Love, Life And Linguine Part 13

I am not going to sleep with Joe. But I decide to go for a WASAP. "I need a waxing as soon as possible," I beg the receptionist at The Make-Up Bar.

"Weren't you just here?" Lisa smiles as she whisks hair from my upper lip.

"I have a date. Of sorts. I want to look good for him."

"You should look good for yourself," Lisa said.

"Can you give me a bikini wax? Just in case."

Later that afternoon, standing in the shower, looking down at my body, I think about the diva. I miss her.

I rummage through Olga the Suitcase looking for CDs I haven't yet unpacked. Aha! There she is. The diva's diva. Madonna. The Immaculate Collection. The Immaculate Collection.

In the living room, I put the CD in Mom's player. As Madonna sings, I dance around the living room in my bra and panties. My damp hair showers droplets of water as I dance to three songs. Then I run my hands through my hair and smile.

I'm back, the diva says.

The Diva Smiles "h.e.l.lo?" n.o.body answers my call into the Hunter house. "Mrs. Hunter? Joe?" Walking through the house toward the back door, I look for signs of life. n.o.body's home, but a wet towel hanging on a line in the backyard tells me that someone has recently showered. Joe? Here's hoping.

A trail of droplets turning to mud leads me to one of the barns. "Joe?"

"In here," he says in hushed tones. Following his voice, I enter the barn and pause to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. In the slanted light, I see Joe lying on his belly, peering under a barrel that sits on two other stacks. Joe is wearing jeans but no s.h.i.+rt. His back is quite pale, his arms tan, and everything is long and muscular. "Hi," Joe whispers. "Come here."

I approach slowly. Joe points under the barrel. "Look," he says. I can't see what he's pointing at, so I crouch to a squat. Still, I can't see under the barrel. So I lie down on my stomach on the wooden floor. Leaning on my elbows, I follow Joe's gaze.

Several feet away, nestled on an old blanket, lies a dog. Five newborn puppies squirm at her belly. The dog's eyes are half shut, as if she's exhausted and happy.

"She gave birth yesterday," Joe whispers.

"She's your dog?"

"She wandered onto the farm without a collar. I gave her a home."

The dog mamma opens her eyes and starts to lick one of the puppies while another pup sucks at her teats. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" Joe smiles at me. His hair is damp and I can smell his minty shampoo.

"You showered," I say.

"I do that from time to time." Joe moves his head, and I see the lines around his brown eyes. He sits up and I see brown hair on his chest. The hair forms a single, darker line as it marches down his belly and into his jeans.

When I return my eyes to Joe's face, his eyebrows are raised. "What are you looking at?" he asks.

"Nothing." Embarra.s.sed, I put my hands on the floor and sit, preparing to stand.

"Wait." In a quick movement, Joe swings around his legs and sits facing me. My head comes to his armpit and I see dark brown hair there. It has been quite a while since I've seen a male body. I miss it.

"Mimi, can I kiss you?"

I nod.

Joe leans forward, closes his eyes, and touches his lips to mine. His mouth is firm, but not hard. He starts lightly, then presses more purposefully. I feel one of Joe's chapped hands on my cheek, then it moves into my hair and Joe moves my head, angling it so that he can put his tongue in my mouth. With his other hand, Joe moves me so that my head falls into the crook of his elbow, my body leaning against his bent legs.

Joe showered, but didn't shave. His stubble is rough against my face. The roughness of his beard contrasts with the softness of his tongue. I like it. It's a texture thing.

The diva smiles.

We kiss for what seems like a long time. It's dark. It's cool. It's quiet. Joe isn't in a hurry. He's not pressuring me. Slowly, I feel my body relax. My shoulders separate and lean against Joe's legs. My head rests on his bent knees.

Feeling my relaxation, Joe moves his hand from my back to my hip, then slowly to my outer thigh, then more slowly to my inner thigh. He's giving me every opportunity to stop him. I don't. Joe pushes his thumb into my inner thigh, ma.s.saging it. A simple thing, but it feels so good that I moan.

Joe moves backward, lying on the wood floor, and pulls me on top of him. He moves me up his body until we are face-to-face and kissing. How nice that he didn't climb on top of me. Yes, all my weight is on him, but I don't feel self-conscious about that. Rather, because I'm on top, I feel in control of the situation. That makes me more relaxed.

Joe wraps his arms around my waist and raises my s.h.i.+rt just enough to put his hands on the small of my back. Gently but firmly, Joe ma.s.sages the small of my back. I moan again and put my face into Joe's neck. After a few minutes, Joe puts his hands on my hips and lowers me so that we are crotch to crotch. My hips start to grind.

Yes, the diva says.

