Falling Angel (2 page)

“Cara,” she said, shaking his hand and wondering what he saw when he looked at her.

“Come on in,” Ben said, closing the door to the hall as though the situation had been decided. He helped her out of her coat and red silk scarf with the practiced ease of someone used to entertaining and led her down the hallway, which opened into a kitchen and dining area.

His home was very clean and sparsely furnished. The floors were unfinished wooden boards, the walls painted a stark white. A massive table, hewn from the center of an ancient redwood, took center-stage in the dining room, surrounded by several mismatched chairs. Several paintings in an abstract expressionist style leaned against the walls, and a large Raku plate with a crackled glazed surface of metallic silver, gold, and blue hung on one wall.

Cara looked around, trying to get a sense of who this mysterious Ben was.

Against the back wall of the dining room, a row of shelves made from cinderblocks and wood boards displayed an impressive collection of ceramics. Vases and pitchers in washes of blues and greens rubbed shoulders with rustic bowls and plates. A cast bronze bust in classic Greek style sat with dignity next to a set of clay goblets.

Following Ben into the kitchen, Cara was surprised to see how well-appointed it was. A Viking range stood against the left wall next to modern oak cabinets, a stainless steel dishwasher and fridge. Adjacent to these was a large enameled farm-style sink with a window above it overlooking the alleyway. A granite-topped counter separated the kitchen from the dining room, with drawers and shelving on the kitchen side and two bar stools on the other. An iron bar supporting an array of gleaming copper pots and pans hung by chains from the high ceiling.

“I’m pretty hungry myself,” Ben said. “How’d you like to try the Ben Kilpatrick pasta special?”

“Sounds delicious.” Cara perched on one of the bar stools and watched as Ben pulled ingredients from the fridge, extracted a colander, wooden spoon and mixing bowls from cupboards and drawers, set a copper pot of water to boil with a pinch of salt, and plucked cloves of garlic from a garlic braid nailed to the wall in a utilitarian fashion. He chopped vegetables on the granite counter with a quick, sure hand and poured the chopped garlic and onion into an enameled pot with a splash of olive oil.

“I feel like I’m watching the home cooking channel,” Cara said.

Ben laughed.

“Are you a chef?”

“Nope. Self-taught. I’ve always enjoyed good food, and eating out gets to be pretty expensive.”

Cara noticed one of her own favorite cookbooks featuring Northwest cuisine among those arranged on a shelf by the range. She felt secretly pleased to find this thread of shared interest. “I’ve never seen a man so at home in the kitchen,” she said, as the delicious smell of sautéed garlic and onion filled the air.

“You obviously haven’t been meeting the right men.”

Cara laughed. “You’re probably right,” she conceded. “My stepfather barely knew how to boil an egg, and my guy friends in college lived on beer and ramen noodles.”

“So your boyfriends never cooked for you, huh?” Ben asked.

“Never.”

“Poor baby.”

For the first time all day Cara allowed herself to relax as she watched him work. This peaceful, well-organized residence seemed a world away from the scene across the hall. She toed her pumps off her aching feet and let them drop to the floor.

“My ex, Barry, was on a strict raw foods diet,” she confided. “He lived on juiced carrots, wheatgrass, whisky and cigarettes. He justified the cigarettes as being all natural, because he rolled them himself.” She sighed, sinking her head onto one hand.

“Sounds like a real prince. No wonder you dumped him.”

 “You’d think I would have dumped him. But the fact is, I’m a sucker for losers. I stayed with him until he ended things by having sex with my best friend.”

“Ouch.”

“That’s why I moved out here, to start a new life. They say Seattle is like the final frontier. I figure I can reinvent myself. Be someone different. Stop making the same mistakes.” She looked up and met Ben’s clear gaze. “I’m babbling, aren’t I?”

Ben smiled. He took a bottle of Chianti from a shelf beneath the counter and poured her a glass, and took a beer from the fridge for himself.

“Here’s to good food, and faithful friends,” he said, holding up his bottle.

“I’ll drink to that.”

They toasted, and for a moment it seemed as though they had known each other a long time already.

“So, how did you like the loft show?” Ben asked. He added the chopped tomatoes to the pot along with several spices pulled from a stainless steel rack above the stove.

“Honestly, I didn’t know what to make of it. It was such a strange mix of old and new.”

“What do you think the artist was trying to say?”

Cara considered this. “I guess the exhibit mirrors our own postmodern state of mind. Stuck between the ancient world of nature and religion and the modern world of technological wonders and existential angst.” She laughed, embarrassed.

“I think you’re right.” Ben drained the spaghetti into a metal colander, gave the sauce a stir, and leaned against the counter opposite her, still holding the wooden spoon in one hand. A lock of russet hair fell over his eye.

