Be Here to Love Me Today
Be Here to Love Me Today
Song: Be Here to Love Me Today, by Townes van Zandt
Chapter 1
Their meeting was mundane to the extreme.
It was her uncle Hank’s 50th birthday, and her mother was planning a huge celebration for all the relatives. Family was coming from Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, every corner of Tennessee and Kentucky, and even Illinois and Georgia. With all the husbands and wives and children and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins, the total number of attendees was going to be over 200.
For days, there’s been cooking going on in various kitchens—her mother, sister and aunts were baking pies by the dozen, and she was in charge of red velvet cake, which was her specialty. Her daddy has had ribs and pork shoulders smoking in the huge outdoor smokers, and Uncle Jim was the steak man.
There was potato salad to be made, chowchow, baked beans and black eye peas. Casseroles were loaded into the ovens. The house was unbearably hot, and still her parents refused to turn on the AC. All the women bumping into each other in the kitchen, the pots and pans piled on the stovetop and every inch of counter space, the heat and the madness finally drove her out of the house. Not needing another body in the kitchen, her mother sent her to the store to pick up additional ingredients, produce and condiments.
Standing in the fish department, she wouldn’t have noticed him at all, being hassled with an overflowing grocery cart, but he looked…different. They were in G-d’s country, so this man, who was eyeing the display of fish and seafood behind the glass, just didn’t fit. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what made him different, but at first, she pegged him as a European. The hair was longer than a man typically wore, parted in the middle, the shoes pointed and the jeans tighter than what an American male permitted himself to wear. But then she heard him order nine pounds of shrimp, and the hushed Southern drawl betrayed him as an American. Not only American, but probably a local boy as well. She wondered why and who would need nine pounds of shrimp? It seemed like an awful lot and expensive too.
He half turned to her, waiting for the fishmonger to weigh out the shrimp, and looking at her cart, asked,
“Party?”
“A big one,” she nodded.
A contradiction, he was. The t-shirt that he was wearing exposed large masculine arms, tanned and hairy. She didn’t expect him to be hairy at all, because he was…pretty. A delicate nose, freckled, as she could see even from afar, full, slightly feminine lips, well arched brows and large, pale-turquoise eyes, fanned by long lashes. Combined with his longish, brown-blonde hair, he was very pretty for a boy. However, the wide span of thick shoulders hinted at strength, and the V-neck of the t-shirt exposed more dark chest hair. He scratched his arm, above the shoulder and she glimpsed a tattoo, some kind of a claw or something.
“Who is partying?” he pressed. Big masculine hands with thick fingers disappeared inside the pockets of his jeans.
“A family reunion,” she answered.
“Ahhh…been to those,” he smiled.
The smile surprised her. His face changed, from pretty, it became mischievous, boyish, and he exposed small, uneven teeth, which she found oddly endearing. For someone so handsome, it was a pleasant imperfection.
‘My Uncle’s birthday,” why she felt the need to explain, she could not understand. In general, she avoided talking to strange men in supermarkets. “The whole family is coming down. My mama went overboard, me thinks.”
He chuckled, but remained silent.
She grew alarmed that she had said too much, and that none of it was particularly interesting to him. Scrambling, she thought of something to add, and then blurted out,
“Why does a man need so much shrimp?”
“Well, it aint all for me,” he shrugged, “I live out on a farm, me and my brothers and cousins, so we need to stock up. The nearest store is twenty minutes away. We make a run every week or so. Or when the beer runs low.”
“What sort of farm? Are you a rancher?”
“I am, here,” he answered vaguely.
“Anything else?” asked the fishmonger, handing him the shrimp, wrapped in white paper.
“That would be all, thanks,” he said. “Well now, good luck with the reunion,” he added and bowing his head a bit, made his way past her.
…Her cart careening to the left, with one bad wheel twitching this way and that way, she made her way out of the store. The heat of the July summer was searing, especially after the cold of the air-conditioned supermarket. She fumbled with the keys to her father’s truck, holding the cart in place with one leg, and trying to open the door to the cabin.
Succeeding in opening the door, she also succeeded in knocking over a bag of groceries that was placed precariously on top of the cart. Cream cheese, butter, bags of coconut and a jar of pecans spilled all over the pavement.
“Fuck!” she cried. The curse word died quickly in her throat. It wasn’t like her, to cuss.
A most ridiculous sounding laugh made her turn. The “pretty boy” was standing a little behind her, leaning on his cart, laughing loudly and gutturally.
“What a mess you’ve made here, woman,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t move!” he ordered, when she tried to leave her cart in place and pick up the scattered items. “I got it.”
She stood still, watching him gather the items, the big hands scooping everything at once and stuffing it in a plastic bag.
It surprised her to see a large silver cross slip from under his shirt and dangle around his chest. She wouldn’t have thought him a religious man.
“Thanks…Thank you…I got it…Thanks,” she kept muttering, when a wayward tub of sour cream sent him scrambling under the car.
“No problem,” he finally straightened out and began loading her bags in the truck. “I got it. Just don’t let go of that cart.”
She watched him, noticing a sheen of sweat upon his forehead and how the dampness made his t-shirt stick to his body, revealing a well-muscled firmness beneath. She noticed that his own cart was loaded to the brim with beer, wine, a few whiskey bottles, groceries, fish bait…He was stocking up for an extended stay.
“Well, there you go,” he slapped the side of the trunk, indicating that he was finished.
“Thank you. I appreciate it!” she exclaimed.
“Do you go out much?” he asked.
“Yes…Why?” she stuttered.
“If you want to meet up, me and the boys will be at The Eager Beaver one of these nights. Come up for a beer or something…”
She nodded, stuttering still, murmured,
“Yeah, all right. I’ve heard of it. The Eager Beaver. Thanks.”
He waved and headed back to his cart and wheeled it to a lean, gleaming Lexus, which took her by surprise again.
“I am Caleb, by the way,” he threw over his shoulder and smiled.
