Free Isn't It Romantic? by Ron Hansen Page A

amazement. “Wonder if we met in a past life.”
    She watched as some shade trees furiously shook. She could see a pair of shining minks playing and twirling in the creek, the noise of it shifting over the rocks with the sound of party conversation. She said, “No. This is my first life. That is why I’m so happy and surprised.”
    Dick took pleasure in that. “So you like it here.”
    â€œI love it here!” she said. “It is so odd and old-fashioned and naive, and no one is trying to be smart.”
    â€œAre you sure those are compliments?”
    She put a hand to his cheek. “And you, Deek Tup-pair. You are as faithful and honest and natural as a horse.”
    Each of them looked to Shep as he nuzzled into shaded grass, his tail whisking right and left. But it soon turned into an unfortunate moment and they turned away.
    â€œHorses’ll do that,” Dick said.
    And then they heard a hollering, rollicking group of Owen, Carlo, Iona, and Pierre sailing down the creek on tractor tire inner tubes, squirting Owen’s wine out of goatskins, the men shirtless and sunburnt and in jean cutoffs, Iona luscious in a leopard print string bikini and intently watching the man and woman in the shade as she floated past.
    Carlo was giddy at finding the picnickers fulfilling his plot and with a squiggly smile tilted out on his inner tube to see Iona’s face. She seemed properly disappointed as an eddy spun her away. Carlo gave Dick a puckish thumb’s up.
    Owen yelled, “Sybaritic pleasures, Dick!”
    Dick yelled, “Don’t make me wash your mouth out with soap!” And then he smiled and said to Natalie, “Having themselves a time.”
    Pierre swirled around in his inner tube in order to scowl at Natalie on the bank. She haughtily smiled at his jealousy, and then he found a swift passage of water and flew out of sight.
    Still staring after him, she said, “Have you noticed how Monsieur Smith does not fit in here? He is like the fish out of water.” She craned her neck to see farther down the creek.
    â€œWe better go,” Dick said, and helped her up.
    She faced her swain. “And then will you kiss me?”
    He smiled. “Oh, I reckon I could do that much.”
    They kissed.
    She liked it. And he did, too.

15
    C hildren were squealing on rides at the Seldom fair-grounds and the night just above the horizon was brilliantly streaked with the scarlet and yellow and blue neon lights of wild machines and game arcades and food booths filled with pizza slices, hot dogs, and sweets. Waiting their turn at the Dairy Delite were Iona and Pierre, each wearing jean cutoffs under Owen’s green gas station shirts. Pierre’s hung loose but Iona’s was tied above her firm-muscled stomach. She handed Pierre a vanilla ice cream cone that a churring machine had stacked like a minaret, and he sculpted it with his tongue as they strolled.
    Iona asked, “When you got here? Why was Natalie upset with you?”
    â€œWe have an argument,” he said.
    â€œAnd what was the topic?”
    Pierre shrugged and said, “She says I never pay attention to her. . . or something like that.”
    â€œAre you sure it wasn’t about the wedding?”
    Pierre halted a second in confusion, and then he resumed his stride.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Iona said. “You don’t have to pretend. Anyone can see you still like her. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so mean.”
    She’d lost him. She seemed to want a comment. “But it’s you I like,” he said.
    She cocked her head and became coy. “Why?”
    Pierre stepped away to give her a hair-to-toe appraisal as he licked the balconies of the ice cream. Even in Owen’s shirt she was gorgeous. “But you are so natural and beautiful!” he exclaimed. “Elemental. Passionate. Erotique . Like Brigitte Bardot before she went crazy for animals.”
    She