Thanksgiving

  “I’m not going to look,” Dave said, flushed from beer and the third Kamikaze Dog. He stood next to the dart board, his face pressed to the wall and his hands covering his ears. “Tell me when it’s over.”

  Pat aimed his dart and winked at Megan. The dart left his hand with a snap of his wrist. It arced gracefully in the air, then dropped short just as Dave uncovered his eyes and lurched toward the board.

  There was a moment of stunned silence in the bar before Dave started screaming. “Yeow!” he shrieked. “I’ve been stabbed!” He looked over his shoulder and gaped at the silver dart sunk a good inch and a half into his right buttock. “Somebody help me,” he pleaded. “Call a doctor.”

  “I’m a doctor,” Pat said. “Do you have medical coverage? Do you know your group number?”

  “Get this madman away from me! He tried to kill me. You tried to kill me!”

  Megan rolled her eyes. “Good grief, Dave. He didn’t try to kill you. It’s just a dart, for crying out loud.”

  “It was a mistake,” Pat said, smiling pleasantly. “It slipped out of my hand just as you moved over.”

  “Someone pull the damn thing out,” Dave cried. “I’m in pain! Lord, I feel sick. I’m gonna barf.”

  “Three Kamikaze Dogs,” the waitress explained to the bartender.

  “Don’t be such a baby,” Megan said, and yanked the dart from his backside.

  The bartender produced a first-aid kit. “You want a Band-Aid, or something?”

  Pat selected a bottle. “A little peroxide and a Band-Aid, and you’ll be good as new, Dave.”

  “Forget it,” Dave snarled. “I’m not dropping my pants for you…you pervert.”

  “We should take him to the emergency room,” Pat said. “He should have a tetanus shot.”

  Megan bowed her head and bit her lip to keep from laughing. She was furious at both of them, but she had to admit, it was funny. Pat was very solicitously playing the role of doctor, and Dave had deserved a dart in the butt.

  “I’m not going to any hospital,” Dave said. He took a step forward and stopped. “I can’t walk.” He hobbled a little farther. “What am I going to do? I’ll never be able to drive.”

  “Maybe we can lie him across the back seat of my car,” Megan said.

  Pat looked doubtful. “I think he’s too big, but we could probably strap him to the roof.”

  Dave looked as if he might cry. “I feel sick. I gotta get some air.”

  “Sad,” Pat said, as Dave limped toward the door. “His body used to be sacred.”

  Megan marched after Dave. “You’re the one who’s sad, Patrick Hunter,” she said as Pat hurried after her. “I can’t believe you did that! Stabbing an innocent man with a dart. Letting your childish temper get the best of you.”

  “It was an accident. He staggered right in front of the dart board.”

  “You winked at me. You knew perfectly well what you were doing.”

  Pat looked offended. “I was flirting.”

  “Flirting? With a pregnant woman? You humiliated me. He asked me to marry him, and you told him I was pregnant. You ruined everything.”

  Pat made an outraged grunt. “What was I supposed to do, sit there and watch you get engaged to Bluto?”

  “You had no business interfering.”

  “Egads, will you two hold it down?” Dave said, struggling to the curb. “Megan, where’s your car?”

  “It’s this maroon thing right in front of you.”

  “What happened to your Carrera?”

  Pat frowned. Megan Murphy owned an expensive sports car? No, he thought, pudding pie owned an expensive sports car.

  “I sold it to buy a kiln,” she said.

  She opened the back door and felt a pang of genuine sympathy for Dave as he painfully crawled across the seat. He really couldn’t help being a moron, she thought, and he was hurting. His perfect body had been violated. Like Barbie dolls and blue nail polish, Dave was a discarded part of her past, and she didn’t want to hate him. She’d rather file him away with Mr. Potato Head, wondering from time to time what the attraction had been.

  Half the restaurant had followed them outside, and everyone gave directions. “Bend your knees, scoot up a bit, watch your head when we close the door.” Then they all waved good-bye as the car belched an acrid blast of exhaust and pulled out of the parking lot.

