Fools Rush In

PROLOGUE

I’M A STALKER. THE GOOD KIND.

Well, I was a stalker. It’s been a while. Even so, it’s hard to admit that you’ve followed, eavesdropped, spied, lurked, skulked and bribed in the name of love. But I’ve done all of those things—rather well, I might add. Perhaps you know what I’m talking about. It doesn’t matter how old you are, what level of schooling you’ve had or where you live—stalking is innate to the female psyche. We’ve all been there.

In my case, I stalked Joe Carpenter from the age of fourteen and a half until I went away to college. I knew where my subject lived. I knew his middle name, his mother’s name, his sister’s name, his dog’s name. I knew what kind of truck he drove, his favorite color, the names of his past four girlfriends, his favorite beer, where he went to happy hour on Fridays, which songs he played on the jukebox. I knew where he worked, how he took his coffee and the grade he got in third-year Spanish. There wasn’t much I didn’t know about Joe Carpenter.

While I didn’t quite meet the legal definition of stalking, I did drive by Joe’s house once or twice. Maybe more. (It was more.) I’d been known to “run into” him, a calculated maneuver executed with military precision and made to look quite accidental. It took years of training to reach the level of “coincidence” I developed. I probably shouldn’t be proud of that. Still, a talent is a talent.

It started in freshman biology at Nauset High School in Eastham, Massachusetts. Joe’s seat was diagonally in front of mine, and in order to look at the blackboard, I had to look past Joe. And I couldn’t. Not many women could look past Joe, even when he was fourteen years old. Then I discovered that his locker was three down from mine, and the stalking began.

Joe might mention to a friend that he was going to the beach after school, and I’d show up, too, crouching illegally in the terns’ nesting area so as not to be discovered, watching Joe frolic with the in crowd. I’d see his mom’s car at the store as my dad drove me home and suddenly blurt the need for tampons, knowing that feminine hygiene products would ensure that my father remained in the parking lot. I’d skulk through the aisles, hoping for a glimpse of Joe Carpenter. I’d ride my bike around town looking for Joe, stopping once I saw him to check the air levels in my perfectly inflated tires, carefully not noticing him, simply lurking in his golden presence.

Joe became, ironically, a carpenter, known professionally as Joe Carpenter the Carpenter. Thanks to my years of research, I knew what others, too sidetracked by his beauty, might have missed—Joe was honest, humble, hardworking and sweet. He performed anonymous acts of kindness, took pride in his work and treated people with benevolence and good cheer. He even adopted a three-legged dog. And yes, Joe Carpenter was gorgeous.

He had the kind of looks that made breathing irrelevant. A smile from Joe could cause waitresses to drop coffee carafes, sending splinters of glass skittering across a restaurant while they stared dreamily at my subject. Cars had collided when he jogged across an intersection; rooms had fallen silent at his entrance. And God in heaven, if he took off his shirt when he was outside working…Tourists had been known to stop and photograph the beauty Joe provided. Forget Nauset Light, take a picture of that!

Not a woman alive could remain unaffected by Joe’s looks. Dark blond hair, streaked with lighter gold from his hours in the sun. Clean, strong bone structure. Pure green eyes framed by impossibly long, thick golden eyelashes. Dimples. A slightly lopsided, boyish smile. Perfect teeth. Of course, Joe knew he was beautiful—a person couldn’t look like that and not be aware of the effect he had on others. But he never flaunted it. Usually a little scruffy, he didn’t seem to care too much about his appearance. His hair was often tousled, as if recently from bed. He was frequently unshaven. Clothes rumpled. Effortlessly, magnificently appealing.

Joe and I were both native Cape Codders, both in the same school year. We weren’t friends, though we might have said hello to each other a few times in high school. (It was three times, and these slight acknowledgments in front of our peers caused bursts of giddy joy and acne as my hormones surged with the thrill.)

And then came The Time—the monumental event that ensured Joe’s status in my heart forever more.

In sophomore year of high school, our class made the trip to Plymouth Plantation required of all New England schoolchildren, by civic pride if not by law. With the curious mix of ennui and exuberance typical of fifteen-year-olds, we spent an hour on our rattling, fume-ridden bus before slouching through the streets of the historic village. Despite the fact that my peers were sullen and bored, I couldn’t help but be charmed by “Obadiah,” the period-garbed man who was roasting bluefish over an open fire. He offered me a taste. I accepted. He gave me another. I ate that one, too, delighted at his interest in me, ignoring the fact that he made his living by schmoozing tourists.

