Bygones (15 page)
“*
thorngg’ation
what?”
“I don’t feel much like a grandpa.”
“You don’t dance much like a grandpa.”
“Hey, Bess, come here.” He clamped her wrist, tipped her his way, and put an arm around her, nestling her close.
“Just what do you think you’re doing, Michael Curran?”
“I’m
feelin
’ good” he said.
She laughed. “This is ridiculous. You and I are divorced. What are we doing snuggling in the back seat?” She tried to pull away.
“Oh, no you don’t. You’re staying right here.”
Smiling she settled beneath his arm and decided to enjoy being there. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her jaw. Then, without saying a word, he just leaned forward, curled his hand around her far arm, and kissed her. She thought of the dozens of arguments she ought to voice, but instead, she kissed him back, the leather seat soft against her head, his breath warm against her cheek. And, my, it felt good. It was the familiarity of that first step on the dance floor magnified a
thousandfold
.
He drew away, and they rode.
in
silence thinking about what they’d just done, neither of them surprised it had happened, only wondering what it portended.
Bess interrupted their idyll. “The trouble is,” she said quietly, “you fit in so remarkably well.”
“I do, don’t I?”
They spent time with their private thoughts, and soon they’d reached the house on
“Shall I help you carry the gifts inside, sir?”
“I’d appreciate that.”
Bess led the way, unlocking the door, turning on lights. The two men carried the gifts inside and stacked them in the family room on the floor and the sofa. The front door stood wide open.
Michael followed the drivel to it and said, “Thanks for your help. I’ll be out in just a minute.”
Michael slowly walked the length of the hall back to the family room. “The house looks nice, Bess. I like what you’ve done with this room.
“Thanks.”
His glance tinned to her. A lull fell. They weren’t sure if Randy was home or not. If so, he was down in his room asleep. From outside came the faint note of the limousine engine.
“Walk me to the door,” Michael said.
Their arms slipped around each other as they sauntered, hip to hip, to the door.
“I had fun today,” he said.
“So did I”
She turned to face him. He linked his hands on her spine.
“Well . . . congratulations, Mom.” He gave a boyish smile.
“Congratulations, Dad,” she said with a throaty chuckle.
Would they or wouldn’t they? The question glimmered between them. An inward voice warned it was unwise. He ignored the voice, dipped his head, and kissed her-fully and without restraint.
When he lifted his head, she whispered, “We shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, I know,” he replied, and against all his basic instincts, he stepped away from her. He opened the door and flashed a sudden, I devilish smile. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
Chapter Twelve
The last of the March snows had come and gone, followed by the sleety, steely days of early April. The buds on the trees were swollen, awaiting only sun to set them free. Michael Curran stood at the window of his sixth-floor
St. Paul
office watching a wedge of returning ducks landing on the river.
He’d called Bess twice in the past month and asked her out, but I she’d said she didn’t think it was wise. In his saner moments he agreed with her. Still, he thought about her a lot.
He sat down at a drafting table, perused an architectural drawing
I
of a two-story structure he proposed to build for retail stores and parking, and wondered if it would ever get built. Four years before, he had purchased a prime lot on the corner of
70’s
sported no less than three vacant corner buildings.
Eventually
And one vacant parking lot owned by Michael Curran.
The Crossing was now one of the premiere shopping areas in
St. Paul
, and all that clientele needed parking space.
Michael stared at the drawing-remembering the brouhaha his proposed building had caused at last month’s Concerned Citizens’ meeting: “More stores mean more cars on our side streets!” was the cry of the nearby homeowners. “People can’t shop if they can’t park!” complained the merchants.
The meeting had ended in a standoff. Michael had enlarged the area planned for parking and hired a public relations firm to create a friendly letter of intent, which included the architect’s concept of the building, showing that the proposed parking would hold more cars than the flat lot presently there.
Nearly two hundred copies of the letter had been distributed to business owners and homeowners in the vicinity.
Tonight he’d see if any minds had changed.
The meeting was held in an elementary school lunchroom. Jim Stringer, the firm’s architect, met Michael there. .
Michael was allowed to speak first. He rose and said, “This is my architect, Jim Stringer, who’ll be co-owner of the building with me. What we want all of you to think about is this. That lot is going to be built on eventually whether you like it or not. Now, you can wait for someone to come along who’s going to build today and be gone tomorrow, or you can go with Jim and me. We want to keep the flavor that’s been so carefully preserved here because, after all, that’s what makes the Crossing thrive. Now, since our last meeting, we’ve scaled down the number of square feet in the commercial building and increased the area for parking. That’s our bid toward compromise, but you people have to bend a little, too.”
Someone stood up and said, “I live in the apartment building next door. What about my view?”
Someone else demanded, “What kind of shops will be in there? If we say yes, do we invite in our own competition?”
The discussions went on for some time, until a woman stood up at the rear. “My name is Sylvia
Radway
, and I own The Cooks of Crocus Hill, the cooking school and
latchenwares
shop right across the street from that lot. I’ve been listening to everything that’s been said here, and I think Mr. Curran is right. That piece of land is too valuable to remain a parking lot forever. I think a half-dozen more tasteful specialty shops will be good for business all around. I say let him put up his building, and watch our property values rise.”
