Bygones (30 page)

“Great.”

He grew accustomed after that to coming home and finding another item or two in place—the entry console, the living-room tables, a giant ceramic fish beside the living-room fireplace, a pair of framed prints above it (he loved how the snow geese on the right print became a continuation of the flock on the left), a floor lamp, three huge potted plants in containers shaped like seashells that suddenly made the living room look complete.

His divorce became final in late May and he received the papers feeling much as he did when a business deal was concluded. He put them away in a file drawer, thought,
Good, that's final,
and made out one last check for his lawyer.

He signed up for his third series of cooking classes and learned to plan menus and make a chocolate cake roll with fudge sauce. He met a woman in class named Jennifer Ayles, who was fortyish and divorced and relatively attractive, and who was looking for ways to alleviate her loneliness so had joined the class to fill her evenings. He took her to a Barry Manilow concert, and she talked him into using her son's golf clubs and trying golf for the first time in his life. Afterward at her house he tried to kiss her and she burst into tears and said she still loved her husband, who had left her for another woman. They ended up talking about their exes, and he admitted he still had feelings for Bess but that she didn't return them, or, maybe more accurately, wouldn't
let
herself return them and had warned him to stay away.

He bought a patio table and ate his evening meals on the deck overlooking the lake.

A torchère appeared in his bedroom and a faux pedestal in the center of his gallery with a note:
You sure you want me to pick out this piece of sculpture? I think this one should be strictly your choice. Let me know.

He left a message with Heather at the Blue Iris: “Tell Bess okay, I'll look for the piece of sculpture myself.”

Another time a message was left on his answering machine: “Get yourself some new sheets, Michael. Your bed is here! We'll deliver it tomorrow.” He bought designer sheets that looked like blue-and-lavender rain had splashed across them driven by a hard wind, and slept in a fully decorated bedroom suite for the first time since separating from Darla.

And finally, in late June, the message he'd been waiting for: “Michael, it's Bess, Monday morning, eight forty-five. Just called to say your dining-room table is here and your leather sofa is on its way by truck from the port of entry on the east coast. Should be here any day. Talk to you soon.”

He came home the following day at 4 P.M. and found her in his dining room removing the heavy plastic factory wrapping from his six fully upholstered dining-room chairs. A new smoked-glass table was centered beneath the chandelier, which was lit, even in the bright summer afternoon.

He stopped in the doorway and said, “Well . . . hello.” It was the first time he'd seen her since Lisa's wedding.

She was on her knees beside an upturned chair, pulling oversized staples out of its four feet with a screwdriver and a pair of needle-nosed pliers. She lifted her head, used one whole arm to knock her hair out of her eyes and said, “Michael, I didn't think you came home this early.”

He ambled inside and dropped his keys onto the glass top sofa table beside something that hadn't been there that morning—an arrangement of cream silk flowers stuck in a snifter full of clear marbles.

“I don't usually but I was clear up in Marine so I decided not to go back downtown to the office. How do they look?” he said of the chairs.

“So far so good.” Only two chairs were unwrapped.

He removed his suit coat, tossed it onto the sofa and crossed to one of the sliding glass doors. “It's hot in here. Why didn't you open the doors?”

“I didn't think I should.”

He opened the vertical blinds and both sets of wide doors, at the living and dining ends of the room. The summer air bellied in, then receded to a faint breeze that trembled the leaves of the new green plants and toyed with the vanes of the blinds.

He went to Bess. “Here, let me help you with that.”

“Oh, no, this is my job. Besides, you're all dressed in your good clothes.”

“Well, so are you.” She was wearing a classy yellow sundress, its matching jacket draped over the back of the sofa beside his jacket.

“Here, give me those.” He took the tools out of her hand, knelt and began pulling the remaining staples.

Still kneeling beside him, she looked at her hands and brushed them together with three soft claps. “Well . . . thanks.”

“Something new over there.” He nodded backwards at the silk bouquet.

She got to her feet, revealing black patent-leather pumps and giving off her customary aura of roses. “I kept it simple, only one kind of flower and very small, which tends to be a little more masculine.”

“Looks nice. And if I get bored I can lay a string in a circle on the carpet and shoot marbles.”

She laughed and began examining one of the unwrapped chairs. It was armless, with a solid upholstered back shaped like a cowboy's gravestone, covered in a subtle design of mauves and grays that reminded him of the seashore after waves have receded.

