A Song in the Daylight

He was next to her, smiling, looking up at the 6-pack of paper towels she’d been trying to pull off the top shelf.

“Please,” she said, lightly smiling back. “I guess it helps to be tall.”

“Well, you’re no slouch in the tall department.” He pulled them down with one arm. “Just not quite tall enough.”

She was quite tall for a woman. Five-eight in her bare feet. He was wearing a black leather jacket today, an aviator scarf, ripped jeans again, old boots. His smile was clean, shiny, like he was thinking of a joke, of something witty to say.

“So what were you doing at the mall the other day?” he asked. “I said hello; didn’t you recognize me?”

That was witty? “Shopping. What were you doing at the mall?” She ignored the other, unanswerable bits of his question.

“Hanging out with my buddy Gil. He says I need some new clothes if I’m going to make an impression on my new bosses. So reluctantly I got myself a white shirt.”

“Oh, yeah?” Should she ask? Well, why not? They were just making small talk in the supermarket. She picked up a box of light bulbs, casual. “Where are you working?” She hoped he wouldn’t say Baskin-Robbins.

He pointed in some nebulous direction. “At the Jag dealership down the street. But that’s later in the day. Two mornings a week I got another job.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“At John Cortese in Summit. I’m a stonemason.”

“Stonemason.” She pondered the definition of that. Mason … was that Latin for to build, to make?

“I’m excellent with irregular blue stone,” he said. “Also concrete pavers. Any kind of stonework, really. Do you need anything done at your home?”

“Um—no. But thanks.”

“A patio? Some landscaping walls? A walkway?”

“Thanks, we’re all set.”

“I’m saving up,” he said with a jerky kid-like shrug. “Hence two jobs.” He grinned. “I have this dream of starting my own business.”

He was saving money! He was responsible. He had dreams! He was ambitious. He had actual skills! He was hard-working. And he wasn’t in school.

He worked with stone? That might explain his skinny, hard-looking body. The light bulbs nearly fell out of her hands and broke.

Her question was: did one lay bricks in January? Wasn’t it a seasonal thing? I mean, today was twenty below zero with the wind chill howling it down another ten degrees. Did one lay pavers outside in Short Hills in January?

And the point of the doubt was what? That he was lying about being a stonemason? His real job was a hedge fund manager and he didn’t want her to know? Or maybe his real job was a senior in high school and he didn’t want her to know. Maybe she could bring him home, get him some milk and cookies and send him to the den to play video games with Asher.

“Much call for stone work in the wintertime?”

“Not really,” he admitted. “I’m part time till the summer. Mostly I’m at the Jag place.” He grinned. He was so friendly, so cute. So harmless. He would be a very good bag boy right here at Stop&Shop. And then he could help her get the groceries to her car.

“You must be glad the cast’s off,” he said. “Think of how many accidents could be avoided if only women would stay away from hairdressers. And the husbands would save so much money.”

“Yes,” said Larissa, “but we’d have roots and be ugly.”

“Not you.” He paused, as if for colorizing effect on her spousal skin. “That looks like your natural hair,” he elaborated.

“Yeah, the best natural hair money can buy.”

“Worth every broken bone,” he said, tipping his invisible hat. “Hey, are you in the market for a new car? Because we have some beautiful models coming in next week.”

“A Jaguar?” Larissa shook her head with an incredulous titter. “I don’t think so.”

“You sure?” He was smiling.

She squinted at him. It occurred to her that they’d been standing entirely too long, standing, not moving, standing, not shopping. Their carts were touching, his against hers, kind of bucked up, backed up. His front to her back. “Are you shilling for work in the supermarket?” Larissa asked. “Drumming up business in the produce aisle? First stonework, now Jags?”

“First of all, we’re in plastic and paper, and I don’t know what you mean. Just asking. Making small talk.”

“We’re not in the market for a car either. But thank you.”

“Well, if you change your mind and do come in, don’t forget to ask for me. Here’s my card.” Proudly he pulled out a stack of them from of his pocket and handed her one. He was shilling!

Gingerly she took one, glancing at the name. “KAI PASSANI. SALES REPRESENTATIVE.”

“Kay?” She’d never heard that before. “What kind of name is that?”

“Well, mine for starters. And it’s not Kay. It’s Kai. Rhymes with guy.”

“Oh, of course. I knew that.” She nearly stammered.

He had mercy on her. “Hawaiian.”

“Passani’s Hawaiian?”

“French. My old man was French. And Vietnamese.”

That explained the striking, non-Jersey nature of his appearance.

“Your mom is Hawaiian?”

“We lived in Hawaii. Is that the same thing? She’s actually from Canada, I think.”

“You lived in Hawaii? Lucky you.”

“Nah. Rock island fever from the time I could crawl.” He half shrugged, half shuddered. “Glad I’m out.” He looked so casual when he spoke about a place so extraordinary. And she glimpsed that he was exotic, though on the surface, without a second glance, he looked almost ordinary. Unthreateningly friendly, unmenacingly young, just a kid with a motorbike and jeans and boots and kinky hair, not especially well-kept, a little out of place in her part of the world. He had an amiable smile, a relaxed manner. But there was something else too, behind the dancing eyes and the straight spine. A peculiar way his attention was laser-focused on the supposedly slapdash chatter with her.

“Glad you’re out in Jersey?” She bestowed him with her most skeptical expression.

“Especially in Jersey.” His eyes scrunched up. He tucked his wiry hair behind his baseball cap. “Bruce Springsteen made me love it. And what is your name, miss?”

“Larissa. And it’s Mrs.”

“Hmm,” he said, nodding in approval. “You look like a Larissa.”