  Megan looked at Dave in her rearview mirror. “Where to?”

  “I don’t know. I thought I’d be staying with you.”

  “Oh, great.” She stopped for a light and massaged her temples.

  “Headache?” Pat asked. “Need a doctor?”

  “I don’t need a maniacal pediatrician,” she said stiffly, turning onto Nicholson Street. She parked in front of Pat’s cottage. “Out.”

  “Don’t you think it would be best if I went home with you and helped get Dave settled on the couch?”

  “My dear mother will help with that.” She pointed to the door: “Out!”

  Pat stood at the curb and watched her roar away. She was mad, he thought. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. He hadn’t meant to scorn her. He’d only wanted to slow things down a bit. Then dopey Dave had showed up. Now dopey Dave was going home with her.

  Pat kicked his front step and tore the sutures out of his shoe, causing his little toe to pop out. Swell. After paying for three Kamikaze Dogs he was left with only spare change in his pocket, and now he needed shoes. How could he afford a wife, when he couldn’t even buy shoes?

  Megan motored out of the historic area and turned toward home. Thank goodness it was dark and Dave was flat on his stomach, Megan thought, blinking back tears. She didn’t want to share her grief with anyone. There had been too many public displays of emotion in her life. She needed to cry in private this time. This love affair had been special. This time she had fallen in love with a man she had chosen. Steve and Dave had humiliated her, but Pat had broken her heart.

  “Meggy,” Dave called from the back seat, “are you really pregnant?”

  “No.”

  “Why did Pat say you were pregnant?”

  She sniffled. “He has a weird sense of humor.”

  “I think he’s in love with you.”

  “Sometimes love isn’t enough.”

  Dave sighed. “I know. I loved you, but I couldn’t marry you.”

  “You never loved me, Dave. You loved my mother and father. You loved my car. You loved being in love but you never loved me. You didn’t even know who I was. You loved some fantasy person called pudding pie. That’s why you couldn’t marry me.”

  Dave was silent for a moment. “You’re pretty smart, Meggy,” he finally said.

  Yeah, she thought. But if she was so smart, why was she so stupid? In a half hour she’d have Dave tucked away on her couch, and she’d be alone in her room, crying her eyes out. She’d lost her whole instant family. No more pretend baby. No more pretend husband.

  She knew from past experiences that her best defense against pain was anger. If she stayed angry, she could use that energy to survive. After a time, the pain would diffuse and the anger could be discarded. That was how it had been with Steve and Dave. That was how it would be with Pat.

  Chapter 10

  Pat opened his eyes and sighed. No Megan Murphy in his bed. No Timmy downstairs waiting for breakfast. No reason to wake up. He closed his eyes, but he couldn’t go back to sleep. Ridiculous, he thought. It’s a beautiful day, Hunter. Look at that blue sky. Look at that sunshine.

  He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, wriggling his bare toes in the carpet. Things could be a lot worse, you know, an inner voice said. You could be poor Dave and have a dart hole in your backside. Hah! Pat answered his inner voice. Poor Dave is stretched out on Megan’s couch. You don’t see poor Dave waking up in an empty, lonely house, do you?

  Several hours later, Pat was still sulking as he led his family down Duke of Gloucester Street. They’d visited the cooper, the boot maker, the milliner,
and the silversmith, but there was no sign of Megan. Pat had a miserable feeling that she was at home with Dave. So what if she was at home with Dave? Her parents were there, right? What could happen with her parents there? Besides, Dave wasn’t exactly in shape to be romantic. He might even have an infection by now. Probably he could use an antibiotic. Better go check it out, Pat decided. After all, it was his fault, and he wouldn’t want complications to set in.

  “I have a medical emergency to attend to,” he told his family. “I’ll only be gone a short time. You can have lunch while I’m off doctoring.”

  He pointed them in the direction of Christiana Campbell’s Tavern and ran down the path leading to Nicholson Street. He slid behind the wheel of his car, held his breath, and turned the key. Yes! The battery had been baking in the sun and was feeling cooperative.

