by Jane MacDonald
Bernie's note, written in pencil, lay on his desk. It reminded him of a letter of marque, a license from the King to sail out and take prizes from the enemy. And this king wanted some action, fast.
Hamlin, Maine
July 12, 2001
George:
Jeannette brought her fiance home to meet the
family last week. He looks great, he talks good,
he seems OK. He isn't. Never mind the reasons.
He won't do. You've known Jeannette since third grade. Get her out of this.
              Bernard Fournier
Obviously, he didn't have to do it. But he remembered that Bernie drove them to watch the airplanes take off at the Caribou airport when they were little kids. He always got an extra dollar when he picked potatoes on Bernie's big farm. Bernie took him to the doctor in Van Buren when he fell off the John Deere and broke his ankle. Bernie talked to his parents when they had doubts about his going all the way to Orono to a real university. Other things--too many. He owed Bernie. Still, that was a crazy letter; he could ignore it, or tell Bernie he couldn't do it.
But what if he decided to try? If he succeeded, how would Jeannette feel about it? He wouldn't hurt Jeannette for anybody, not even her father. She was short and dark and fierce, and the dearest friend he'd ever had.
George knew that nobody would ever say he had charisma. Presentable, yes. Adequate, definitely. He'd made A's in business school, and his boss at the bank trusted him to handle loan accounts. He usually could take necessary risks without much difficulty, but not always--especially when it came to women. He envied his married friends, but he saw no prospects.
It took George two days to make up his mind. He trusted Bernie's instincts, and Carl--Carl fit the archetype of the Boston Brahmin, not the kind of guy he much liked. Finally, he got on the phone.
"Jeannette? How about lunch?"
"Sure, George. Where've you been, anyhow? I missed you! See you at Au Bon Pain at noon tomorrow?"
"Why not?"
"Okay, I'll be there at 11:50. Maybe we'll beat the crowd."
They filled their trays at the buffet before taking a table outdoors on the patio. For once, George decided, he wouldn't dither--he might as well dive in the deep end. He had a plan. It was devious; it was underhanded. But it was all he could think of.
"So how's being engaged?"
"Fabulous." Jeannette smiled broadly. "Carl hasn't changed, he's still the soul of gallantry. Takes me out to dinner as if we were still just ordinary people. He hasn't tried to rearrange my life, even though I expect his mother wishes he would."
Here goes, he thought. "That's a mistake on his part. The day you're engaged to me your life will change radically." Just as if he were perfectly calm, George took a bite of his sandwich and looked her straight in the eye. She couldn't see his blood pressure rising.
Jeannette put her fork down and met his gaze.
"Do I need a hearing aid?"
"I don't think so."
"I could have sworn you said something about my being engaged to you."
"You heard right."
"All right. Item One, I'm already engaged. Item Two, I'm in love with my fiance. Item Three--"
"Forget Item Three." George wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and said, calmly, "Item One is true, obviously. Item Two is false. I've known you since third grade, and you're not in love."
"George, I've been mad at you before, and I could get mad at you again."
"I survived the other times, so I expect I could survive again."
"But why are you doing this? You're my friend!"
"Because I know you're not in love. I remember when you fell in love with Omer Dumond in high school, and it showed. You were over the top. This time you're not."
"George. I'm not in high school anymore, remember? I graduated. I went to college. I've been living alone in the big city for five years since then, making a living. I'm not a silly girl anymore. I think this has to stop, right now." She reached for her bag.
"You can go if you want," George said, "but I'll be in touch. And when you're engaged to me you won't be going to lunch with old friends. Not if they're male and predatory. You'll have better things to do."
Jeannette laughed in spite of herself. "You're not the predatory type, George. Like you said, I've known you since the third grade. I don't think Carl has to worry." She put the bag down. "Look, George, why don't we just talk the way we always do? I was back in Van Buren last week. I'll tell you all the dirt about Lucie Levesque. I want to finish my lunch."
"Fine with me, but just keep in mind what I said. So how's Lucie?" George relaxed; he thought he could use a time-out.
On the following Saturday morning, George fished around in his desk drawer, found a stamp, and wrote a regular letter. E-mail wouldn't have done for this one, even if Bernie had been online.
Boston, Massachusetts
July 23, 2001
Dear Bernie:
OK. I'm working on it.
George
Having thus thoroughly committed himself, he reached for the telephone and called Jeannette.
"Are you still engaged?"
"Are you still nuts?"
"You know me better than that--I've been sane all my life. Therefore I'm sane now."
"Nope, you're nuts. I agree, it's a new departure. Still, it's Saturday, and I'm going shopping at Copley Place. I'll buy you lunch."
George was astounded. She had pre-empted his whole plan of action--he had expected resistance. Breathing deeply, calling on his reserves, he replied.
"See you there. Chili's this time? We could live it up. I'll buy you the beer of your choice."
They ate at one of those tall tables in the bar. Jeannette liked sitting there because she could hook her feet on the rung of the bar stool; whenshe sat in chairs or on banquettes they didn't quite touch the floor. She had told him long before that she considered this just another of the many subtle ways men kept women off balance. George had eaten half of a huge pile of nachos, which he knew she thought were gross, before he brought up her love life.
"So you haven't dumped Carl yet."
"Look, George. I don't know what you're on about, but I am engaged, and I'm going to get married at St. Bruno's in Van Buren next January, and that's all there is to it."
"That's all very well," George said. "Being engaged is fine; getting married is fine; St. Bruno's is fine. But that's not all there is to it. There's still the question of who you're getting married to. It won't be Carl."
"Yes, it will."
