The Noel Stranger Page 6

  “I was surprised that they were so docile. My ego misread this to believe that I had some special power, like I was a bee whisperer or something. I even got brave enough to take off one of my gloves. Not a single sting. I told Beatrice that I thought the bees knew I meant them no harm and I probably wouldn’t even need the suit in the future. She smiled and said, ‘You might want to rethink that.’

  “I asked her where the queen was, and she pointed to a matchbox-sized box connected to the top of the larger box. The little box was also mostly screen with a cork in one end. I said, ‘We let her out last?’ She said, ‘No; if you let her out now, the bees will kill her. They have to get used to her smell.’ Then she pulled out the cork and replaced it with one of those tiny marshmallows. She said, ‘By the time she eats her way out, the bees will be used to her smell and accept her as queen.’

  “We set the little box inside the hive, covered the hive with a cloth, and left. A week later I came back with my brother. He wanted to watch, but he kept his distance. I had told him how much the bees liked me and that I really didn’t need the suit. I lifted the top of the hive and the bees went nuts. They swarmed me. I’m standing there covered with bees and screaming while my brother laughed and recorded it on his phone. He thought it was hilarious. So did the Internet. It went viral. It had like two hundred thousand views.”

  “Now I have to see that,” I said.

  “I made him take it down,” he said. “I called Beatrice and asked why the change. At first she said, ‘They’re women, they get moody.’ Then she laughed and said, ‘When we introduced them to the hive, they didn’t have anything to protect. When you went back, they had honeycomb, and babies, and a queen.”

  “So is that why you quit?” I asked.

  “Actually, they quit me. One day I went out to the hive and they were gone. All five thousand of them. The queen left and took her friends with her. I took it personally. I mean, I introduced them, bought them a home, fed them, and they left me. I told myself it was them, not me.”

  I laughed. “Of course it was.”

  “Then after my wife left me, I figured it really was me.”

  He makes me happy, I thought. I cooked the pasta for a few more minutes, then fished out a noodle with a fork and tried it. “Al dente,” I said. “It’s ready.” I poured the noodles into a colander, then put them in a bowl and brought them over to the table. After I sat down, Andrew opened the wine and poured our glasses.

  “What should we toast?” he asked.

  “You brought the wine. You decide.”

  He thought for a moment, then said, “How about loneliness.”

  “Loneliness?”

  “If it wasn’t for loneliness, you probably wouldn’t have asked me to stay for coffee.”

  “Well, if we’re taking that route, then we should toast my Fiat as well. Because if I was driving an SUV, there would have been no reason for you to come over.”

  He smiled. “All right, to your Fiat. May it never encounter anything larger than itself.”

  “Amen,” I said.

  We clinked our glasses, then savored the wine. It was delicious, fruity with a hint of chocolate and anise. Perfect for the meal.

  We ate a moment in silence. I’m not sure why, but I suddenly felt shy. I hadn’t been on a first date in more than a decade. Was this a first date?

  “You’re a good cook,” he said, breaking the silence. “Of course you are. You’re a professional.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you like cooking? I mean, it’s your business, which means either you’re living your passion or you’re sick of it by now.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He smiled and nodded.

  “Do you cook?” I asked.

  “Some. Lately I eat out a lot, so this is especially nice.”

  “Do you always go by Andrew?” I asked. “Or do your friends call you Andy?”

  “Not if they want to remain friends.”

  I laughed.

  “It’s helpful, having a name that people want to abbreviate. People used to call my office and try to bypass my secretary by saying they were ‘a friend of Andy’s.’ She’d say, ‘If you were really a friend, you’d know he never goes by Andy. Good-bye.’ ”

  “So it was like a secret password.”

  “Exactly. How about you? Is Maggie your name, or is it an abbreviation of Margaret?”

  “Actually, neither,” I said. “It’s complicated. My real name is Agnetha.”

  “Agnetha. That sounds Norwegian. Is it a family name?”

  “It’s Swedish. And no, it’s not family. My father was a fan of the Swedish band ABBA. Do you know ABBA?”

  He nodded. “Agnetha was the cute blonde.”

  “My dad had a crush on her, so I got her name. Growing up in Oregon with the name Agnetha didn’t work real well, so everyone started calling me Aggie. Then after I moved here, I learned that the Utah State sports teams are called the Aggies. After a year I got tired of being reminded that I shared the name with their blue bull mascot, so I added an M. Like I said, it was complicated.”

  “I’ve always thought of names as fluid,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. I think everyone should have at least a couple of aliases.”

  “Do you?”

  He looked at me with a peculiar grin. “Absolutely. So what should I call you?”

  “Maggie,” I said, glad that he asked the question.

  “Maggie it is.”

  We quietly ate for a while, and then I said, “Do you mind my asking what happened to your marriage?”

  “My marriage,” he said with a sigh. “I guess she found out that I wasn’t as great as she thought.”

  “She must have had unreasonably high expectations.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I tried to tell her that. She just wasn’t having it.”

  I laughed. “I’m sorry.”

