Bygones (16 page)
He phoned her, striving to keep his voice casual.
“Hi, Bess.”
“Michael, hi.
How do you like the furniture?”
“Furniture looks great. I like it.”
“So do I. Listen, things are going to be coming in hot and heavy now. Would you like me to hold them and bring the pieces out all at once, or keep bringing them out as they arrive?”
As they arrive, so I have more chances to bump into you.
“Bring them over. I’m only too glad to see the place tilde up.”
He grew accustomed after that to coming home and finding another item or two in place-the living-room tables, a floor lamp, huge potted plants that made the room look complete.
His divorce became final in late May: He received the papers feeling much as he did when a business deal was concluded. He put them away in a drawer and made out one last check for his lawyer.
He signed up for another series of cooking classes, bought a patio table, and ate his meals on the deck, overlooking the lake.
Finally, on his answering machine in late June, the message he’d been waiting for: “It’s Bess. Just called to say your dining-room table is here and your leather sofa is on its way. Talk to you soon.”
He came home the next day at
to find her in his living room-dining room removing the wrapping from his six upholstered dining-room chairs. A long smoked-glass table was in place.
He stopped in the doorway and said, “Well
. .
hello
.”
She was on her knees beside an upturned chair, pulling oversized staples out of its four feet with a pair of needle-nosed pliers. “Michael, I didn’t think you came home this early.”
“I don’t, usually.” He removed his suit coat, tossed it onto the sofa, and opened one of the sets of sliding glass doors. The summer air bellied
in,
then receded to a faint breeze.
He went to Bess. “Here, let me help you with that.”
“Oh, no.
This is my job. You’re all dressed in your good clothes.”
“Well, so are you.” She was wearing a classy yellow sundress, its matching jacket draped on the sofa.
“Here, give me those.” He took the pliers out of her hand, knelt, and began pulling the remaining staples.
“Thanks.” She got to her feet and began examining one of the unwrapped chairs. It was armless, with a solid upholstered back covered in a subtle design of mauves and grays.
“Now, these are smart. Michael, this place is coming together so beautifully. Are you pleased, or is there anything you don’t like?”
“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 she slid over another to be unwrapped, while he loosened the knot in his tie and freed his collar button. Setting back to work, he said, “You’ve got a suntan.”
She nodded. “Heather’s been scolding me for working too hard, so I’ve been knocking off a couple hours early once a week and lying in the backyard. I have to admit, it’s felt heavenly.”
“I’ve been doing the same thing on my deck.”
He nodded toward the glass doors. “I got myself that patio table, and I sit out there in the evenings and enjoy the water.”
“We’re slowing down some, aren’t we, Michael?”
He stopped working and lifted his gaze to find her studying him, a soft expression in her eyes. “We deserve it at our age,” he said.
Their gazes remained twined while seconds tiptoed past. Looking at Michael, Bess experienced a rekindling of old feelings. She became conscious of his attractiveness as he knelt beside the chair, with his open collar casting shadows on his throat, and his steady hazel eyes hinting he might be having the same thoughts as she.
Bess broke the spell. “I talked to Lisa yesterday.” She prattled on while they busied their eyes with more sensible pursuits.
He finished
unwrapping
the chairs, and when the entire dining room set was in place, they stood at opposite ends of the table admiring it, exchanging glances of approval.
“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,
then
picked up a black patent handbag. When she turned, he was standing very near.
“How about having dinner with me on Saturday night?”
“Me?” she
asked,
her eyes wide, a hand at her chest.
“Yes, You.”
“I don’t think so, Michael.”
“You’ll miss the chance of a lifetime. I’m
cookin
”.
“
comfoul
” Her expression of surprise lit him up inside.
He shrugged and raised his palms to hip level.
“I took it up.”
She was unable to speak, giving him a distinct advantage.
“Dinner here.
We’ll christen my new table. What do you say?”
She realized her mouth was hanging open, and shut it. “I have to hand it to you, Michael. You still have the ability to shock me.”
“
?” he asked.
“All right,” she replied cockily. “This I’ve got to see.
”.
“Good. I’ll see you then.”
He walked her to the door, opened it, and watched her as she pushed the button for the elevator. When it arrived, she began to step aboard, changed her mind, and turned. “Are you putting me on? Do you really know how to cook?”
He laughed and replied, “Wait till Saturday night and see.”
Chapter Thirteen
tilde
sttilde
cHnEL
had thrown himself upon the mercy of Sylvia
Radway
and admitted, “I want to impress a woman. What should I do?”
The result was a pair of candleholders with blue tapers, a bowl of fresh white roses and blue irises, cloth place mats and napkins, chilled white wine from
France
, and a detailed menu plan.
At ten to six on Saturday evening Michael paced around the table he’d just finished setting, surveying the results.
Obvious, Curran.
Disgustingly obvious.