“Now these are smart. Michael, this place is coming together so beautifully! Are you pleased, or is there anything you don't like? Because the final okay has to be yours.”

“No! No, I like it all. I have to hand it to you, Bess, you really know your business.”

“Well, I'd better, or I won't have it long.”

He finished with the chair and righted it, and she slid over another to be unwrapped while he reached up and loosened the knot in his tie and freed his collar button.

Setting back to work, he said, “You've got a suntan.”

She lifted one elbow, glanced at it. “Mmm . . . a little.”

“How did that happen?” He let his eyes flick to her, then back to his work. In all the years they'd been married she'd never taken time to lie in the sun.

“Heather's been scolding me for working too hard, so I've been knocking off a couple hours early once or twice a week and lying in the backyard. I have to admit, it's felt heavenly. It's made me realize that in all the years we've . . . I've lived in that house I never utilized the backyard the way I should have. The view from there is magnificent, especially with the boats out on the water.”

“I've been doing the same thing from my deck.” He nodded toward one of the sets of sliding glass doors. “I got myself that patio table and I sit out there in the evening and enjoy the water when I'm not on it.”

“You're sailing?”

“A little. Fishing a little, too.”

“We're slowing down some, aren't we, Michael?”

He lifted his gaze to find her studying him with a soft expression in her eyes.

“We deserve it, at our age.”

He had stopped working. Their gazes remained twined while seconds tiptoed past and the screwdriver hung forgotten in his hand. Outside, a lawn mower droned, and the scent of fresh-cut grass came in, along with a faint breeze that ruffled the pages of a newspaper lying on the sofa. In the park next door children called, at play.

Bess studied Michael and recognized not age but a rekindling of feelings she had experienced years ago. In her imagination it was Lisa and Randy outside, and she and Michael thinking,
Hurry, while the kids are busy playing.
Sometimes it had happened that way—the rare hot summer day, the rare hot summer urge, the mad scramble with their clothing, the quickie with shirttails getting in the way, sometimes the two of them giggling, and the mad rush if the kids slammed the kitchen screen door before they had finished.

The memory hit like a broadside, while she became conscious of his attractiveness as he knelt beside the overturned chair, with his open collar casting shadows on his throat, and the breast pocket of his shirt flattened against his chest, and his trousers taut around the hips and his steady hazel eyes hinting he might be having much the same thoughts as she.

Bess's eyes dropped first. “I talked to Lisa yesterday,” she said, breaking the spell and prattling on while they busied their eyes with more sensible pursuits.

He finished unwrapping the chairs while she folded and stacked the bulky packing material. When the entire dining-room set was in place, they stood at opposite ends of the table, admiring it in spite of the many blotchy fingerprints on the edge of the glass.

“Do you have any glass cleaner?” she inquired.

“No.”

“I suppose it's futile to ask if you have any vinegar?”

“That I have.”

She looked properly surprised, which pleased Michael as he went off to the kitchen to find it as well as a brand-new blue-and-white checked dishcloth and a roll of paper towels.

When he returned to Bess, she said, “You have to mix it with water, Michael.”

“Oh.”

He went away once more and returned in a minute with a blue bowl full of vinegar water. When she reached for it, he said, “I'll do it.”

She watched him clean his new tabletop, watched him bend down at times while working at a stubborn smudge, catching a reflection across the glass. Sometimes his shirt would be stretched across his shoulder blades in a way that tightened her groin muscles. Sometimes the light from the chandelier would play across his hair and make her hands feel empty.

When he finished he returned the bowl to the kitchen while she went to the sofa table, confiscated the cream silk flowers and set them in the middle of the larger table. Once more they studied it, exchanging glances of approval.

“A raffia mat is all we need,” she said.

“Mm . . .”

“Do you like raffia mats?”

“What's raffia?”

“Dried palm . . . you know, Oriental-looking.”

“Oh, sure.”

“I'll pick one up at the store and bring it out next time I come.”

“Fine.”

The table was polished, the chairs in place, the centerpiece centered; nothing more needed doing; they had no excuse to linger.

“Well . . .” Bess lifted her shoulders, let them drop and headed for her jacket. “I guess that's it, then. I'd better get home.”