  “I should have seen it coming. You should never marry someone who is better-looking than you are. She was a full point and a half ahead of me on the Standard Attraction Scale.”

  “The Standard Attraction Scale? I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

  “Oh, it’s real. It was established by a grant from the Coco Chanel Looks Matter Foundation.” I laughed again. He continued. “See, if I were smart, I’d get up and walk out that door right now, because you’re at least a point and a quarter above me.”

  I grinned. “Only a point and a quarter? So you’re saying your ex-wife was prettier than I am?”

  He grimaced. “Yikes. I walked right into that one. And no, I may have exaggerated her a little.”

  I smiled at him. “You make me happy.”

  “At least I’m making someone happy. After she left me, she married a rich guy who looked like a young George Clooney. She was always looking for the BBD.”

  “What’s the BBD?”

  “The bigger, better deal.”

  “Oh.” I took a bite of pasta and followed it with a sip of wine. I thought Clive was my BBD. “For the record, I think you’re better-looking than George Clooney.”

  “Now you’ve lost all credibility. But thank you for trying to flatter me.”

  “I’m not flattering. I meant it.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “So what was your ex’s Standard Attraction Score?”

  “Clive, my ex, was handsome in a Ken doll sort of way, if that’s what you’re into.”

  “Is that what you’re into?” he asked.

  “I thought I was.”

  “And now?”

  I grinned, swirling my wine in its glass. “Maybe clean-cut isn’t the way to go.”

  He looked like he was thinking. “So if he’s a Ken doll, what does that make me?”

  “You’re more like a G.I. Joe. The one with the beard.”

  “Nice,” he said. “I had one of those when I was a boy. A G.I. Joe with lifelike hair. And kung fu grip.”

  “I’ve always wanted a man
with kung fu grip.”

  Andrew laughed. “Speaking of martial arts, how long were you married?”

  “Nine years. But I should have known it was doomed from our honeymoon.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It was a train wreck. Clive wanted to take me to Taiwan, where he had served a church mission. I personally wanted something more romantic, but he was insistent.

  “First, our flight out of San Francisco was canceled, so we ended up sitting in the airport for fourteen hours. Then we got rerouted to Japan, where we got stuck because a typhoon hit. We ended up waiting four days in a hotel in Tokyo, then flew back home because we were out of time and Clive was starting a new job. The fates were against us from the beginning.”

  “I can beat your honeymoon disaster,” he said.

  “You can beat a typhoon?”

  He nodded. “Oh, yeah. Jamie and I had the worst honeymoon ever. In fact, it’s so bad, someone could write a book about it.”

  “What kind of book?”

  “A tragicomedy.”

  “This sounds interesting. Tell me.”

  “All right. So, Jamie’s dream honeymoon was Bora Bora. You’ve seen the pictures—perfect Windex-blue water, white sand beaches, thatched huts.”

  “Which is what I wanted,” I interjected.

  He smiled. “Right. Well, I went one further and got us a place on a private island. To get there you had to go by boat.”

  “Sounds dreamy,” I said.

  “You would think,” he replied. “As our boat approached the island, the first thing we saw was a woman standing on the dock wearing pink cowboy boots.”

  “Cowboy boots?”

  “Pink ones. And nothing else.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “She was obviously some kind of model. I mean, she looked photoshopped. Then another nude model walked out. It turned out that I had booked the resort at the exact same time that Playboy magazine had planned their ‘Girls of Bora Bora’ issue. They took over the entire island. Every restaurant, every beach, no dress code. No shirts, no shoes, no problem.”

  “I’ll bet you just hated that.”

  “Think about it,” he said. “We’re on our honeymoon. Jamie kept telling me she felt like chopped meat. So I’m dealing with massive insecurity and trying to pretend that I see nothing. We ended up spending almost all our time in our room, with Jamie looking at herself in the mirror and accusing me of looking at other women. After that, she didn’t talk to me for days.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “You have the typhoon beat.”

  He took a drink of wine, then looked back at me. “May I ask you something about your divorce? You don’t have to answer.”

  “I doubt it’s something I haven’t been asked before.”

  “I was just wondering if he filed for divorce or you did.”

  “I did. But it was because of something he did.”

  “He cheated?”

  “I wish it were that simple. He took it to the next level. Are you sure you’ve never heard of my husband?”

  He shook his head. “Clive Walther? I think I would remember that name.”

  “He didn’t just have another woman, he had a whole other family in Colorado.”

  His brow furrowed. “Where in Colorado?”

  “Thornton.”

  “My Thornton?” I nodded. He thought for a moment, then said, “Wait. He wasn’t a politician—”

  “He was a city councilman.”

  Andrew sighed. “I guess I did hear something about that. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s just so embarrassing.”

  “It is for him.”

  “It is for me too. People think I’m either a loser or stupid.”

  He looked at me quizzically. “What people?”

  “You know.” I flourished my hand through the air. “Them.”

  “You mean, the public?”

  “Yes.”

  He set his napkin on the table. “You know public opinion is a vapor, right? Today’s hero is tomorrow’s loser and vice versa. And those who are shouting the loudest are usually those living the most desperate lives. They’re just glad that someone came along who is having a worse week than they are.