On the bus home, as kids tossed wads of paper back and forth, shrieking like enraged chimpanzees, that bluefish made itself known to me. My best friend, Katie, asked me if I was okay; apparently, I was more than a little green. I answered by throwing up on my shoes. Ah, bluefish. I’ve never been able to eat it since.

At any rate, the kids around me reacted with all the kindness you’d expect from teenagers—that is to say, none. I gagged a few more times to the taunts and disgusted cries of my peers as Katie went to the bus driver for paper towels. My eyes were tearing in the aftermath of vomiting, my nose prickling, face flaming. And then…and then Joe was sitting next to me.

“You okay, Millie?” he asked, pushing his hair off his forehead.

“Yes,” I whispered, horrified, thrilled, nauseous and smitten.

“Shut up, guys,” Joe instructed affably, and because he was Joe, they listened. He patted my shoulder, and even in my weakened state, I registered every detail—the warmth of his hand, the kindness in his beautiful eyes, the half smile on his perfect lips. Then Katie arrived with paper towels and kitty litter to absorb the mess, and Joe returned to the back of the bus where the cool kids sat.

Proof! Proof that Joe was more than just a pretty face. College and even medical school didn’t help me outgrow my obsession; instead, I’d come home on break and pick up where I left off—find Joe. Run into Joe. Speak to Joe. Sure, I’d feel slightly ridiculous…until I caught a glimpse of him, when all embarrassment would evaporate in a cloud of love. He always had the same effect on me, his casual “Hey, Millie, how are you?” sending tremors through my limbs, heat to my face.

Now, at nearly thirty, I was still doing a pretty good imitation of teenage obsession. With my residency finally over, I had just moved back to the Cape, and here I was, in agonizingly close vicinity to Joe again. But this year would be different, I vowed. This was the year I would become Joe-worthy.

I didn’t have any illusions about myself. I was a smart, nice person. Funny. Caring. A fine friend. Though I was still pretty new to the profession, I knew I was a good doctor. But in terms of physicality, I was short, chubby, with long, lank hair that I pulled into a ponytail more often than not. Straight enough teeth. Brown eyes. Overall, rather plain and ordinary. Being cursed with an extremely beautiful older sister had certainly not helped my self-image over the years. Nor had my residency improved on what nature had given me, though I had definitely mastered the pasty skin/dark circles/unshaven legs look.

In order to attract the attention of a man who embodied physical perfection, I knew I had to make the most of what I had. While I didn’t imagine that I could become a swan, I was determined to become at least, oh, I don’t know, a Canada goose? They’re nice, right? Nothing wrong with a Canada goose.

My plan was simple, much like those of countless women who had set out to get their men. I would get a good haircut and makeover and shed the excess weight that gave me the Pillsbury Doughboy figure I now sported. I would buy a new wardrobe with the help of better-dressed friends. I would get a dog, as Joe was a dog lover, and become a better cook. And once I’d done these things, I would insert my newly forged presence into Joe’s life and make my move.

CHAPTER ONE

ON THE FIRST MORNING in my new home, I awoke to the sharp, hopeful smell of fresh paint, the radiator ticking companionably against the cold March day.

Today held all the unsullied promise of a new school year. Residency finished. Home remodeled. Career soon to begin. And Joe…Joe was out there this cold morning, soon to find that I was the love of his life. Swinging out of bed, I looked around the room, noting with pride the bright, clean blue walls and antique quilt. I padded barefoot to the kitchen, admiring my gleaming counters and shining porcelain sink. Turning on the coffeemaker, I breathed a deep sigh of happiness and gratitude.

As the coffee brewed, I rummaged through a box that was yet unpacked. Finding what I was looking for, I returned to the kitchen as the coffeemaker emitted its last gurgles, poured myself a cup, sat down and turned my full attention to the object before me.