He was closer to the jacket and was holding it for her before she could reach it. She slipped it on and fluffed her hair free from the neck of the garment, picked up a black patent handbag and looped it over her shoulder. When she turned he was standing very near with his hands in his trouser pockets.

“How about having dinner with me on Saturday night?” he asked.

“Me?” she asked, her eyes wide, a hand at her chest.

“Yes, you.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“I don't think so, Michael. I told you the other two times you called that I don't think it's wise.”

“What were you thinking about a minute ago?”

“When?”

“You know when.”

“Michael, you're so vague.”

“And you're a damned liar.”

“I've got to go.”

“Running away?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“What about Saturday night?”

“I said I don't think so.”

He grinned. “You'll miss the chance of a lifetime. I'm cookin'.”

“You!” Her expression of surprise lit him up inside.

He shrugged and raised his palms to hip level. “I took it up.”

She had lost the ability to speak, giving him a distinct advantage.

“Dinner here, we'll christen my new table. What do you say?”

She seemed to realize her mouth was hanging open and shut it. “I'll have to hand it to you, Michael, you still have the ability to shock me.”

“Six-thirty?” he asked.

“All right,” she replied cockily. “This I've got to see.”

“You'll drive over?”

“Sure. If you can cook, I can drive.”

“Good. I'll see you then.”

He walked her to the door, opened it and leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, watching her as she pushed the button for the elevator. When it arrived she began to step aboard, changed her mind and held the door open with one hand while turning to Michael. “Are you putting me on? Do you really know how to cook?”

He laughed and replied, “Wait till Saturday night and see,” then went into his condo and closed the door.

 

MICHAEL'S CREAM LEATHER SOFA arrived on Friday and Bess moved heaven and earth to find a transport service to deliver it to his place Saturday morning. She wanted it there, wanted to walk in and see it in place that evening, wanted to sit on it herself with Michael in the room and rejoice with him over its sumptuousness. She was as giddy as if it were her own.

She was bound and determined that dressing for dinner with him was
not
going to take on the importance of a State visit. She wore white slacks and a short-sleeved cotton sweater of periwinkle blue with an unornamented gold chain at her neck and tiny gold loops in her ears. She'd had her hair cut and styled but that appointment had been made before Michael's invitation had been issued. She polished her nails but that happened twice a week. She wore perfume but it, too, was as routine as checking a watch. She shaved her legs but they needed it.

The only thing she couldn't dismiss was the new lacy underwear she'd splurged on yesterday, when she'd
just happened to be passing
Victoria's Secret. They were powder blue, with a deep plunge on the bra and plenty of hip showing inside the panties, and they'd set her back thirty-four dollars.

She put them on, looked in the mirror, thought,
How silly,
and took them off. Replaced them with plain white. Cursed and put on the sexy ones again. Grimaced at her reflection.
You want to get tangled up with a man you've already failed with once?
On, off, on, off, three times before defiantly putting the blue ones on and leaving them.

* * *

Michael had thrown himself upon the mercy of Sylvia Radway and admitted, “I want to impress a woman. I'm cooking for her for the first time and I want everything to be the way women like it. What should I do?”

The result was a pair of candle holders with blue tapers, a bowl of fresh white roses and blue irises, real cloth place mats and napkins, stem glasses and chilled Pouilly-Fuissé, a detailed menu plan and Michael's nervous stomach.

At ten to six on Saturday evening he paced around the table he'd just finished setting, surveying the results.

Obvious, Curran, disgustingly obvious.

But he wanted to knock her socks off. Well, hell, he admitted, he wanted to knock off a lot more than her socks. So what was wrong with that? They were both single and uninvolved with anyone else. Still, roses. Lord, roses. And he'd tied the napkins around the foot of the stemglasses just the way Sylvia had shown him. Sylvia said women most certainly appreciated details like that, but now that he'd set the stage Michael studied this invitation to thump and figured Bess would be back in her car before he could say Casanova.

He checked his watch, panicked and hit for the bathroom to shower and change.

Because the table suddenly looked so obviously overdone, he himself purposely set out to look underdone. White pleated jeans, a polo shirt in big blocks of primary colors and bare feet in a pair of white moccasins. A gold chain around his wrist. A little mousse in his hair. A splash of cologne. Nothing out of the ordinary.

So he told himself while he meticulously combed his eyebrows, wiped every water spot off the bathroom vanity, put away every piece of discarded clothing from his bedroom, smoothed the bedspread, dusted the furniture tops with his hands, closed the vertical blinds and left the torchère on beside the bed when he left the room.

