Al ran his hand over the rust spots, then held the heavy pan to his nose. He could almost smell the sausages. He set it upside down on the counter, hiding most of the rust, and held the magnet an inch above the deep black. He could feel the magnetic pull and knew he had found the perfect spot to display it. Al removed his copper paella pan and hung the skillet in its place. The reds, yellows, and blues of the Chihuly sculpture stood out in stark contrast with the inky-black pan. The melding of these two fond memories brought more homeyness into his apartment than the treasured copper collection surrounding it. Contentedness warmed him like hot tea on a brisk day. But the one magnet looked lonely—he wanted more.
Buzzzzz! Al grabbed the present and bounded from the kitchen to the intercom. He pushed the Talk button, stuffing his keys into his jean’s pocket. “I’m on my way down.” Al glanced back at the kitchen, where he could see the flash of color on darkness, then walked out the door and locked it before Lou had a chance to respond. When he walked out the front door, Lou smiled.
“Afraid I’ll find the severed heads?” she said.
“Something like that.” He held out the wrapped gift, about the size of a shirt box.
“What’s this?” Lou’s crinkled forehead contrasted adorably with her dazzling smile as she took the present.
“A thank-you.”
With the unabashed glee of a child on Christmas morning, Lou shredded the wrapping paper to reveal a colorful canvas painting of a calla lily.
“Wow! Is this a real painting?” She ran her hand over the swirls of oil paint, feeling the peaks and valleys under her fingertips.
“I couldn’t find a print of the painting you liked at the museum. I saw this one at an art fair, and it reminded me of you.”
Al held his breath as he waited for her response. He wanted her to love it, to see it and think of him. Lou wasn’t saying anything; she wasn’t even moving—just staring at the painting. He had to break the silence.
“I was going to send you flowers, but I couldn’t find your address.”
Lou looked up, her eyes sparkling with tears—the good kind if her smile was any indicator. She sniffed.
“It’s unlisted.” She wiped her eyes. “This is the most amazing gift anyone has ever given me.”
She hugged the painting to her chest and kissed Al on the cheek. While he barely felt her lips, the effects of them ravaged his senses. She pulled away and used her thumb to wipe away her lip gloss.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Al swallowed and tried to keep his reaction to himself.
“No, thank you.”
Lou opened her trunk and pulled out a blue-and-gold fleece blanket. She wrapped the painting and set it in her backseat. Touching it one last time, she turned to Al.
“Before I start crying again, are you ready for some baseball?”
• • • • •
Lou drove her Civic through the teeming parking lot, following the confident arm signals from yellow-vested old men. All around them people fell out of cars, set up grills, tossed baseballs and beanbags. A group of twenty unloaded a small cargo truck containing a full-size gas grill, three large folding tables, and five large coolers. Excitement hung in the air with the smoky fog rising from thousands of hot grills. The Brewers’ record had improved steadily since their opening slump, and they’d put together an impressive ten-game winning streak. A few more wins and George Webb’s would start handing out free burgers. The local diner chain hadn’t done that since 1987, when the Brewers won twelve straight games.
Lou pulled into the parking spot, turned off the car, and looked upward. Warm sunlight hit her face. Today, the sky matched the exact color of Al’s eyes, pristine blue. The wind blew softly, the sun warmed without being too hot. Miller Park was the epitome of summer in Milwaukee. The smell of grilled meat over screaming-hot coals, car exhaust, and fresh-cut grass relaxed every muscle in Lou’s body. Car doors slammed, gloves snapped shut around flying baseballs, and countless radios blared Bon Jovi, the BoDeans, and Bob Uecker. Lou breathed deeply as she stepped out and popped open the trunk. Al appeared around the rising metal.
“So, why are we here two hours before the game starts?”
“Tailgating.” Lou’s lips twitched upward.
“Tail-whating?”
“Tailgating. A time-honored pregame tradition involving food, drink, and maybe games. Think of it as a picnic in a parking lot. It can be very elaborate and gourmet, like that group with the cargo truck, but we’re going old school. Grilled brats and beer, followed by a game of catch. You can’t say you know Milwaukee until you’ve tailgated at Miller Park. But first we need to do something about your clothes.”
Lou eyed him from head to toe. She was looking forward to this.
“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Al looked around him and swept his arm to indicate the sea of people, all similarly garbed. “T-shirts and jeans are perfectly acceptable attire.”
He looked down at his gray T-shirt and faded blue jeans, a faint crease still visible down the front. Lou smiled and tossed him something blue, similar to the colors flying above the stadium.
“Put that on, and this.” A matching blue baseball cap flew at him. Al raised his dark eyebrow.
“If you want to experience Milwaukee, you have to look the part.”
Al smiled and pulled his perfectly acceptable but bland gray T-shirt over his tousled dark hair. Lou inhaled—quickly. Her eyes froze on the sculpted body revealed by the missing gray cotton. A dusting of dark chest hair trailed down Al’s taut stomach to disappear into jeans that would make Calvin Klein proud. The carved edge of his hips rose just above the top. She loved that. She wanted to trace the path and see where it went. The thought made her toes curl and her face flush. Lou exhaled slowly.
Al pulled the blue T-shirt over the six-pack and set the matching cap on his head, covering his thick hair. The old-school blue Brewers shirt, with the yellow catcher’s mitt logo front and center, and cap looked great on him, Lou thought. His blue eyes popped with mirth—he hadn’t missed her sudden inhale. Damn.
“Now that I’m properly attired, what’s next?” Lou shook her head a little, pinkened, then turned her attention to the depths of her Civic. All business, she lifted out the cooler, a small Weber grill, and two chairs.
“Set up the chairs; I’ll get the grill going,” Lou said, avoiding direct eye contact with Al.
• • • • •
Al liked Lou. She laughed at his jokes, relished good food, and looked particularly adorable in a baseball cap and number nineteen pin-striped Brewers jersey. He relaxed in her company. But he hadn’t expected all the tingles. When he heard Lou gasp—never mind when she kissed his cheek—his entire body felt it. He’d never been so instantly aware of another person’s every twitch, every breath.
Al looked to his left to make sure he hadn’t lost Lou to the blue and yellow wave moving them toward the entrance. The last ninety minutes had breezed by. Lou had brought the grill from ice-cold to scorching-hot faster than a firestorm; the brats were preboiled in beer and onions and burst with the perfect combination of juicy and smoky, complete with a crunchy outside topped with just a smear of Dijon. Paired with ice-cold Spotted Cows, his new favorite Wisconsin beer, Al got it. He got why people came hours early. It wasn’t about good seats or convenient parking. It was a friendly little party with forty thousand of your closest friends.
Lou led Al through the dense crowd, past the turnstiles, up to the second level and to their seats. Once settled, Al looked around. Miller Park was not what he expected. With the roof open, sun flooded the field and stands. They sat in the front row of their level, so no one detracted from his view. He felt like Dorothy awaking to a Technicolor Oz. The emerald grass, the ruby bricks, the golden yellows, and the cobalt blues all buzzed with intensity. On the field, a diamond of sand dotted with white pads at each of the four corners contrasted the vivid green. A few people raked the sand, leaving it with the manicured appearance of a sand trap.