An eight-by-ten photograph showed Joe Carpenter standing silhouetted against the sky, shirtless, as he nailed a shingle on a roof. The crispness of the black-and-white photo showcased his perfectly muscled arms as he performed this seemingly mundane task, which, with Joe’s easy grace, became poetry. He was slightly turned away from the camera, but enough of his face showed that you could see just how beautiful he was. The caption had read Aptly named Joe Carpenter of Eastham works on the restoration of Penniman House.

How did I get this picture? I’d called the paper and asked for it, thank you very much. It had been in the Boston Globe, and they’d never suspected that I wasn’t Joe’s mother, as I’d claimed to be. Sometimes having an old lady’s name comes in handy. After all, they wouldn’t have believed me if my name had been Heather or Tiffany…. Of course, I couldn’t keep this picture out in the open, so I secreted it away for special times. Now was such a time, and I gazed at it with the reverence it deserved.

“It all starts today, Joe,” I said, feeling pretty idiotic. Still, as I traced the outline of the man I’d loved for so long, the foolish feeling dissipated like early morning fog. “You’re about to fall in love with me. Everything from here on is for you.”

Resisting the urge to kiss the photo, I got up and strolled around my little house, cup in hand, basking in the thrill of simply being here. Home ownership on Cape Cod is a monumental achievement…one that I’d accomplished through no effort of my own. My grandmother had died just after Christmas. When the will had been read, I’d learned, with great shock and unsquelchable joy, that she had left her house to me—and only me.

The modest little ranch wore the requisite cedar shingles of the Cape, bleached a soft gray by the salt air and sun. There was no yard to speak of, just a scattering of pine needles, sand and moss. But the house was priceless because it was on protected land of the Cape Cod National Seashore. This meant that it would forever be free from development, I would never have a new neighbor, and I was pretty close to the water (three-tenths of a mile to be precise, though there was no view whatsoever). But I could hear the roaring surf of the mighty Atlantic, and at night the beam of Nauset Light swept across the darkness.

For months, I’d been driving up from Boston to work on the house, sanding floors, painting walls, sorting through my grandmother’s things, and the end result was a nice amalgamation of old and new. Gran’s needlepointed footstool sat next to my glass coffee table, bright new fabric covering her old beige love seat, a nice watercolor in the spot where a photo of John Kennedy at prayer had once hung. I considered the warm yellow I’d chosen for one wall of the living room, decided it was indeed fantastic, and walked into the bathroom to check on the pink flamingos my mother and I had stenciled on the pale green walls. Wait till Joe sees it here, I fantasized…he’ll never want to leave. I stuck my head in the bathroom vanity to assess how much space I had. The small area still smelled pleasantly of lemon Pine-Sol, the fumes making for a rather pleasant buzz.

The phone rang and I jumped, whacking my head on the cabinet. I ran to the kitchen to answer my first phone call in the new house.

“Hi, Millie, hon,” my mom said. “How was the first night? Everything okay?”

“Hi, Mom,” I answered happily, rubbing my scalp. “Everything’s great. How are you?”

“Oh…fine,” she answered unconvincingly.

“What’s up?”

“Well…it’s Trish,” Mom murmured.

“Ah.” Of course it was Trish, the usual topic of family conversation. “So what’s going on?” I opened the fridge and eyed the few occupants: oranges, half-and-half and, purchased in a moment of self-delusion regarding my baking ambitions, yeast. Clearly, I would have to hit the market later on. “Is Trish visiting?”

“No, no, she’s still in…New Jersey. But the divorce is final today. Sam just called us.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. And I was. My parents adored Sam Nickerson, my brother-in-law. As did I. As did the rest of this town. Sam was the son my parents never had. He and my father often watched football games together and did manly things like dump runs and driveway patching. My mother loved nothing more than feeding him and my much-beloved seventeen-year-old nephew. “Well, it’s not like we’ll never see Sam or Danny again,” I assured my mom. “They’re staying put, at any rate.”

“Oh, I know,” she answered. “I just wish…I wish your sister had taken more time. I think she’s making a mistake.”

A sweet, guilty pleasure rushed through me at my mom’s disapproval. Trish had always been Mom’s favorite, and for years Mom had turned a blind eye toward my sister’s behavior, always putting a positive spin on her selfishness. Even when Trish had gotten pregnant just after high school, my mother had defended her, taking comfort in the fact that Sam had immediately married Trish and taken her out to Notre Dame, where he’d been on an athletic scholarship.