Eileen Slovak

Chapter Seventeen: Home, Haven and Mr. Hot Bod

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and locales are products of the author’s imagination. They are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental. Copyright © 2024 by Eileen Slovak.

Scarlet

Sunday Morning, I wake to the boom of thunder. I pull the covers over my head, with a plan of settling back to sleep. There is nothing like a comforting rainstorm, an excuse to take a break from my frenzied routine. Somehow, bright sunlight never affords the luxury of a slouch on the couch reading an amazing book. Not quite like rain. It’s the perfect opportunity to regroup, and to forget about the world outside.

      I overslept, missing Mass. Sorry God! The funeral will have to count for this week. I’m ready for a quiet day of R&R, until I remember I’m still out of coffee, and everything else. I search through my sparsely filled cabinets. The remnants include a half empty container of cornmeal. There is also a box with two mint tea bags and a can of low-calorie minestrone soup. An open sleeve of saltine crackers, now petrified, completes the collection.

The contents of the fridge are even worse: condiments (which never go bad, right?), two moldy tomatoes, a bag of soggy carrots, one yogurt – not yet expired (yay!). On the lower shelf I find a half-full bottle of OJ and a half-empty bottle of champagne, now flat. Next to that are three to-go containers from the Un Pub. I can’t remember what they once were. Since I don’t recall when I brought them home exactly, I toss them out. I’m afraid to even lift the Styrofoam covers. I also dump the tomatoes, carrots, crackers and champagne on top.

Showering without bothering to dry my hair, I rifle through my drawers for comfort clothes. I find clean sweats and an oversize Boston College sweatshirt. When I pull the sweatshirt over my head, the familiar scent of Sean’s Ralph Lauren cologne overcomes me. I meant to return it, but never had the chance. Sadness sweeps in so easily, like a chilly breeze on a summer day. I hug the sweatshirt to my body. I miss you, Sean!

      The day I borrowed it, Sean and I were walking along the main street of Bella Vista, Arkansas. We were shopping for things to decorate his new apartment. Two weeks prior, he had moved there to become the Assistant Toy Buyer for Walmart at their headquarters in nearby Bentonville. The move was problematic for me. The miles between us created an emotional as well as physical distance. I felt myself cooling to our once hot romance.  

      Bella Vista in September was true to its name, a quaint town in a park-like setting. Sitting in an outdoor café, sipping cappuccino, Sean had no sense of the doubt looming in my mind. I looked across the café table at Sean, but his hazel eyes had fixated on a man two tables away. Something had caused his radiant smile to change into a snicker. I felt warmth glow inside me again.

      “Okay, what’s so funny?” I asked, looking over at the man.

      “Come here,” Sean whispered. I moved to the chair next to his. Then seeing what he saw, burst out laughing. A middle-aged golfer was idly talking on his cell phone. He had an inchworm stuck to the side of his face. He must have picked it up out on the green. The worm who had suctioned himself to the man’s cheek, was reaching around in vain. His long, lime green body, trying to escape. The man picked up his beer and started drinking it. The worm continued to writhe.

      “Should we tell him?” I asked.

      “Heck no.”

      “You would think he could feel it? How can he just keep on talking?”

      “I think that’s the waitress’s responsibility,” Sean said. “She served him that beer and is expecting a tip. She should definitely say something. Darn, I wish I could film this. He’d definitely suspect something then, though.”

      “I feel so sorry for Inchy.”

      “You’re naming the worm?” Sean laughed, “I wouldn’t get too attached, I’m afraid he’s a goner.”

      “I can’t bear to watch poor Inchy meet his final end, we have to leave at once,” I said dramatically. We left arm in arm, still giggling.

      “Such compassion…for the worm,” Sean said, pulling me into a toy store by the hand, then tugging me up an aisle. He spontaneously kissed me full on the mouth, oblivious to the other shoppers. Warmth rushed through my body, banishing all previous doubts.

      A woman with a child entered the aisle searching through the Lego™ section. Seeing us, she loudly cleared her throat. We stopped kissing when we saw the disapproving look on her face. Her son stared wide-eyed, with his mouth open as she led him away.

      “Nooooo, I want to see the Star Wars Lego’s!!!!” he wailed.

      “Sean Campbell, you are a menace to society, corrupting little children like that,” I said, pushing him away. Then, rethinking it, I grabbed his shirt, pulling him back into me.

      “Oh, boy. Here I was trying to make a good impression in my new town. I guess I blew that, huh?” He smiled.