My brain starts to work. How far should I take this? Answer: no farther. This way lies trouble. I don't want to start another relations.h.i.+p with s.e.x. My hips grind to a halt.

Joe rolls me onto my back and hovers over me, kneeling on an elbow. He smiles. I want to say something. Like, "I don't want to start a relations.h.i.+p this way." Or, "Although I'm very close to ripping your jeans off, I'm not ready to get naked with you." Or, "I'm sure you could make me scream in a thousand different ways, but before I lose all rational thought, I think we should stop."

Instead I push him away gently and say, "Okay?"

"Okay," Joe says. He kisses me again, leans his body onto mine, and runs his hand from the inside of my armpit past my breast, down my hip to my thigh.

The diva shouts, Please!

Wrapping my arm around his neck, I push Joe's mouth onto mine. I move his hand inside my shorts. His fingers touch me, rough against the soft cotton of my panties.

Yes! the diva screams.

"I thought you wanted to stop." Joe's breathing nears a pant.

"What?"

The diva says, Don't stop.

"We should stop," I say.

"Okay." Joe rolls onto his back. "Okay."

We lie next to each other, looking at the ceiling of the barn.

The diva pouts.

Driving Down the Sh.o.r.e Ten minutes later, I'm in Joe's red pickup truck. It's a tricked-out pickup, with white leather seats and immaculate floor mats.

Joe settles behind the driver's seat and folds up his sleeves. He's put on a long-sleeved, b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt, the white cotton so worn that it's almost transparent. The unb.u.t.toned s.h.i.+rt hangs open, like a gauze curtain displaying Joe's chest. "Be right back."

Joe returns carrying a guitar case, which he deposits in the back of the truck. "You play guitar?" I ask.

Joe turns the ignition. "I was in a band in college."

"Where did you go to college?" Nice segue, I congratulate myself.

"Cornell." Joe turns, looking for something behind the seat. "Be right back."

Cornell, huh? There's more to Farmer Joe than I thought.

When he returns, Joe puts a white bag of cider donuts on my lap. "Mom made these yesterday, before she left to visit my cousins for a week."

"I haven't had cider donuts since I was a kid," I say. "Oh, the memories."

When Joe finally peels the truck out of the driveway, dirt and gravel crunch under the truck's wheels. As we drive from the farm to the highway, the breeze billows Joe's s.h.i.+rt away from his torso and my hair blows around my head.

Soon we are in stop-and-go traffic on the densely commercialized highway Route 70. I eat a cider donut while Joe drums his fingers against the steering wheel. This part of sh.o.r.e driving sucks.

Finally, Route 70 turns from a strip mall h.e.l.l into a two-lane highway. We drive into Burlington County and through the town of Medford, traveling backward in Jersey time as the road becomes more rural and less developed. Family-owned lawn care centers and lumber yards stretch out on either side of the road, separated by miles of trees and gra.s.s.

In Southampton, I see a farm silo, and within minutes, farm stands dot the road offering berries, melons, and early tomatoes.

A small sign announces that we are in Woodland Towns.h.i.+p, and soon we come to a traffic circle that will put us on Route 616 and take us to LBI. As we turn around the circle, I see Billy Boy's Four Mile Tavern, a ramshackle bar that looks like it belongs in the Old West. Milling in front of Billy Boy's are men wearing trucker hats, jeans, and brown leather belts with silver buckles that glint with suns.h.i.+ne. Their trucks sit in the dirt parking lot, lined up like horses resting. To my surprise, Joe pulls into the parking lot. "Do you want to use the bathroom?" he says.

"No," I say quickly.

"Are you sure? It's another hour to LBI. Speak now, or forever hold your pee."

"I'll be fine," I say.

"Suit yourself," Joe says. He leaves me in the parking lot.

I sit in the truck and start to wonder what I'm doing here, in the middle of nowhere, with a man I barely know. I think about the woman who worked for Dine International, and she seems like someone else, a different version of me. What if I hadn't walked in on Nick and tongue ring girl? I would've gone on my merry way, living and working with Nick, expecting an engagement ring and planning our future. Do I still want the same things I wanted? Husband? Children? Home?

I think about Joe's body, his jeans, the feel of his hands on my body. Get your mind out of the barn, Mimi. Be practical. If I want the husband-children-home dream, I have a much better shot at it with Aaron than Joe.

But what would life with Joe Hunter be like? Could I be a farmer's wife? Or even a farmer's girlfriend? Does it matter what he does, as long as he's a good person? Joe is well educated, well traveled and well hung. What more could a girl want?

Joe gets back into the truck and turns on the CD player. Springsteen, of course. We turn onto Route 616 and cross into the Pine Barrens, Jersey's wonderland of protected forest and wetland. I close my eyes and let the music and fresh air wash over me.