"No. It won't."
"If you object so much to Carl, you have to tell me why. You knew six months ago that I was sleeping with him--if you didn't like it, why didn't you tell me then?"
"Good question. Let's see. I suppose . . . . No, that's not it. I was going to say I was too stupid, but it's really that I didn't see any point in it. I've never been able to tell you what to do--you always do just the opposite of what I say."
"Then why didn't you tell me what a great idea it was?"
"Yeah, I was too stupid."
"All right, tell me now why it isn't a great idea."
"Because you're not in love with Carl."
Jeannette carefully put a bite of salad into her mouth, chewed, then spoke:
"Granted it's not like it was with Omer, but I'm still in love. And I'm twenty-eight years old--that's not like being sixteen, OK? Carl is a very nice guy. He loves me, I love him. End of story."
"No, no," said George. "Remember when we were about eleven, picking potatoes on one of Joe Thibaut's contract farms? I claimed you stole potatoes out of my basket? You hit me?"
"I remember it well, you creep. I did not steal your stupid potatoes. Cochon."
"I didn't think you did, really. I just liked seeing you mad."
Jeannette giggled. "I didn't hit you as hard as I could have. But I was mad, all right."
"That's when I fell in love with you."
"You're kidding!"
"No, I'm telling the truth."
Jeannette frowned. "You have to be kidding! You never said a thing!"
"Well, I'm not very brave, I suppose. I thought about it a few times, but you were so popular, and I was just another guy, even if we were friends."
Jeannette shook her head. "Well, I'm going to go continue shopping, and putting my name on the stores' wedding wish lists , even if you were in love with me when you were eleven years old." She slid off her stool and gathered up her shopping bags.
"I still am." George wiped his mouth and stood up, looking at her.
She grabbed his head and gave him a peck on the cheek.
"See you, George. I have to get going." She marched toward the exit.
George figured he was making no progress at all. But he had promised Bernie; he couldn't quit. So what if she told him to go to hell? He'd survive. Or so he kept telling himself. When he called a couple of days later, she told him her fiance was out of town; he asked her to dinner. Once they sat down, he wasted no time.
"I still think I'd make a better husband than Carl."
"I'm beginning to think you're serious. That makes it worse. Stop it." Jeannette was not smiling.
But George thought he could hear doubt in her voice.
"No. I am serious. Nobody would have put up with all your crying when you got hurt, your crowing when you won that puzzle contest, all that kind of stuff--nobody would have put up with that who didn't love you."
"I just thought you were my friend. That's what friends are for."
"Of course I'm your friend. I also wanted to hold you tenderly and dry your tears, hold you tight and kiss you, run my hands through your raven locks, and take you off to bed right then. Still do. Preferably not the tears right now, though."
She ran a hand through her raven locks. "Eat your spaghetti, George. You're faint from hunger and delirious." She picked up her fork. "And shut up."
So he shut up about that kind of thing, and they talked about her work, and his, and how lousy the Red Sox were playing. After dinner they walked up Newbury Street for a while, looking in the shop windows, then he took her home and she stood tiptoes to kiss his cheek and went upstairs to her apartment.
Then it was Saturday morning again.
"George? You're home. I'm coming over."
George hung up the telephone and began straightening up his living room. He worried. Carl was back in town. She was just being nice, but she was going to tell him to bug off. By the time she buzzed, the apartment looked clean and neat. She came in, looked around, took the softest chair, and glowered at him.
"All right. You win. I'm not in love with Carl. Last night I gave him back the ring. Are you satisfied?"
"Is he completely out, or are you still going to keep him around in case?"
"Nope. No more Carl. I'm a free woman."
"What happened?"
"It's kind of silly," she said. "It matters, though. He was talking about joining some posh country club, and it just hit me--that's not me. I don't want that kind of life. I don't think he really knows me at all. I could almost hear his mother talking, and she's just the kind of socialite I couldn't stand to be."
"It's really over, then."
"All gone."
"So I should I give you a big kiss and hold you in my arms and take you off to bed?"
"No." She gave him a shy smile. "Not yet, anyhow. But we could do a little experimenting. Just kind of take up dating instead of having friendly lunches."
- George went pale.
"Uh, yeah, we could. Sure you want that?"
"Why not? I've known you forever, and I always liked you a lot. I can depend on you, I know that. Not many people I can say that about. Who knows?"
George couldn't think of a thing to say. Then Jeannette burst out laughing.
"Gotcha, you silly man! I just thought I'd pay you back a little for trying to fool me. You're not in love with me, you big fake. Besides, you're like my brother, it would be incest. And you don't like my type anyhow--you go for big Anglo blondes, preferably the arty kind." She composed herself. "No, I know you too well. You just did all that to get rid of Carl. Frankly, I would never have thought you had the nerve to do it, but it worked. You got me confused enough to make me think. I'd never admit that to anybody else, but I decided it probably was hormones talking--I want a baby. But not that bad. Not anymore."
To his amazement, George felt a sudden pang of grief. His color came back, but he didn't feel quite right. True, Jeannette wasn't a "big Anglo blonde" like the women he'd lusted after in the past. She was a dark, trim little Franco woman like his mother. But she was--Jeannette.
"You know, you're not really my sister. I could make an exception--" He stopped. For once, he'd taken a real risk. He hadn't weighed his words. Hadn't worried about looking stupid. Hadn't thought about getting rejected.
So he looked her straight in the eye. "I've been in love with you since we used to pick potatoes in your dad's field. And that's the truth."
"Yeah. I know." Her mouth curved into a crooked smile. "Took you long enough to figure it out."
--The End--
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