      I started thinking about moving boxes, considering career searches. About starting over in Arkansas. While I daydreamed, he checked out the shelves of the competition. Spotting a large bin filled with small plastic creatures, Sean bent over rummaging through, digging for something. His playful nature was contagious. He loved toys as much as children did, which was why the job at Walmart was so perfect for him.

      “What on earth are you looking for?”

      When he straightened up, he held a giant centipede onto his cheek and started talking as if everything was normal. The giant bug was bouncing up and down, flailing. I lost it, laughing until tears streamed down my face. The store manager came over. He started straightening the shelves in our aisle with his eyes pinned to us.

      Sean smiled politely at the manager, then carefully returned the insect to the bin.

      “Come on, we better get going. I don’t want to be banned; I may need to do price comparisons here sometime.” He placed his hand on the small of my back leading me from the store. He stopped to drape the sweatshirt over my shoulders. “You’re shivering.”

      “Air-conditioning! Not a fan!” But I’d never felt more on fire.

      Freezing rain ticking at my window brings me back to the frigid present. I shrug into my winter jacket. Then tug on rain boots and head out into the misery. I’m breaking two of my sacred personal hygiene rules, leaving the house in sweats without makeup. Hood up, I skip the umbrella; my hair’s already a wet mess. Right now, I could care less what I look like. I desperately need coffee! I walk the four blocks to the Un Pub at a leisurely pace without looking up.

      The Un Pub Club is a historic brick former post office turned local pub. It’s known for showcasing poet recitations on Wednesday nights and local musicians on weekends. There is a steady flow of new talent in the kitchen. All compliments of our local culinary school, Johnson and Wales University. Sunday brunch at the pub is legendary. All of the artwork on the walls, by local artists or students from surrounding colleges and universities, is for sale. The seating is cozy, eclectic and worn. The clientele doesn’t seem to mind. The large u-shaped, well-stocked bar and low lighting suits the space. Reclaimed barn tables and stools fill the spacious dining area. If you want to watch the Patriots, Celtics, Red Sox or the Bruins, you have to sit at the bar. If you want to watch any other sports teams, you have to go to another pub.

      The owner is Ben Delaney. Ben’s an aspiring novelist. He’s been trying to get his first novel published for well over a decade. He originally opened the Un Pub in hopes that writers would gather there to write or share ideas. The atmosphere proved too rowdy for serious writing. Ben even cordoned off a back meeting room, separated by French doors. He added cozy couches, overstuffed chairs, and coffee tables. Then hung a sign above the door, “The Think Tank”. Subsequently, a patron took a sharpie to the sign, replacing the ‘Th’ with ‘Dr’. After that, the room became a haven for young lovers. Ben still holds a monthly writer’s group. It meets from seven to nine pm on the first Wednesday of the month. It keeps his writing aspirations alive. For now, he has settled for being a very successful business owner who helps other artists fulfill their dreams.

      Ben does have a gift for finding talent. He’s the reason I met one of my best friends. Cordelia Philomena Kensington, better known as Corky, is the Un Pub’s star bartender. Her parents thought it was a great idea to name her after both of her grandmothers. This may explain how Corky became a rebellious artist, slash bartender, not to mention her attitude. Although, her mix of Greek, English, and French blood may have something to do with that, as well.

      As I walk, freezing rain jets down, forming rivers of gravely slush, churning it into the gutters. At least the rain is taking away the last of the dirty snow. By the time I finish the fifteen-minute walk, I’m completely soaked.

      Corky, is working at the bar which doubles as a coffee counter in the mornings. The Pub crowd is all wrapped around watching the Giants lose and cheering loudly. Corky dishes out chicken wings, buffalo dip, and beer on tap by the pitcher-full. She manages the Pub for Ben most nights and weekends, booking all the entertainment.

A gifted sculptor, Corky’s a graduate student at Rhode Island School of Design. She’s working on completing her Masters of Fine Art. She went back to school last year frustrated that this was the only job she could find with her BFA. Her specialty is large format metal sculpture. She’s amazing with a blow torch. Five foot two and less than one hundred pounds, Corky lines her evergreen eyes in black. She wears her light brown, spiky hair, tipped platinum blond or other colors depending on her whim. At twenty-six, she maintains a slim, boyish figure. People often mistake her for a teenager…that is, until she speaks.

      “Damn, Red! You look like you’ve been rode hard, then put away wet. What the hell have you been doing to yourself?” Corky carries a slight southern twang, leftover from her upbringing in New Orleans.

      “It’s a long story better told over coffee. Can you fix my magic potion please?”

