Riverstar (3) (35 page)

Mrs. Lombardi wiped under her eyes, scrutinizing Cleo. “You
look so nice. Did you go out with a man?” she asked in a hopeful tone.

“You know I don’t date.”

“Cleo, ten years without a man is too long. And thirty years old is so young. You know what I would give to go back and do it all over again? You should be out living it up.”

Cleo didn’t say anything. She heard this quite often from Mrs. Lombardi. And Sylvia. And, of course, there was Nick. He probably lectured her the most, which was ironic, given that he’d pined for Sylvia in secret for four years, never having the courage to tell her his true feelings. And now it was too late. Four years ago Sylvia had married arrogant and distant Malcolm, whom both Cleo and Nick hated, without ever knowing Nick’s feelings.
I’m not good enough for her
, he always said to Cleo. Which, in Cleo’s opinion, was absolutely not true. But he saw only that he was a poor bartender trying to make a living as a glass blower.
It wouldn’t be enough for her
, he said, time and time again.
She wouldn’t respect me.

“And you’re so pretty,” Mrs. Lombardi said now. “Men should be lined up around the block for you.”

“I’m not interested. You know that.”

“Maybe you should get a cat.”

“Very funny,” said Cleo.

“You want to turn out like me? Alone at sixty living with a cat that only loves me when I feed him?”

Cleo ignored her. “I’m making chicken cacciatore for Dad tomorrow. I’ll drop some off for you before I go over there. But only if you promise not to give any to Stewie.”

Mrs. Lombardi opened her door wider and stepped inside. “You know I can’t promise that.” They both laughed. Just then, Stewie came running to the door, leaping into the hallway and sitting back on his hind legs, hissing at Cleo while holding his front paws like a
boxer.

“Stewie, nice to see you,” said Cleo. He hissed again, this time
with even more venom. “I’ll check on you tomorrow,” said Cleo, backing away. The cat scared her. No question.

“Goodnight, dear.”

Cleo crossed the hall to her apartment, 3D. Living alone, she kept it tidy, her familiar objects pleasing during long, rainy afternoons and evenings. It was only 900 square feet - just one bedroom and a front
room divided by a counter into a sitting area and kitchen. She’d decorated it in white and blues, replicating photos she found in a beach house magazine she’d purchased standing in the grocery store line. There was an attractive off-white couch, which she kept spotless by almost never sitting on it, and two soft reading chairs in light
blue. She’d  hung white,
filmy curtains over the front windows along with various
Impressionist
prints and Ansel Adams photos on the walls. Between the two front windows was her one prized possession: her mother’s old turntable, set inside a white cabinet and surrounded by books and several
photos.

She paused, gazing at the photo of her mother and father on their wedding day, the other of she and Sylvia, arms linked in front of their dormitory room at USC the second week of freshman year. They’d already been best friends by then. She picked up the frame, peering into their eighteen-year-old faces.
So young
. Their cheeks were rounded with youth, eyes sparkling with the possibility of everything. It was before Simon then, before she even knew him and loved him, before the empty space left when he was gone. And the years since for Sylvia? She felt trapped in a loveless marriage, Cleo suspected, although her friend never confessed to it. And maybe she didn’t even know herself because all Sylvia wanted was a baby. So much so that all other dreams had faded.

If someone took their photo today, what would they see? Cleo knew the lens would not lie. It would capture two women living on the edges of life, waiting and yearning for that which they could not have.

In her bedroom, she kicked off her dress and slipped into her favorite jeans and T-shirt, which were draped over the reading chair near the window. Then she padded to the kitchen and poured a glass of red wine from an open bottle on the counter.

She took one sip before going to the hall closet and pulling a purple hatbox from the top shelf, next to an umbrella and a Mariners
baseball cap. She carried the box and her wine to the bedroom,
placed the glass on the bedside table near her mother’s high school portrait, and settled cross-legged on the bed. Then she emptied the contents of the hatbox: two photos, a slip of paper with one sentence scribbled on it, a DVD labeled
The Soup Kitchen
,
and a typed manuscript entitled
Cleo
, held together with a large, black clasp.

