A Wedding Invitation (12 page)

“Are you threatened often?”

“Once a man let his pit bull chase me. He was angry that I told him he needed to appear in court the next day.”

“Were you okay?”

“I got away. Did the whole ‘throw the stick one way and run the other’ trick. I use that on my dog sometimes.”

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“Van Gogh.”

“Like the painter?” Names for pets often amuse me, such as when my mother christened her cat Butterchurn because he’s yellow, she said, like butter.

“He looks like a Van Gogh because one ear is smaller than the other.”

We laugh.

“He’s a seven-year-old Boxer I’ve had since he was a pup.”

“Ah, must be nice to have someone who looks forward to your return each day.”
No lonely nights.

“It’s great. He greets me when I come home from work with a tennis ball in his mouth. Just waiting to play. Boxers have great faces,” he says over the tour guide’s voice that is directing us to look out the starboard side of the boat.

“Faces?” I try to picture the face of that breed.

“Their large eyes and expressions make you feel they are really listening to you when you talk, and you feel that they understand you.”

“Sounds like having a good friend.”

“Until your Boxer licks his rear and walks away.”

I giggle. “I might get a dog one of these days.” I think of Milkweed and Butterchurn and add, “Or a cat.”

“Cats can’t fetch a ball or a Frisbee.”

“True. Maybe a dog, then. I’ve never owned one, but yours sounds fun.” Growing up, we had cats because Mom claimed that her personality was more suited toward having a cat. Thinking again of Butterchurn, I say, “Can you find missing animals?”

“What?” he asks as a gust of wind blows over us, tousling our hair.

“Aren’t you a private investigator?”

“For people, Samantha,” he says and then laughs.

“Let’s go up to the top floor.”

“You mean the top deck?”

“Whatever it’s called. Come on.” Grabbing his hand on impulse, I take us toward the signs for the upper deck.

After threading through the throng of people, we climb the stairs to the third tier of the steamboat. With a hand on the wrought-iron railing, I anchor myself and gaze to my left, where a milky marble President Abraham Lincoln sits in his columned memorial. The boat glides under the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Bridge, and I get a glimpse of both the Korean War Veterans Memorial and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Up ahead, the Washington Monument towers like a beacon of national pride.

To the left is the Pentagon, sprawled out like a set of large building blocks.

When Taylor puts his arm around me, I catch a whiff of his cologne. A man who smells good is a plus in my book. We stay on the top deck, enjoying the break from the tour guide’s microphone voice that is much louder on the lower levels.

When the tour ends and we’re safely on land again, Taylor takes me to a little Greek restaurant near the Thai embassy, and we enjoy lamb gyros and slices of toasty pita with hummus. He talks about a case he’s working on, and after I ask a few questions, he tells me about another.

We part around eight. I thank him for a lovely time and wonder if he’ll kiss me or ask to see me again. As though reading my thoughts, he says, “I’d like to go out again.”

“I’d like that, too.”

“Have you ever been to Donatello?”

“Once.” I recall going there with Natasha and Mom years ago.

“Why don’t we go there sometime? It’ll have to be later in July. I’m going home for Canada Day.”

“Canada Day?”

“July first. Right before your Independence Day.”

Hesitantly, I ask, “You’re Canadian?”

“Through and through. Moved here when I was out of college. My parents still live in Toronto.”

“Do you ever say ‘eh’?” I tease.

He produces an awkward smile; I hope I haven’t offended him.

“Well, have a good time there.” I give him my cheeriest smile as we hug good-bye. Again I wonder if there will be a kiss, but we break our embrace without one.

As I drive back home, the radio playing softly, I relive snatches from our date. Stepping into my apartment, I switch on the lights and then realize how tired I am. Thankful for a working air-conditioner, I turn down the thermostat a few degrees to compensate for the muggy night. As I pour a glass of lemon iced tea, I listen to the message on my answering machine.

“Hi, Samantha. This is Carson Brylie. Lien gave me your number. I hope we can talk soon. Bye.”

For a second I don’t breathe. Then when the shock wears off, I put the pitcher down, walk over to the answering machine, and play the message again. And again.

fifteen

O
n Monday morning, I wear my tennis shoes because I remember that it’s delivery day from one of our suppliers. The UPS truck brings us seven boxes of clothes, the driver huffing as he carts the last one into the back room.

Since there are no customers in the shop, I begin to open the boxes. Feelings of happiness flit around my heart like Dovie’s butterflies when I think about yesterday with Taylor. I recall how his arm felt around my shoulders as the boat skirted across the water.

Mom notes my smile and asks about the date. “Do you like him?”

“Hmmm,” I say and then, looking at the boxes, decide I better step away from my cocoon of recounting Saturday and get busy.

“Just be careful.”

I know that Mom’s warning has nothing to do with the boxes of clothes. She knows something happened in the Philippines and wants to make sure my heart doesn’t get trampled again.

Nodding to appease her, I get on my knees, pull a box toward me, and dig into the contents. The first thing I pull out is a pair of silky florescent pink underpants encased in plastic. The next item is the same.

“I didn’t order those,” says Mom, a blush the same color as the underwear tinting her cheeks.

I open each box, but none of the contents is what we ordered.

Mom’s convinced that these are for that
other boutique
on the edge of town. She asks if the address is ours.