Cara felt a second, wordless conversation start up between them.

Ben raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on in there?”

“Sorry,” she said, pulling herself together. “I think the smell of the food cooking has made me slightly delirious. I like your home.”

“Thanks. It’s the first place I can call my own since moving out here.”

“Must be nice, not having to share it with anyone.”

“It is. I’ve always liked solitude.” Casually, Ben steered the conversation away from himself. “So, what brought you to the show?”

“My roommate, actually. She loves to go out and meet guys, and drags me along with her.”

“You make it sound like a chore.”

“It’s not that,” said Cara, debating whether to confide in him. He seemed so open, so non-judgmental, that she decided to be honest. “It’s  that . . . well, I’m not that into the whole singles scene. And artists, especially, seem so puffed up with a sense of their own importance, you know? I’m at a point in my life now where I’m looking for something more stable.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just that I’ve made a promise to myself to make better choices when it comes to guys.”

“No more crazy artist-types, huh?” A small smile played about Ben’s lips. “Only stockbrokers and CPA’s from here on out?”

“It sounds so calculating, when you put it that way. All I mean is I’m looking for someone who’s a realist, not chasing some illusory dream. It seems childish to pursue art as a viable career. The reality is that many are called but few are chosen.”

Heartened by Ben’s attentive silence, Cara continued. “When it comes to men, I intend to stake my hopes on more of a sure thing. A good provider, as they say. Emotionally and financially stable. I guess I’m a little more cynical than I used to be.”

“At your advanced age? How old are you? Twenty-one, twenty-two? Are you even legal?”

Cara glared at him. “I’ll be twenty three next week, thank you very much.”

“No way!” said Ben, laughing at her indignation.

Cara relented and grinned. “I know. I look like a twelve-year-old, right? I can’t buy wine at the store without getting carded. It’s embarrassing, really.”

“I like the way you look.”

For a moment, their eyes met, and Cara sensed in his a challenge. A small thrill went through her as she looked away, tracing the marbled surface of the counter with her fingertip.

“Voila.” With a flourish, Ben presented Cara with a bowl of fragrant pasta. He dished up his own bowl and sat down on the barstool next to hers.

“Thank you
so
much,” said Cara, digging in with gusto. “This is absolutely delicious.”

They ate in companionable silence for a minute. Cara was acutely aware of the proximity of Ben’s leg to hers, of the heat emanating from him. Who was this stranger who had taken her into his house, fed her and listened to her problems? He seemed too good to be true.

Ben gave her a wicked grin, and she could tell more teasing was on the way. ”So, you’ve decided to steer clear of venues that may expose you to unsavory bohemian types?” He sounded as if he was enjoying himself, and Cara began to wish she hadn’t said anything.

“I know it sounds dumb, the way I’m saying it.” Acutely aware of his eyes on her, she rolled spaghetti onto her fork and tried to eat in a ladylike way. “I just think that artists tend to be very self-centered.”

“True,” Ben conceded. “A lot artists are driven, very focused on their vision. I guess that can make other people feel shut out. But still, I don’t understand your motivation. Why settle for financial stability at the expense of love and passion? Especially at your age. I’d think you’d want to explore your options before trying to settle down.”

“Who said I’m settling?” she shot back. “I’m just setting certain parameters to make it easier for me to find Mr. Right. And by the way, it’s not so unusual for someone my age to want that. A lot of my girlfriends are already married. We’re not all party girls.”

Ben twirled a mound of pasta onto his fork. “I understand your desire to only bet on a sure thing. But I think you may be closing yourself off to a lot of exciting opportunities.  Just because someone is creative doesn’t make them unreliable. More adventurous, maybe, more open to the experiences life has to offer.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

His smile was light, but his eyes were serious. Cara had the strange sensation that she knew him from somewhere else. With an effort, she pulled her gaze away and looked down at her hands, twisting the paper napkin in her lap.

“You’re teasing me, aren’t you?” she said. “Why does it matter to you what I think?”

“Pure self-interest.” Ben reached into the back pocket of his jeans and handed her a business card.

Cara took it and read the front:

Ben Kilpatrick Productions

Sculpture, Ceramics, Fine Arts

A blush suffused her face. How could she not have guessed? The paintings, the sculpture, and the pottery should have tipped her off, not to mention the fact that his loft was in an area of town that was filled with galleries and creative types.

“You’re an artist?”

“Guilty as charged. I rent a studio in a loft near the Viaduct.”

“I’m so embarrassed. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. But maybe you need to rethink your new philosophy on life.” She heard the teasing in his voice again but was too embarrassed to laugh. “We artists may not be the settling-down kind, but we can be a hell of a lot of fun.”