand, and works the barbed hook from its mouth with the other. “I almost hate to eat this guy.”
“Toss him back.” When he frowns at me, I add. “He’ll spawn. Breed more fighters.”
Holding the fish in both hands, he bends close to the water’s surface and lets it go. “We’re going to have to make do with the three I’ve caught, and they’re kind of scrawny.”
“We have grapes and cheese,” I tell him.
“And wine.” He wipes his hands on his jeans and turns his attention to me. “Where were we?” he asks.
“I think I was in the process of putting my tongue down your throat.”
He leans in to me and kisses me on the mouth. It’s just a peck, a soft brushing of his lips against mine, but it moves me, makes me want more.
I laugh. “So are you going to show me around, or what?”
“How much time do you have?” he murmurs.
“I can’t stay,” I tell him. “A few hours.”
“In that case, let’s go inside and get started.”
*
It’s odd that after being with Tomasetti I would dream of Mattie. Prior to the hit-and-run, I hadn’t thought of her in any meaningful way in years. Since, I haven’t been able to get her off my mind. She was a huge part of my formative years. She taught me many things, about myself, about boys, about the way life worked. Only now, as an adult, do I realize not all of the things I learned were good.
If you were a teenager and living in Painters Mill, the Round Barn Creamery was the place to go in the summertime. The owners, a husband and wife team I always fancied as former hippies from the 1970s, boasted fifty-three flavors of ice cream, sherbet, and gelato and ran their business out of a historical German-style round barn that had once been a dairy operation. The real draw, however, was the patio in the rear. Nestled beneath the shade of a massive maple tree, the area was paved with flagstones and dozens of potted tropical plants. An old rococo fountain spurted water that trickled over river rock and made the most amazing sound. A smattering of antique ice-cream tables and chairs were scattered about. Best of all, the owners piped alternative rock through massive walnut speakers, which drew teens by the drove and guaranteed a full house all summer.
My mamm and datt didn’t know about the music—or the boys—both of which would have ended my new favorite pastime. I made sure they never found out. As long as my chores were finished, they didn’t mind my going with Mattie for ice cream. We’d meet on the dirt road in front of my house and ride our bicycles into town. Friday afternoons at the Round Barn Creamery became part of our summer routine.