“Yeah, they even got the zip code correct.”

“Well, it’s a drastic mistake.”

After being put on hold for twelve minutes, I reach an operator at the company called Bannerfields. “This is Have a Fit in Falls Church, Virginia. We just received the wrong shipment of clothing.”

The woman at the other end can’t believe that a mistake has been made. “Are you sure that you didn’t order those?”

I look at my mother, one of the most modest women I’ve ever known. She’s still blushing from the dozens of pairs of lacy panties, some with polka dots, others with tiny red bows. “We did not.”

Per the operator’s instructions I call UPS to pick up the unwanted boxes. The promise is that a driver will be at our store by five today to take the boxes away.

Mom sighs. I see heaviness in her movements and a dullness to her eyes. Panic fills me, my mind reeling back to the days she spent in the hospital getting treated for breast cancer.

“Why don’t you go home?” I suggest. “Get some rest.”

“What do you mean?”

“You must be tired.”

“Samantha. I will run this store. Don’t start telling me it’s too big a task for me.” I see her eyes plead,
Don’t take this away from me. If you do, what will I have to live for?

I put my arm around her shoulders.

She winces. “I will not let you or Dovie baby me.”

I pull her close. “I know. I know that, Mom.” I kiss her cheek, then release her.

She starts to sort dresses, putting the long in with the petite.

I don’t say a word. I just take a marker from the counter and, for the next five minutes, add a few more lines to the
Shop with Elvis
posters.

In the microwave, I heat a bowl of noodles for dinner, first adding water and then sprinkling on the chicken flavor packet. I break apart a pair of wooden chopsticks from the takeout at Joyful Dragon and am about to sit at my kitchen table when the phone rings.

Setting down the chopsticks, I lean over to grab the cordless.

The voice on the other end is like a summer day at the beach, familiar and brimming with anticipation. “Hi. Is this Samantha?”

“It is.” I feel my heart pole-vault in my chest. “And is this Carson Brylie?”

“It is.”

I can tell he’s smiling. “I can’t believe it! How are you?” My words gush out like water from a faucet turned on all the way.

“Pretty good. How about you?”

“Good. Yeah. Doing well. I just made some noodles for dinner.” Immediately I feel silly for saying that.

“Lien told me I could call you.”

It sounds just like Lien to try to run the show. Even after all these years, I still don’t know how to handle her. Covering my thoughts, I say, “It was fun seeing Lien again. She’s taller than I am now.”

“She told me all about it. Showed me the photo Huy took of the two of you.”

“She did?” I hope the photo is flattering. I hate to think that after all these years, Carson’s first encounter with me was an unflattering picture.

“She couldn’t stop talking about how Huy found you and invited you to the restaurant.”

There’s so much I want to tell him—about Mom’s illness, my job, the fire in the dumpster, how often I think of him. Instead I mumble, “Yeah, she’s grown up a lot.”

“So, what are you doing?”

“Oh, not too much.” The heat from the bowl and from Carson’s Southern accent have warmed my face. “And you?”

“Just mowed the lawn. It’s my day off.”

I feel like a silly schoolgirl who’s gotten a call from a guy she likes.
After all this time, you still hold a piece of my heart, Carson.
In the pit of my stomach, a disturbance flails. Swallowing, I steady my voice. “Where do you work?”

“A little radio station.”

“What do you do there?”

“D.J.”

“You’re a D.J.?”

“Yep. You know, all that singing in the camp must have made me do it.”

I feel my heart soften even more. “What kind of station?”

“Music from the seventies and eighties.”

“Do you take requests?”

“We do.”

Vaguely, I recall the voice on the radio station Beanie turned to when we were driving to Lien’s family’s restaurant. Could that have been Carson? At that time, my mind was preoccupied with seeing the Hong family again; I had not paid much attention.

“How about you?”

I think of everything that’s happened since I last saw him, all the things God has brought me through. “Life is good,” I say after a moment.

“It is, isn’t it? Where are you working?”

I wonder if Carson still has that sense of humor I adore. I decide to give it a try. “Well,” I begin, “I married a rich sheik who owns oil wells and we live in the Mediterranean with our seven children.”

Carson’s laughter is rich, taking me back to the evenings when we would sit outside the cafés in the camp, drink from bottles of Sprite, and confide in each other about our dreams.

“Actually, my mom owns a boutique in town and I work there.”

“I thought you were going to become an ESL instructor and get your certification. What do they call that?”

“TESOL.”

“That’s it. Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages. Wasn’t that what you said you were going to work on doing next?”

Mom got sick, I want to say. The store needed help. As my thoughts churn, I imagine my dreams from my past, my lofty dreams, turning into puffs of smoke. “Things don’t always work out.”

“I know,” he says. “I never expected to work at a radio station. So I guess life’s turned out a little differently for us both.”

I want to ask about Mindy, but I hold back. Later, I think.

Then he says he has to go. “Dat and Yung are here. We have a Bible study.”

“Well.” Reluctant to end our conversation, I say, “Thanks for calling.”

“It was right nice talking to you.”

When we hang up, I let my fingers linger on the phone as Carson’s voice lingers against my ears. Quickly, like my mother would warn, I tell myself to be careful.
You were young back then in the camp. You gave away your heart too quickly.