  He slowly chugged out of the historic district and stopped for a red light while he rehearsed his opening line. Hello, Megan, just thought I’d stop by to see how Dave’s duff is doing. Then what? Blank space. He didn’t know then what.

  He gripped the wheel more tightly. He’d explain to her about marriage and about being a new doctor. They couldn’t live on his salary. What about her salary? the inner voice suggested. If you combined your incomes and only had one house payment?

  He shook his head. It wouldn’t work. He was too busy. She’d feel ignored and resentful of his patients. Baloney, the voice said, she’s just as busy as you. She’d match you pot for patient. But there are other good reasons, Pat argued.

  He inhaled sharply as the truth suddenly flashed into his mind. There were no good reasons. He simply wasn’t ready to get married. Could that be true?

  He pulled to the shoulder of the two-lane country road. He was no better than Dave! He had a rampant case of yellow belly. His hormones were hot, but his feet were cold. Now what? Now that he knew the awful truth about himself, what was he supposed to do? He made a U-turn and headed back to town. He had to think.

  Megan heard the tiny bell ringing and stopped in mid-stride. She gritted her teeth, counted to ten, and took a deep breath. “Yes, Dave?”

  “Would it be too much trouble to make me a cup of hot chocolate?” he called from his prone position on the couch. “I don’t want to bother you. If you’re busy you don’t have to make it.”

  “No trouble,” Megan said, banging a pot onto the stove. It was one o’clock in the afternoon, and already he’d rung that damn bell seven thousand times. If he rang just once more, she’d cut off his hand, she thought with grim cheer.

  “Sure is nice of you to take care of me when I’m crippled like this,” he went on. “Too bad your folks had to leave this morning. It was just like old times, having us all together.”

  Just like old times, she thought with irritation. Her mother had waited on him hand and foot the day before, feeding his sacred body a week’s worth of groceries in a matter of hours, and her father had spent the entire day debating the value of the football draft. Now she was left alone with dying Dave, making her own feeble attempt to keep him comfortable and amused.

  How long did it take for a dart hole to heal, anyway? The man had spent all day Saturday flat on his stomach. Now it was Sunday, and he was moaning more loudly than ever. This was all Patrick Hunter’s fault.

  She sloshed some milk into the pot and drummed her fingers on the counter while she waited for it to heat. Patrick Hunter was a no-good rat. First he’d conned her into baby-sitting for Timmy Coogan, and now he’d forced her into baby-sitting for disabled Dave. Patrick Hunter had made her fall in love with him, had lured her into his bed, and then had wimped out. “Men!”

  She stormed into the living room and slammed the mug of hot chocolate onto the coffee table. “Anything else?”

  “I am a little hungry….”

  “Hungry?” she screamed. “There’s nothing left. You’ve eaten it all. All the cereal, all the eggs, all the bread.” She heard the crunch of gravel in her driveway and saw Pat’s car pass by the window.

  She flung the door open at the first knock and scowled at Pat. “What do you want?”

  Use the honest approach, he decided. First things first. “I want to know if Dave’s here.”

  “Yes. Dave is here. So what?”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “You don’t like it? Here’s a news flash. I don’t like it, either, but I can’t get him off my stupid couch. The man is in pain. He can’t walk. He can’t sit. He can’t get dressed.”

  Pat stepped into the house. “He can’t get dressed? Are you telling me you’ve got a naked man on your couch?”

  “He’s not naked. He’s under a blanket, and he’s a total pain in the backside, if you’ll excuse the expression. I had to play nursey to that bovine boor all day yesterday and half of today, and I’ve had it up to my earlobes. This is your fault. You did this. You fix it. I want him out! Do something!”

  Pat grinned. “Leave it to me. I’ll have him fixed up in no time.”

  “Meggy?” Dave called. “Who is it? It’s not that lunatic doctor, is it?”

  “Yup,” Pat said, walking into the living room. “It’s the lunatic doctor. You’re a lucky guy. Not many doctors make house calls these days.”

  “I don’t need a doctor.”

  “Too bad. I brought my little black bag with me, and I’m prepared to relieve your pain. But hey, if you like pain, that’s okay with me.”

