Dr. Blocken pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His nails were bitten to the quick. “I thought I saw you shopping for groceries the other day, but whoever I saw disappeared, and I couldn’t be sure.”
I laughed hollowly.
Bobby disentangled his hand from Mrs. Blocken, and she paraded us to the backyard.
Even though the sponged and dry-brushed walls of the Blocken home grated on my nerves, I preferred the cool relief of the Blocken’s central air to the sweltering backyard. Bobby didn’t appear too thrilled, either.
The lawn was expertly maintained. The grass, if measured, would prove to be exactly one inch high, and the flowers and plants were the attractive, if unimaginative, sort found outside of banks and office buildings. Every exposed patch of dirt was buried in a mound of pungent black mulch.
Two umbrella tables sat on the generous patio. A gorgeous woman and a burly, thirty-something man sat at one of the tables. A sullen-looking teenager slouched alone at the other, slumped on a patio chair with her arms folded in a defiant, piss-off pose. She wore baggy boys shorts and a T-shirt that read, You’re not the brightest crayon in the box, are you? She had her improbably yellow hair cropped close to her head.
With a start, I realized the teen was Olivia’s fifteen-year-old sister, Olga. I only recognized her because, despite the hair and the shirt, she was the identical version of Olivia’s teenaged self. I looked at her and at Olivia and back again. They had the same smooth forehead, straight nose, and wide mouth. For some reason, I found seeing Olga sitting at that table looking like she was ready to bolt more jarring to me than seeing Olivia earlier in the driveway. The last time I saw Olga she was eight or nine. That is how much time had passed between then and now, between seeing Olivia and her family every day to not at all.
Olivia introduced the stunning woman, model-thin with a thick mane of curly black hair, as Bree Butler, Olivia’s former college roommate and maid of honor. I guessed she was of Mediterranean descent, maybe Greek, although her last name suggested nothing of the kind.
Bree stood and hugged me. “Olivia always talked about your misadventures together. Did you really get lost in the sewer for two days when you were eleven?”
I glanced at Bobby for help, but he was lost to me, floored by Bree’s beauty. “More like two hours.”
“Bree’s a special education teacher at a public elementary school in Virginia,” Olivia told Bree. “India’s a librarian at Martin College. You probably have so much in common.”
Right, I thought.
Bobby added, “I’m a librarian, too. India and I are coworkers.”
Thank you, Bobby.
Bree giggled for no good reason. “I’d love to see Martin while I’m here.” She seemed to recollect me. “Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”
I glanced at the picnic table three feet away lined with soft drinks, iced tea, and lemonade. “Nothing thanks.”
“Bobby, can I get you anything?” Bree asked.
He shook his head mutely. It would be a long time before he recovered his voice.
“Olivia?” Bree asked.
Olivia waved her hand at the burly man. Using my world-renowned powers of deduction, I concluded that the man was Kirk, Olivia’s fiancé, and that he could bench-press my weight. Without looking at Bree, she said, “Bottled water, make sure it’s spring water, in a glass with a handful of ice.”
“Right away.” Bree scurried off.
I glanced at Bobby to see if he’d noticed Olivia’s dismissive tone. If he had, he didn’t indicate it. His eyes had followed Bree.
Kirk rose from the table and lumbered toward us. He was an inch shorter than Olivia, who stood approximately five feet five. His hair was too blond and his skin too tanned. Husky and thick-chested, he reminded me of a lumberjack except he wore prep, not flannel, in a tight black T-shirt and tailored jean shorts. The effect was very S.W.A.T. meets weekend-wear. His biceps were so pronounced, his arms couldn’t rest easily at his sides. I towered over him in my flip-flops. Bemused, I wondered how Mrs. Blocken was going to trick him into wearing lifts during the ceremony. He kissed Olivia on the cheek.
After Olivia made introductions, Kirk extended his hand first to Bobby then to me. The men shook harder than necessary in a testosterone Alamo.
I wondered if he could crack a walnut with his calves.
Kirk turned to me. “I’ve heard so much about you. Did you really set your parents’ garage on fire?”
Olivia had evidently presented me as quite a hellion. “I was experimenting with a wood burner and a hot glue gun.”
Bree returned with Olivia’s water. Bobby preened, running his fingers through his impeccable mane then shaking it out.
“Kirk, do you want something to drink?” He nodded at her glass, and she half-turned to Bree. “Bree?”
Bree scurried off. Bobby watched her go, then looked at Olivia. “How did you and Kirk meet?”
Olivia laughed. “We work together.”
So much for the great love-lost plot Bobby desired. She raised Kirk’s hand to her mouth and kissed it. Kirk beamed. If they started making out, I’d make a break for it.
“Kirk owns a small chain of gyms in Virginia called Kirk’s Fitness Center.”
Catchy, I thought. That explained the muscleman bod.
Olivia rubbed Kirk’s arm like she was polishing a trophy into a special shine. “In college, I majored in physical therapy. After graduation, the first place I applied was at Kirk’s Fitness Center, because it came with a free membership.”
Kirk looked lovingly at his bride-to-be. “I hired her because she was so hot.”
Well, that certainly was a resounding affirmative action endorsement.
“KFC is the most sought-after gym in northern Virginia,” Olivia said.
“KFC?” I swallowed a joke about fried chicken.
“Kirk’s Fitness Center is more than a gym; it’s a destination with spa treatments and juice bar.”
I wondered if Olivia had recently written a brochure. I’d probably go for the juice bar but that was about it.
“It must be difficult to own your own business in today’s economy,” Bobby said.
“Fitness is big business, really booming. No matter what the market is doing, there are always fat people trying to get thin. We opened our fifth center last week.”
I stared at Kirk, thinking that he was the polar opposite from Mark, making me even more sure that Mark had never had a real shot with Olivia. I wished Mark could realize that and move on.
I turned my body away from the group so they couldn’t see my expression. I watched Dr. Blocken place a plate of hot dogs and hamburgers from the grill next to the platter of fried chicken. Thank goodness for the veggie tray, I thought.
“Please, everyone. The food’s ready,” Mrs. Blocken called from the patio. We trooped to the picnic table. I filled my plate with carrots, celery, and a heaping helping of potato salad. Bobby and I sat with Bree and sulky Olga. During the meal, Bobby lobbied for Bree’s attention. They discussed their respective jobs and families, trading all vital statistics. I began to wonder how long politeness required me to stay at the Blockens. One hour? Two? Certainly not three.
“I wish my mother could have come to the wedding. She’s so fond of Olivia,” Bree told Bobby. She dabbed a napkin to her eye.
“Why couldn’t she?” Bobby asked.