“What do you order for fish?” Al asked.
“The perch with potato pancakes. Best in town.” Al followed his advice and wasn’t disappointed. During dinner, the two men discussed travel and sports. By the time he scraped the last bite of coleslaw off his plate, half the bar had joined in. He smiled at the memory and what he’d realized while talking with them. It wasn’t about who had the fanciest house, or knew more people, or traveled farthest. Many of the people he had met had been no farther than Green Bay for a Packers game. They liked life here and saw no reason to want for more. He had spent his schooling days yearning for what these lucky people had been born to—a life that was enough.
He envied their contentedness but found he felt a little himself, especially around Lou. With Lou, he didn’t feel less. He felt like they were equals, no matter whether she’d come from a poor rural farm or a mansion on Lake Drive. When he thought about her background, he realized he wanted to know more. What did she do when they weren’t exploring the town? Where did she grow up? Other than her wanker of an ex-fiancé, whom did she spend time with? The journalist in him cringed at his lack of research.
“You going to finish that?” asked John, pointing to Al’s half-finished Italian sausage. Al looked down, realizing he’d eaten all of the gnocchi, zucchini, and half of his sandwich without noticing, too caught up in his thoughts of Lou.
“I’m done.” Al handed the wrapper across the table and looked at his dining partner. You could barely see his face hidden behind the scruffy beard and long, almost matted hair. You could really only see his prominent eyebrows and grayish-blue eyes. If he didn’t know John, Al would assume he spent his evenings under the local bridges.
“I don’t get it, mate.”
“You don’t get that I’m still hungry?”
“No—you’re wicked smart; I’ve read your articles. Your writing is brilliant. About fashion. And you look like this.” Al waved his hand at John’s clothes. “I don’t get it.”
“Self-preservation and habit.” John shrugged.
“That isn’t any clearer.”
John held up a finger to indicate he was still chewing. When he finished, he took a long breath, then spoke.
“I grew up in West Allis.” The words came out blended so it sounded like “’Stallis.” “I’ve always known I liked two things in life: women and the clothes they wear. What could be a better job than studying beautiful women wearing beautiful clothes? It just made sense to me. Over time, I developed an appreciation for all aspects of style, but it always started with women. But being from ’Stallis, some people aren’t always so nice to the young boy who knew how to pronounce ‘Givenchy’ correctly. Assumptions were made, faces were punched. When I dress like this, people leave me alone.”
“You aren’t at school anymore; I think it’d be quite safe now.”
“Like I said, self-preservation and habit. I did it to hide myself when I was young. Now I’m just used to it. It’s easier not to change now.”
“I think you’d have better luck with the ladies.” Al smirked.
John looked thoughtful. “I know. Christian Louboutin said a good pump is like a beautiful face with no makeup. You can cover a not-so-beautiful face with makeup, but it is just a mask. My mask makes my life less complicated.” He took a bite of the sandwich as Al digested the unexpected information. “So, speaking of ladies, how’s yours?”
Al ran his hand through his hair and looked around at the passing people, half hoping he would see her welcoming face. “Really good. I think I’m going to tell her.”
“Tell her what?”
“Who I am, what I do. I think we could really have something. She should know.”
“Well, how are you going to tell her? Just going to spit it out?”
“I’ve been thinking about this a bit. I’ll show her the review of The Good Land. We had so many unique plates, she’ll recognize it as our meal and realize I wrote the review. Then . . .”
“Then she’ll fall into your arms, convinced of your genius, and beg to spend the rest of her life meeting your every need? Wait . . . that’s what I want.”
Al laughed. “That would be quite nice. I’m merely hoping she doesn’t mind having to keep my identity a secret and agrees that kissing is the best dessert.”
“Well, sounds like a fair plan. I’m sure things will go perfectly.”
Al picked up his plastic glass of wine, held it out for John to do the same, and said, “Here’s hoping.”
• CHAPTER FOURTEEN •
Al felt his stomach drop; the itchy burlap poked at the skin exposed between the top of his sock and jeans leg. A trickle of sweat ran down his back as the yellow slope blinded him in the bright sunlight. He heard Lou’s woo-hoos of delight waft past him. How in the bloody hell did she convince him to sit on a burlap sack and race down a giant slide? The children coming off seemed so happy, he now believed it was a complicated scheme to trap fools like himself into parting with the two dollars it cost. Al couldn’t believe people actually paid to do this. He wouldn’t accept any sum of money to do it again. At last the interminable yellow slope ended and Al opened his welded-shut eyelids to see Lou’s glorious smile, hair mussed like she’d just rolled out of bed, and cheeks flushed with the thrill of gravity and speed. And just like that, Al decided he would descend the yellow path of doom as many times as Lou wanted him to. Thank God she seemed happy with one trip for now.
“You okay? You look a little pale,” Lou said as Al stood up, clutching the scratchy burlap.
“Yes. It looked a bit smaller from down here.”
“I love that slide. I used to ride it with my dad when I was too little to go by myself. Ready for some food, or do you need a little break?”
“Food might not be the smartest. The animals?”
“Cows it is.”
August had rolled in hot and steamy. Al and Lou had arrived at the Wisconsin State Fair by nine in the morning for fresh egg omelets in the Agriculture Building and some apple cider donuts. They’d nibbled their donuts and wandered the stalls celebrating various products grown and raised in Wisconsin. You could sample and buy anything, from honey-filled plastic sticks to ostrich steaks to cranberry scones. They followed up their breakfast with a stop at the milk barn, where Lou had forced him to try root beer–flavored milk. While he’d been skeptical, it tasted delicious and precisely like a root beer float.
Now, after the slide, Al didn’t think more food would stay put. His stomach roiled, reminding him of those boiling mud pits he’d seen on a public television show about Yellowstone National Park.
As they approached the Cow Barn, Al prepared himself for bovine hell, but once again he was wrong. Instead of piles of manure, muddy cows, and ratty stalls, Al saw row upon row of neatly kept hay piles, clean cows, and hardworking young kids picking up manure before it hit the floor. He smelled fresh hay more than anything else. The cows blinked long lashes over their shoulders at the passing people, tails swishing away flies. At the end of an aisle, a teen boy washed a cow.
“Okay, I’m starving. You’ll just have to man up and eat something,” Lou said.
“I’m fine now. Where to?” Al said with a smile, realizing it was true.
“Corn on the cob, for sure, then whatever grabs us.”
They spent the next hour nibbling their way through the food stalls, sharing spiral-cut potatoes, pork sandwiches, and cream puffs. They found a table in one of the many shaded beer gardens, and Lou retrieved some ice-cold Summer Shandys to go with their food. The beer had a light lemon edge that offset the malt, making it an ideal hot-summer-day drink. The potato spirals, long twirls coated in bright orange cheese, combined the thin crispiness of a potato chip with a French fry. And the cream puffs . . . The size of a hamburger on steroids, the two pâte à choux ends showcased almost two cups of whipped cream—light, fluffy, and fresh. Al had watched the impressive assembly line make it while they waited.