Beach Haven It's late afternoon when we emerge from the Pine Barrens and cross the two long bridges onto Long Beach Island. The bay is filled with boats of all sizes and engine power. Seagulls squawk overhead. From the top of the second bridge, I look across the bay and see the sky looks rather dark. Looking to my left, I see the Dutchman Bauhaus, a behemoth of a restaurant that looms over the bay. Seeing the Dutchman brings back memories.

At a busy intersection, we turn right onto Long Beach Boulevard and drive through s.h.i.+p Bottom. The boulevard is stacked with shops and restaurants. Parents and children, boyfriends and girlfriends, and packs of teenagers roam the sidewalks. Everyone is dressed very casually, in shorts, T-s.h.i.+rts, and sneakers or flip-flops. On LBI, there's an unwritten no posing rule.

As Long Beach Boulevard turns into Bay Avenue, we enter the town of Beach Haven. The street becomes less dense as development bends to the nature of the island. Bay Avenue narrows and the beach takes over one side of the street. Steep wooden steps lead to the dunes. Looking at the sand, I realize that I have been away from the Jersey sh.o.r.e for far too long.

Turning onto West Avenue, Joe comes to a stop in front of a single Cape house with beige clapboard siding and a roof blackened by the salt, sun, and rain.

"This is it," Joe says. He looks fondly at the house. "Dad bought it in 1962, just as the island was getting developed. I keep meaning to fix it up, but I kind of like it the way it is. It's not fancy, but almost everything is the same as it was when I was a kid."

I say, "I have to pee."

Hustling my bladder up the brick path leading to the front door, I see that the front lawn is filled with stones, pebbles, and sh.e.l.ls, bringing the beach to the house. Inside, Joe points straight ahead to the bathroom. Ten steps takes me through the living room, which has a red and blue plaid couch and several wicker and rattan chairs with blue and red cus.h.i.+ons. A gla.s.s-topped, white wicker coffee table stands in the middle of the room. It's basic beach decor. Nothing fancy.

As I sit on the toilet and gratefully pee, I look around the bathroom. The tub and sink are white, the tiled floor is white, and the walls are sky blue. It's clean and functional.

"Feel better?" Joe asks as I walk into the kitchen.

"Much," I answer. The kitchen walls are pale yellow, the floor is white linoleum, and the cabinets are painted white. The appliances are cute and retro, until I realize that they are the original refrigerator and stove. There's no dishwasher in sight. But I do see a French press coffee maker, next to which sits a Ziploc bag of finely ground coffee beans. Gottta love a man who knows the value of a good grind.

Joe sticks his torso out of the refrigerator. He smiles and holds up a bag of blueberries. "Breakfast," he says.

"Breakfast?"

"Yeah," Joe says. "I have strawberries if you prefer them."

"Wait. You didn't say anything about spending the night here."

Joe takes his head out of the refrigerator. He looks surprised. "I thought you understood that. It's already late afternoon and we just got here. But, it's no big deal. I should have clarified. We'll drive back tonight." He turns back to the refrigerator.

I don't want to ruin Joe's Fourth fun. Should I stay here? Walking through the rest of the house, I find two bedrooms downstairs, one with a king-sized bed and the other with a day bed and a queen-sized bed.

The diva stirs.

"There are four more beds upstairs," Joe says as he comes up behind me in the master bedroom. "I'm not trying to pressure you, but the house has plenty of beds. If you don't want to sleep in mine."

Turning to face Joe, I say, "I'm tempted."

"To sleep here or sleep with me?" He smiles and takes a step closer to me.

The diva whispers, Stay.

"I'll stay," I tell Joe. "Upstairs. You stay downstairs. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

Young Man and the Sea Joe wants to swim in the ocean. He's like a little kid. "Come on, come on," he says as I grab sunscreen and a towel on which to sit. I have no intention of going in the ocean. If I go in, I have to shower and redo myself. I didn't bring hair products or cosmetics. Is a swim in the ocean worth the effort? I think not.

At the water's edge we stand, me in my khaki shorts and burnt orange tank top, Joe in long, navy swimming trunks and a green T-s.h.i.+rt with white lettering that reads "Hunter Farm, Westfield, NJ."

"I love it," Joe says as we stand on the beach, staring at the ocean. It's after five o'clock and most people are packing up their chairs, blankets, umbrellas, and kids, and heading home. Oblivious to the commotion around him, Joe stares at the white waves and says, "If the earth is female, the ocean is male. To farm the earth, you have to nurture it. But to swim in the ocean, you have to fight it."

"That's poetic," I say. "Who wrote that?"

Still looking at the ocean, Joe smiles. "I did."