      “One non-fat, sugar free, cinnamon latte—toot sweet. Should I put a little something special in there this mornin? Maybe wouldn’t hurt?” Corky lifts up a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream.

      “I’ll pass.”

      “Suit yourself. Shouldn’t you be at church? Thought good little Catholic girls didn’t hang out in bars on Sundays.”

      “I should. Someone has to pray for your corrupted soul.”

      “This is true! Hey, since you’re going to hell anyway, take this coffee over to the corner spot to drink it.” She leans over the counter and lowers her voice, “check out hottie dude over there.” She motions toward a man sitting by the gas fireplace, reading the Providence Journal. “Super stud, H-O-T Bod. I’d do him right here on the counter given half the chance.” She points to the exact the spot on the bar where she would carry out her depraved vision.

      “I’m not up for anything that exciting this morning, Corky. Thanks all the same.”

      “Ahhh, just as well. You should wait till you look a little better anyway,” she says looking me up and down. “Did someone break your mirror?”

      My sweats are so wet they cling soggily to my legs. I attempt to smooth down my frazzled hair with my hand.

      “Thanks Corky. No one will ever accuse you of being overly tactful.”

      “Well, you’re welcome. What are girlfriends for?” Corky says, placing a plate of warm cinnamon bun heaven in front of me. “Ben wants your opinion on his new pastry chef. That zero-calorie coffee breakfast of yours is pathetic.”

      I fight the urge to dive headfirst into the cinnamon bun. I poke at it with my fork, watching it ooze warm, molten, yumminess. Remaining in the furthest spot possible from “Mr. Hot Bod”, I sip my latte, taking increasingly larger bites of the bun. Speculatively, I peer over at him with what I think passes for discretion. Corky’s right, he’s gorgeous in a dirty hot kind of way.

      He looks up, catching my glance and smiles a slow, deliberate smile.

      Dammit, Corky!

      I pretend to look past him, out the window, like I’m checking the weather. There’s something familiar about him. I don’t want to get caught looking again to figure out where I know him from so I look away. No harm done. Geez, the nerve of that guy! He’s obviously in love with himself. Anyone that cute must have some serious flaws. Wait, what am I doing? Why am I even thinking about him right now? Wearing Sean’s sweatshirt! Corky startles me out of my cinnamon induced daze.

      “What are you muttering to yourself, Scarlet? I’m really worried about you. I think you’re cracking up.”

      “You’re probably right. I need to go back to bed.”

      These last few days, I don’t know if I feel more like bursting into tears or punching something. Finishing my coffee, and emptying my plate, I ask Corky to make me another latte to go.

      “Tell Ben, double thumbs up on his new pastry talent.”

      I take my coffee, exiting, purposely not looking in the direction of Mr. Hot Bod.

      Back in my apartment, I change into some dry jeans with an oatmeal turtleneck sweater for the grocery store. Checking myself in the full-length mirror, I look tired. My wardrobe needs a serious splash of color. I make a mental note to buy some new clothes and pull on my red cowboy boots. Much better, I look less like a corpse. I can not believe I just thought that! I add a little makeup, eyeliner, blush, lip gloss. When you look good, you feel good, right?

      I can’t shake thoughts of Mr. Hot Bod, making me completely disgusted with myself. Although, I’m sure I have seen him before. It’s bugging me. Maybe a client meeting? We have so many inventions we pass on, I dismiss it as such.

      I need to know more about what happened to Sean for my own peace of mind. I do some digging to see what I can find out by scanning the internet for articles about the accident. The Arkansas Sun Times reported that the driver, Sean Campbell, had died instantly due to his injuries. Officer Dale Hardesty is listed as the police officer who was at the scene. I make a note of the name, searching online for the telephone number for the police station. I can ask Gary to call the Arkansas police on Monday to see what more he can find out. Shutting down the computer, my growling stomach reminds me of my echoing food cabinets. I can’t avoid the supermarket any longer.

      At the market, I saunter down the aisles. I toss items into my shopping cart with the casual bliss of a single person. Ever mindful that cooking for one is not worth the trouble, I load my cart with low-fat frozen dinners. I add cans of soup, yogurt and bags of ready to eat salad mix. Skipping the fruit and veggies, I add eggs, mayonnaise and cans of tuna. At the checkout I decide I’m too tired to cook now after shopping.

I visit the liquor store in the neighboring plaza for a bottle of chardonnay. Then, I stop at the Chinese restaurant near my apartment in the Freeman Plat Historic District. It started out rough, but this evening has the makings of the perfect Sunday. Seriously, who needs a man?