But he wanted to knock her socks off. Okay, he admitted he wanted more. So what was wrong with that? They were single and uninvolved with anyone else. Still, now that he’d set the stage, Michael figured Bess would be back in her car before he could say Casanova.
He checked his watch and hit the bathroom to shower and change: Because the table suddenly looked so overdone, he himself purposely set out to look underdone. White pleated jeans, a polo shirt in primary colors, and bare feet in a pair of white, moccasins.
She called from the lobby at precisely
, and he left his door open and rode the elevator down. She was waiting, wearing white slacks and a periwinkle-blue cotton sweater. She looked as studiedly casual as he.
“You didn’t need to come down. I know the way up.”
She stepped aboard. He smiled. “Blame it on good breeding.”
She entered his condo ahead of him. The cream leather sofa, for the family room, had finally arrived, and Bess was dying to see it. Michael passed her and led the way toward the rim, where he stopped in the doorway and deliberately blocked her view.
“You ready for this sofa?” he teased, looking back over his shoulder.
“Let me see!” she said impatiently. “I didn’t get a chance to look at it before it was delivered.”
With his hands on the doorframe, he barricaded the way. “Aw, you don’t really want to see it, do you?”
“Michael!” she exclaimed, nudging him. He let himself get thrust out of her
disway
. She headed straight for the
Natuzzi
. She dropped onto it and snuggled deep.
“Ah, 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?”
“
Mmm
. . .” She nestled deeper for a moment and then got up. “So how do you like the dining-room furniture by now?” she asked as she walked toward the dining room. He remained where he was, waiting for her reaction.
“Why, Michael, what elegance!” she said.
“Did you do all this?”
He rose and went up behind her. “Not without a little advice.”
“
mom
whom?” She was caught in the throes of disbelief.
“A lady who owns a cooking school.”
“You went to cooking school?” she said in amazement.
“Yes, actually, I did.”
“I’m stunned.” She swept a hand toward the centerpiece. “All this-roses, blue irises …” He could tell she was surprised by his sentimentalism. Her expression became
wi
/l as she continued admiring the table.
“Would you like a glass of wine, Bess?”
“Yes.” She looked back at him.
“Please.”
“Be right back.”
In the kitchen, he checked the glazed ham in the oven, turned on the burner under the tiny red potatoes, centered the cheese sauce for the fresh asparagus in the microwave, and opened the wine.
Returning to the living room, he found Bess standing before the open door enjoying the view.
“Shall we go out?” he suggested, handing her a goblet.
They sat on either side of the patio table, in cushioned chairs angled toward the lake. The setting was lovely, the evening jewel clear, but suddenly they found themselves tongue-tied. Everything had changed with the sight of that dining-room table: there was no question anymore; this was a stab at a new beginning.
They watched some sails on the water and listened to the soft slap of waves meeting shore, and sat unnaturally hushed, experiencing the uncertainties of forging into that second-time-around. Finally Bess broke the silence. “When did you take this cooking course?”
“I started in April. I’m doing some developing over at Victoria Crossing, and I happened to meet a woman who owns a cooking school there.”
“This woman . . . 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, and said, “I’ve been doing more things for myself lately.”
“Like the cooking?”
“Yes. 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.”
“That’s wonderful, Michael. That’s growth. It really is.”
“Yes, well . . . times change. A person’s got to change with them.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got some last-minute things to do. Why don’t you just sit here and relax.” He smiled and left. She listened to sounds drifting out from the kitchen and wondered what he was making. The sun lowered, and the sky became purple. The coming of evening, coupled with the sense of dissolving friction between her and Michael, brought a welcome serenity.
She took her empty wineglass and went inside to the kitchen. Michael was measuring Parmesan cheese into a bowl, a dish towel over his shoulder. The picture he made was so
unexpected,
she felt a thrill, as if she’d met this attractive stranger only that night.
“Anything I can do to help?”
He looked around and smiled.
“Hope, not a thing.
Everything’s under control” - he laughed nervously - “I think.” He opened the refrigerator and took out two bowls of salad. “Listen, you’re making me nervous, standing there watching me. If you want to do something, go light the candles.”
“Matches?” she asked.
“Oh.” He searched the kitchen drawers, came up with matches, and by the time she’d lit the blue candles, the wineglasses were filled and the salads were on the table. Then he came in with two loaded plates.
“Sit down,” - he said, motioning, “there.” When she was seated, he placed before her a plate of steaming, savory food. She stared at it, dumbfounded, while he seated himself opposite her.
“Holy cow,” she said, still staring at his accomplishment.
He laughed and said, “Could you be more specific?”
She looked up to find two candles and an iris directly in her line of vision. She craned to one side to see around them. “Who really cooked this?” she asked.
“I knew you’d say that.”
“Can you blame me? This is incredible.”
She spread her napkin on her lap and sampled the asparagus first, while he watched closely for her reaction.