The first of the photos was of her and Simon lounging on the fountain outside of Bing Theater on the USC campus. Each morning before their ten o’clock classes they would spend fifteen minutes together, either chatting or dozing or practicing Cleo’s lines for scene class, before Cleo headed into the theater and Simon went to the film school for his graduate level screenwriting class. How they had
gloried in the symmetry of that one small thing: class at the same time. It indicated to them that they were meant to be, that the future they envisioned would come to fruition because of that small aligning of the universe: a writer and his muse - an actress and her filmmaker.

The second photo she’d taken of Simon was on the set of
The Soup Kitchen
. He was behind the camera, setting a shot, his shoulders
slightly curved, his face focused. She allowed herself to stare at this one for several minutes. But tonight the tears didn’t come. She hadn’t had enough wine. Instead the cavern in her chest opened
wider until all that was left was the terrible emptiness that had once been him.

Next, she held the manuscript to her chest, knowing the story of the Seattle girl and her young mother dying of cancer not only because she’d read it so many times but because she’d lived it once. It was her story before Simon captured it so beautifully in his manuscript. And now it was nothing but these sheets of fading
pages in her hands.

Lastly, she picked up the slip of paper. The last words he’d ever written to her.
Gone for donuts
. Gone. Never to return.

She put everything carefully back into the box and returned it to the closet, next to her ordinary things - this Pandora’s box of another time and place.

Then she went to her stereo, kneeling on the floor as she rifled through her old LP’s for music to suit her mood. There was every type of music, much of it from her mother’s collection but some
added in the
last several years because of the resurgent interest in old LP’s as collectors’ items. She was embarrassed to say how many hours she
spent on the Internet finding and ordering from vinyl sellers all over
the world.

She chose Pink Floyd. As the lyrics to
Wish You Were Here
engulfed her as only music could, she grabbed her wine and curled up in the blue chair closest to the stereo. The rain continued outside, cascading down the window in sheets.

From her purse by the door, her cell phone rang. She uncurled from the chair and reached into the bottom of her bag. What was this number? Should she answer?

Against her better judgment, she answered.

“Hi, Cleo. Scott Moore here.”

“Hi, Scott. How did you get my number?”

“One of your teacher friends gave it to me. Hope you don’t mind? I promise I’m not calling to ask you out.”

“All right.” What was wrong with this man?

“That’s a lie. Actually I am.” He sounded amused, which annoyed her further. “No, I’m calling because I just talked with someone from my office and it turns out we have several birth mothers who specifically put in their profiles that they wanted musical adoptive parents. I couldn’t help but remember you said
your friend is a music professor.”

She shivered. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. What did this mean? Was it a sign? Just then her phone buzzed in her
hand, indicating another call. She held it away from her ear and looked at the small screen. It was Sylvia. Was it another sign? She looked out the window. The rain still pounded against the pane. “I’ll let her know,” Cleo said. “I’ll have her contact you if she’s
interested.”

“Does this mean you’ll agree to go out with me?”

She hesitated. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s see what she says first.” She said goodbye and clicked over to Sylvia.

“Can you meet me at Cooper’s?” asked Sylvia.

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” she said, already heading
towards the bedroom to find her favorite sweater.

RIVERSONG

Sometimes we must face our deepest fears to find hope again. A redemptive story of forgiveness and friendship.

RIVERBEND

A woman finds her life in danger when her abusive ex-boyfriend gets out on parole, leaving her no choice but to accept help from a cold and wealthy recluse hiding a dark history of his own.

CARAMEL AND MAGNOLIAS

A former actress
goes undercover to help a Seattle police detective expose an
adoption
fraud in this story of friendship, mended hearts, and new
beginnings.

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