  Dave looked interested. “I hate pain.”

  Pat lifted a corner of the blanket. “Let me just take a peek at this nasty old wound. Hmmm. Not bad. Looks like it’s healing okay.”

  He took a disposable syringe and a small vial from his bag. “This is the magic elixir that’s going to get you on your feet. This stuff will get you on the yellow brick road to home.”

  “What is it, an antibiotic?”

  “Novocain.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Dave stood at the front door with his suitcase in one hand and an inflated rubber doughnut under his arm. “You think it’s safe to drive?”

  “Absolutely,” Pat said.

  Megan waved as Dave drove away. “How long will that Novocain last?” she asked Pat.

  “About an hour.” Pat smiled. “A little pain builds character. Besides, he’s got the doughnut, and the wound didn’t look serious. He’ll be fine.”

  If a little pain built character, she should be a wonderful person, Megan thought. Too bad you couldn’t take Novocain for a broken heart. She’d been so busy caring for Dave that she hadn’t thought much about Pat. Seeing him in her living room, though, had brought all the sadness back.

  She’d really wanted to marry him. Underneath all the craziness about making babies and pretending to be Mrs. Hunter was a genuine desire to spend the rest of her life with him. If her love hadn’t been so deep and so intense, she could have ambled along, being friends and occasionally lovers. But she couldn’t amble with Pat. There would always be the ache of wanting more, and there would always be the bitter knowledge that more wasn’t going to happen.

  Suddenly, she couldn’t bear to look at him. She didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t want to hear others talk about him. She’d moved to Williamsburg to escape the memories of Dave, and now she was going to run away from everything associated with Pat. She’d pack up her kiln and go somewhere. Anywhere.

  “I have a lot of things to do,” she said, keeping her voice light. “Thank you for taking care of Dave. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye?”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Where are you going? When did you decide this?”

  “I don’t know where I’m going, and I just decided.” She carried the hot-chocolate mug to the kitchen and rinsed it out. “I think I’ll move to Alexandria. I sell a lot of my pots there, and it would be closer to the Washington galleries.”

  She turned on her heel and practically ran up the stairs to her bedroom. Do it, she told herself. Do it before you start blubbering. Do it before
you lose your nerve. Do it before you make a complete fool of yourself and beg him to love you. She pulled a suitcase from under the bed and began throwing clothes into it.

  Pat stood in the doorway, watching her, thinking she was the most intriguing, beguiling, impossible creature ever made. She looked like a little girl, with her red hair tied up in a fluffy ponytail, but there was nothing little-girlish about the voluptuous body beneath tight faded jeans and a clingy yellow sweater. He was on intimate terms with that body, and the remembrance of evenings past tugged at his heart.

  Megan reached into her closet for several blouses, then paused and glared at a long white garment bag. She made a sound of disgust and punched the bag.

  “What’s in the bag?” Pat asked.

  “None of your business,” she said, smashing the blouses into the suitcase.

  “It’s a strange shape for a punching bag.”

  “If you must know, it’s my wedding gown.”

  His brows rose in surprise. “From Dave?”

  “From Dave.”

  “Why on earth is it hanging in your closet?”

  She stopped packing and stared at the gown.

  “In the beginning, I didn’t know what to do with it. It cost a fortune. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away, and I felt foolish pawning it off on the Salvation Army. I was so filled with bitterness that I decided to keep it as a reminder of my own stupidity. I thought as long as I had that gown in my closet I wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Pretty sick, huh?”

  Pat smiled. “I don’t know. You’ve developed a decent right hook. You keep that bag around long enough, and we could get you a title bout.”

  She stuffed a handful of panties into the suitcase, and he carefully rehung a blouse. She emptied her sock drawer into the bag, and he returned the panties to the dresser.

  Megan looked at her empty suitcase in amazement. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m helping you unpack.”

  “Don’t do me any favors.”

  He patted her fanny. “You look great in those jeans.”

  “Hands off!”

  He wrapped his arms around her from behind and kissed her neck.