When the meeting ended, the citizens had not voted to allow Michael’s building, but the tide of objection had clearly moderated.
Michael caught up with Ms.
Radway
at the door. She was perhaps fifty-five, and the smile on her face looked habitual.
“Ms.
Radway
” - he extended his hand - “I want to thank for what you said in there. It made all the difference.”
They shook hands, and she told him,
“ I
only said what I believe.”
He thought about her on his way home, deciding that next time he was up at the Crossing he’d stop at her store and buy something, by way of showing his appreciation.
That happened a week later. He was having lunch in the area; afterward he wandered over to the shop. It was pleasant, smelling of herbal teas and exotic spices. The shelves were loaded with everything for the gourmet kitchen.
Sylvia
Radway
stood behind the counter.
“Well, look who’s here. Come to sign up for cooking class, did you, Mr. Curran?”
“Not exactly.”
He glanced at the assortment of jars on the j counter. “What in the world is pecan praline mustard glaze?”
“Delicious on a baked ham.
Just smear it on and bake.”
“Oh, yeah?” he said. He loved baked ham.
“Steam a few fresh asparagus spears, a couple of new potatoes with the skins on, and you have a meal fit for a visiting dignitary.”
She made it sound so easy. “Trouble is, I don’t cook,” he admitted, and for the first time ever, felt foolish saying so.
“Probably because nobody’s ever turned you on to it.
We have a lot of men in our basic classes. Today’s women love men who cook for them.”
She paused. “Would you like to see our kitchen?”
She led the way to the second floor, to a large, gleaming white tiled kitchen. When Michael hesitated, she waved him in. “Come “on. Have a look,” she said. He meandered farther inside.
“We teach you everything from basic equipment to how to stock your kitchen with staples. Our instructors demonstrate; then you actually prepare food yourself.
I take it you’re single, Mr. Curran.”
“Ah
. .
yes
.”
“Do you have an equipped kitchen?” Sylvia
Radway
asked.
“No, nothing.”
“Then I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you your first cooking class free if you buy your
latchenwares
from the shop. I won’t sell you a thing that’s unnecessary. If you enjoy it, you’ll pay for any extra classes you want to take. How does that sound?”
It was tempting. He thought about Bess, and imagined her surprise if he sat her at a table and pulled a gourmet supper out of the kitchen. She’d get up and search the broom claret for the cook!
“What do you say, Mr. Curran?”
He smiled. She smiled. And the pact was made.
AT THE Coors of Crocus Hill the class numbered eight, and five of them were men.
Michael felt less stupid when one leaned close and quietly confided to him, “I can’t even make Kool-Aid.”
Their teacher was not Sylvia
Radway
herself, but a portly woman with a knack for making them laugh at their own clumsiness and revel in each small success. After a brief lecture they made applesauce muffins, and omelets. They learned how to measure flour and milk, mix batter, crack and whip eggs, dice ham and onion, and get the whole works cooking at the proper time so it all ended up on the table together-hot and pretty and perfect.
When he sat down to taste the fruits of his labor, Michael Curran felt as proud as the day he’d received his college diploma.
Later he learned how to roast a chicken and how to make gravy. He bought cookware, dishes, and silverware from Sylvia and was amazed at how his outlook had changed, Evenings he’d stop at
Byerly’s
for fresh meat and vegetables. He discovered the wonders of fresh garlic, of stir-frying, and of old-fashioned meat loaf. More important, he discovered a growing satisfaction with his life, and approval for himself as a person. His singleness now took on a quality of peace rather than loneliness.
He hadn’t seen Bess since the wedding, but in mid-May she called to say the first of his living-room furniture had arrived. “Also, the window treatments are ready to install. Can we set up a date for me and my installer to come out and do that?”
“Do I have to be there?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Then any day is okay. I can leave the key with the caretaker.”
“Fine.”
A pause followed. Then, in a more intimate voice, she said, “How have you been, Michael?”
“Okay. Busy.”
“Me, too.”
He wanted to say, “I’m learning to cook,” but to what avail? She had made it clear the kisses they’d shared had been ill advised; she wanted no more of them or of him on a personal level.
They spoke briefly of the children; then there seemed little else to say. Michael hung up, disappointed.
What had he wanted of her? Her approval of the strides he was making in his life?
No. Simply to be in the condo when she came by with her workmen to bring furniture or trim windows. He realized he had been subconsciously planning on seeing her repeatedly during those times, but apparently that was not to be the case.
One evening Michael arrived home to find his living-room sofa and chairs before the fireplace, and his windows sporting vertical blinds. He looked around with a queer feeling in his chest, realizing Bess had been there putting his house in order. How welcome the idea of her in his personal space, as if she belonged there. How unwelcome the thought of being no more to her than a client.
In those moments he missed her with a desolate longing, like that following a lovers quarrel.