She called from the lobby at precisely 6:30.

“That you, Bess?”

“It's me.”

“Be right down.”

He left his condo door open and rode the elevator down. She was waiting on the other side of the door when it opened, looking as studiedly casual as he.

“You didn't need to come down. I know the way up.”

He smiled. “Blame it on good breeding.” She stepped aboard and he stole a glance at her, remarking, “Nice evening, huh?”

Her return glance was as cautious as his. “Beautiful.”

In his condo a strong draft from all the open patio doors made a wind tunnel of the foyer. It wafted the smell of Bess's rosy perfume into his nostrils as she entered ahead of him. He closed the door and the wind immediately ceased. Bess preceded him through the foyer toward the gallery, where she paused.

“Nothing for the pedestal yet?” she asked.

“I haven't had time to look.”

“There's a wonderful gallery in Minneapolis on France Avenue, called Estelle's. I was looking at some Lalique glass pieces there and also some interesting hammered brass. Might be something you'd like.”

“I'll remember that. Come on in.” He passed her and led the way toward the kitchen and the adjoining family room, stopping in the doorway and deliberately blocking her view. “You ready for this sofa?” he teased, looking back over his shoulder.

“Let me see!” she said impatiently, nudging him on the back.

With his hands on the doorframe he barricaded the way. “Aw, you don't really want to see it, do you?”

“Michael!” she exclaimed, giving his shoulder blades a pair of good-natured clunks with both fists. “I've been waiting four months for this! I can smell it clear from here!”

“I thought you hated the smell of leather.”

“I do but this is different.” She pushed again and he let himself get thrust forward out of her way. She headed straight for the Natuzzi, five pieces of swank off-white leather that took two turns on its way around the perimeter of the room, dividing it from the kitchen and facing the new entertainment unit. She dropped onto the sofa dead center and snuggled deep. The supple cushions rose to envelop her like a caress.

“Ah . . . luxury. Sheer luxury. Do you like it?”

He sat down at a right angle to her. “Are you kidding? Does a man like a Porsche? A World Series ticket on the first-base line? A cold Coors on a ninety-degree day?”

“Mmm . . .” She nestled down deeper and closed her eyes. Momentarily they opened and she said, “I'll confess something. I've never sold a Natuzzi before.”

“Why, you phony. Here all the time I thought you knew what you were talking about.”

“I did. I just hadn't
experienced
it.” Abruptly she popped up and began examining the sofa, working her way along its length. “I didn't get a chance to look at it before it was delivered. Is everything all right? No tears? No marks? Anything?”

“Nothing as far as I could see. Of course, I haven't had much time to look.” She reached his knees and detoured around them as she prowled the sofa, eyeing its stitching and curves and welting. When she'd finished she stood with hands akimbo, looking at the thing. “It really does stink, doesn't it?”

He burst out laughing, sitting with his arms stretched out at shoulder level along the tops of the cushions, feeling the soft leather. “How can you say that about an eight-thousand-dollar sofa?”

“I'm just being realistic. Leather stinks. It's as simple as that. So how do you like the dining-room furniture by now?” She walked toward the doorway leading from the family room into the dining room while he remained where he was, waiting for her reaction.

The sight of the table stopped her the way the ground stops a thrown bronc rider. “Why, Michael!” She stared at his handiwork while he studied her back. “My goodness . . .”

He got himself out of the sofa and went up behind her. “I did invite you for supper, remember?”

“Yes, but . . . what an elegant table,” she said in disbelief. “Did you do all this?”

“Not without a little advice.”

“From whom?” She ventured closer to the table but not too close, still caught in the throes of disbelief.

“A lady who owns a cooking school.”

She gaped at him in amazement. “You went to cooking school?”

“Yes, actually, I did.”

“Why, Michael, I'm stunned.” Half-turning, she swept a hand toward the centerpiece. “All this . . . roses, blue irises . . .” He could tell she was surprised by his sentimentalism, but he recalled very clearly how she associated blue irises with her grandmother. Her lips closed and her expression became wistful as she continued admiring the flowers, then the matching linens, the stemware.

“Would you like a glass of wine, Bess?”

“Yes, I . . .” She looked back at him but seemed unable to put coherent thoughts together. “Please,” she finished.