  “Second, the public has the attention span of a goldfish. I know what happened must seem like the end of the world to you, but that’s because you’re in the path of the storm. Trust me, they’ve already moved on to the next drama.”

  Oddly, it was the most comforting thing anyone had said to me yet. “I hope you’re right.”

  He looked at me seriously. “I know I’m right. I’ve been there.”

  “You’ve been in the middle of a public scandal?”

  He hesitated for a moment, then said, “Yes. But it was business-related, not family. I’m sorry that you had to share your heartbreak in the media. I think they forget that there are real people involved.”

  “Forget, or don’t care?” I said.

  “Maybe both,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “This will pass,” I said. “At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.”

  Andrew frowned. “I’m sorry I brought it up. I’d like you to think of me as someone who makes you happy.”

  “You do make me happy.”

  “Good. No more talk of drama.”

  “I can do that,” I replied.

  We went back to eating. When he finished his pasta, he asked for more, which made me glad. As he was finishing I said, “I made tiramisu for dessert.”

  “I love tiramisu,” he said.

  “Good, because I made a whole pan, and I’m sending the leftovers home with you.”

  I got up and took our plates to the counter, cut us two rectangles of tiramisu, and brought them over to the table. He took a bite and said, “Perfect.”

  “Do you know what tiramisu means?”

  “No idea.”

  “In Italian, tira means to lift or pick up, mi means me, and su means up. So it literally is a pick-me-up.”

  “Because of all the espresso in it.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “The magic of caffeine.”

  “Now that I have all this caffeine in me,” he said, “should we do the dishes?”

  “I can handle them,” I said.

  “I know you can handle them, but should we do the dishes?”

  “You’re sure you have time?”

  “I’ve got nothing but time.”

  “All right,” I said, “you can help. You wash, I’ll dry and put them away.”

  Andrew began clearing the table while I filled the sink with hot water. As I handed him a dish, he looked at my left hand. “Why are you still wearing your wedding ring?”

  I shrugged. “I just never took it off.” I glanced down at my ring, a simple white-gold band with a half-carat marquise diamond. “Maybe it’s the same reason people wear cloves of garlic around their necks.”

  “Who wears cloves of garlic around their necks?”

  “People who are afraid of vampires.”

  “Are you comparing men to vampires?”

  “Some are,” I said. “I’ve even met a few female vampires.”

  “I bet you have.”

  “The way I see it, everyone has good and bad in them. Some just have more of one than the other.” I looked at him. “Unless they’re bloodsucking vampires.”

  He nodded. “Unless they’re bloodsucking vampires.”

  We both laughed. Then I looked into his eyes. “Are you a vampire?”

  He met my gaze. “A real vampire would never answer that question in the affirmative. What do you think?”

  I shook my head. “I think . . . you’re sweet.”

  To my surprise, his mouth twisted in disappointment. “Sweet. Like a girlfriend is sweet?”

  “There’s nothing girlfriend about you,” I said. As I looked at him I suddenly wanted him to kiss me. I hoped he was thinking the same. He smiled at me, handed me a plate, and said, “Last one. How about I finish drying and you put
things away?”

  I breathed out slowly. “It’s a plan.”

  We finished up in the kitchen and went out to decorate the Christmas tree.

  I said, “We put the lights on first?”

  “Yes, but first we make sure the lights work.”

  “Good idea. The guy who sold them to me was kind of sketchy.”

  He grinned. “Yeah. I’ve never trusted drifters who work at Christmas tree lots.”

  He laid out the boxes, opened them, then carefully laid out the strands in neat rows. “Do you have an extension cord?”

  “Yes. I’ll get it.”

  “Maybe we should have some Christmas music. Set the mood.”

  “I can get that too.” I walked down the hall to the closet and grabbed the extension cord. Then I found some instrumental Christmas music on my iPod and plugged it into my stereo in the kitchen. The comforting sound of music filled the house. I went back into the front room. The strands were all connected and laid out in order. I handed him the cord.

  “Thank you.” He plugged in the lights, and they flashed on. I had forgotten that they changed colors. “They work.”

  “They’re pretty.”

  “That’s what you asked for.” He starting disconnecting the lights from each other.

  “Why are you doing that?”

  “Because they’re easier to install if you break the tree up into quadrants.”

  “Do you start from the top or the bottom?”

  “Always the top. Because if you get to the top and you have an extra yard of lights, what do you do?”

  “You just wrap them around again.”

  He shook his head. “You are such a novice.”

  After we had wrapped the lights around the tree, he walked to the center of the room and looked at the tree, squinting.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m looking for dark holes.”

  “Why are you squinting?”

  “That’s the best way to find dark holes.”

  “You are hard-core,” I said.

  “No, I’m a professional.”

  It was after midnight when we finished decorating the tree. Then we sat down on the couch to admire our creation.

  “There’s something peaceful about a Christmas tree,” I said. “When I was little, I would just lay there and look at the tree until I fell asleep in front of it.”

  He nodded slowly. “What was your childhood like?”