“Be right back.”

In the kitchen he checked the glazed ham in the oven, turned on the burner under the tiny red potatoes, checked to make sure his fresh asparagus was still waiting beneath a lid, centered the cheese sauce recipe directly beneath the microwave, consulted his careful list of starting times and finally opened the wine.

Returning to the living room, he found Bess standing before the sliding door, enjoying the view, with the breeze riffling the hair at her temples. She turned her head at his approach and he handed her a goblet.

“Thanks.”

“Shall we go out?” he suggested.

“Mmm . . .” She was sipping as she answered. He slid the screen open, waiting while she stepped onto the deck before him.

They sat on either side of a small white patio table, angled toward the lake in cushioned chairs that bounced at the smallest provocation. The setting was lovely, the evening jewel-clear, their surroundings those of evocative movies, but suddenly they found themselves tongue-tied. Everything had changed with that dining-room table: there was no question anymore, this was a stab at a new beginning. Subjects of conversation were strangely elusive after their easy-fire repartee upon her arrival. They watched some sails on the water, the rim of trees outlining Manitou Island, waves washing up at the feet of some nearby cottonwoods. They listened to the soft slap of water meeting shore, the particular click of the cottonwood leaves against one another, the sound of themselves drinking, the metallic
bing
of their gently bouncing chairs. They felt the warmth of summer press their skins and smelled the aroma of someone lighting a barbecue grill nearby, and that of their own supper stealing outside.

But everything had changed and they understood this, so they sat unnaturally hushed, experiencing the uncertainties of forging into that second-time-around.

Finally Bess broke the silence, turning to look at him as she spoke.

“So when did you take this cooking course?”

“I started in April and took nine classes.”

“Where?”

“Over at Victoria Crossing, place called The Cooks of Crocus Hill. I'm doing some developing over there, and I just happened to meet the woman who owns the cooking school.”

“It's funny Lisa didn't mention it.”

“I didn't tell Lisa.” From the first, if only subconsciously, he'd been planning this day, planning to shock Bess. Funny, though, now that tonight was here all sense of smugness had fled. He felt nervous and afraid of failure.

“This woman . . .” Bess looked into her wine. “. . . is she someone important?”

“No, not at all.”

His answer wrought only the subtlest change in Bess, but he detected it in the faint relaxing of her shoulders, of her lips just before she sipped her wine, of her eyes as she lifted them to the distant sails on the water. Too, she set her chair barely bouncing again, sending up a rhythmic
bing, bing, bing
that eased some tension in his belly.

He crossed his feet on the handrail and said, “I've been trying to do more things for myself lately.”

“Like the cooking?”

“Yes. And reading and sailing, and I've even gone to a couple of movies. I guess I just came to the realization that you can't always rely on somebody else to take away your loneliness. You've got to do something about it yourself.”

“Is it working?” She looked over at him.

“Yes. I'm happier than I've been in years.”

She watched him study the wine in his glass while a slow grin stole over his lips. “You probably won't believe it, Bess, but . . .” His gaze shifted over to her. “I'm even doing my own laundry.” She didn't tease as he'd expected.

“That's wonderful, Michael. That's growth, it really is.”

“Yes, well . . . times change. A person's got to change with them.”

“It's hard for men, especially men like you, whose mothers filled those traditional roles. You're in the generation that got caught in the cross fire. For the young guys like Mark it's easier. They grew up taking home ec class, with working mothers and a more blurred line between the obligations of the sexes, if you will.”

“I never expected to like any of these domestic jobs but they're not bad at all, especially the cooking. I really enjoy it. Speaking of which . . .” He checked his watch and dropped his feet off the rail. “I've got some last-minute things to do. Why don't you just sit here and relax? More wine?”

“No, thanks. I'm going to be more sensible tonight. Besides, the view is heady enough.”

He smiled at her and left.

She remained inert, listening to sounds drifting out from the kitchen—the clack of kettle covers, the bell on the microwave, running water—and wondered what he was making. The sun lowered and the lake looked bluer. The eastern sky became purple around the edges. Over on the public beach people began rolling up their towels and heading home. One-by-one the sails began disappearing from the water. The pastoral coming of evening, coupled with the wine and the sense of dissolving friction between herself and Michael, brought on a welcome serenity in Bess. She dropped her head back against the wall and basked in it.