Friday Mornings at Nine (10 page)

Imperial Roman Risotto!

It was beyond beautiful. Way past eye-catching. More than flavorful. A far cry from even delicious. It surpassed all of these to produce a total taste sensation.

She cooked the short-grained round rice briefly in olive oil, so as to coat it with fat. She added white wine. Waited as it absorbed, then evaporated over the medium flame. Next came the hot stock, dribbled in, plus diced pats of cold butter and sprinkles of finely grated Parmesan cheese. Then the garlic, the mushrooms, the herbs, until it was blissfully al dente. She had to time it perfectly; she hadn’t a minute to spare. When finished, the risotto must be eaten at once or it threatened dryness. She wasn’t about to take chances like that.

She spooned the risotto into a lovely blue and white china bowl, covered it carefully, whipped off her apron and grabbed her car keys along with a bag with plastic cups and forks for immediate tasting. Then, with a gleefulness she couldn’t contain, she drove to work.

Smiley Dental had the relaxed atmosphere of a diner after closing. A couple of patients were in the back, and Candy was with one of them. Pamela, as usual, was about to bolt, but smelled the aroma coming from the bowl and paused.

“What is that?” she asked. “Your lunch?”

“Risotto.” Bridget set the china bowl on the front desk and removed the foil. “Wanna try?”

“Hell, yeah. I heard about the ravioli I missed.”

She handed Pamela the bag of plasticware, and the other receptionist dug out a fork and scooped a generous portion of the still-hot dish into a cup. She blew on her first forkful and lifted it to her mouth. Then tasted. Pamela’s timing couldn’t have been better. Just as she was saying, “Girl, this is fabulous,” Dr. Luke rounded the corner.

“What has our brilliant Bridget made for us today?” he asked, eyeing the bowl with a curiosity bordering on lustfulness.

Bridget told him.

“Is there some for me?” he asked, looking worried that there may not be any left soon. Pamela was on her second cupful already.

“Of course,” she said, handing him the appropriate plastic utensils and offering him a serving.

He, too, tried it. He, too, raved. And he, too, had seconds when he finished his first cup.

Pamela snatched up her belongings and added one final scoop of risotto to her cup before heading toward the door. “I hate to go. Thanks, Bridget. That was amazing.” And for the first time since Bridget had known her, Pamela paused to really look her in the eye. To let Bridget see how much she meant those words.

“You’re welcome,” Bridget replied, encouraged she wasn’t crazy to have this secret dream of a culinary life. Other people—people out in the real world, people who weren’t even her friends—loved her cooking! But it was more than that. She knew she’d been going beyond sharpening her skills with a few tricky recipes. As she crafted each new recipe, she’d been honing a whole new personality.

Dr. Luke cleared his throat. “You’ve kept me from wanting to eat my lunch twice this week,” he told her, feigning sternness. “And the thing is, Bridget, those were
good
lunches. But your dishes were just better.” He stared at her with those huge brown eyes for a long minute, and she rejoiced in having taken extra time with her hair and makeup this morning. Sighed in relief at having worn the forest green shirt that always made her feel kind of pretty, not like her usual dowdy-mom self.

She smiled at him. “I’m glad you enjoyed them. It was nothing.”

“No, actually, it was something.” He fiddled with the plastic fork, bending one of the tines until it snapped off. “Look, I thought of you when I was at home yesterday. You seemed to like the cannoli and—”

“I loved the cannoli,” she said aloud, interrupting, but all the while her brain shouted silently,
He thought of me when he was at home?!

He grinned. “Good. And you made that incredible chestnut ravioli on Tuesday. And now—risotto.” He paused to swallow or catch his breath, Bridget wasn’t sure which. “It’s pretty clear you’re an Italian food lover. So, I’ve got a restaurant for you, and I’d really like it if you’d let me treat you to lunch sometime soon so, you know, I can thank you for helping to make this tough time in the office a little easier.”

He didn’t give her a chance to answer before starting to flip through the calendar next to the reception desk. “Oh. This might work. You know the office is going to be closed on Thursday, October fourteenth. Hygienists have a conference. I know it’s not for a few weeks yet but, if you haven’t already made plans for that day, maybe I could take you out then?”

“I—um—”
A lunch date with Dr. Luke?

“Do you need to check your calendar?” he asked, taking a step closer to her so their sleeves almost touched. “Or…ask your husband?” She couldn’t describe the expression on his face. It was hopeful and fearful and some other emotion she’d need more time to figure out. As for herself, she felt those same mixed emotions and more.

But he was waiting for her. Looking at her. Listening to
her
. And, God, how she appreciated that. So she shook her head. “I don’t have any plans.” She paused and met his gaze. “An Italian lunch sounds really fun.”

Thursday, September 16

I
t was just shy of ten
A.M
. when Tamara, glancing through the big glass windows of The Rake & the Hoe, spotted Bridget walking toward the dentist’s office across the street, kitty-corner and to the left.

The lively lady co-owner of Glendale Grove’s lawn and garden shop, who’d been telling Tamara about their latest deals on bug spray and cedar wood chips, paused midsentence to ask her husband a question about cherry saplings. Even though Tamara knew Bridget couldn’t see her, she took the opportunity to slide into the shadows of the hose and sprinkler aisle and watch as her friend, carrying a large bowl in her hands, wrestled with the front door of Smiley Dental.

A staff birthday, maybe? Bridget wore an attractive dark green blouse and an irrepressible grin. Why did she look so happy? So put together? Was she bringing chicken soup to someone with a cold…or something else to that dentist friend of hers? Tamara didn’t know why that unsettled her so much.

She backed farther into the aisle and grabbed an extra watering can. Then, in other regions of the store, she collected a new pair of gardening gloves, a bundle of brown bags for cut grass and, because the blades of her old rose clippers were getting dull, another pair of those, too.

She thanked the owners and drove home with her purchases in the passenger’s seat. As she passed by Aaron’s house, she spied him in his yard, hunched over a stack of chopped wood in front of his garage. He looked up and waved. She was too close to ignore him, and she’d been staring too intently at him to simply wave back and drive away, so she inhaled deeply and slowed down. As he sauntered over to her, she stopped the car completely, pasted a smile on her face and lowered the window.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she said back. It’d been a week since she’d seen him. A week since their little tea party in her kitchen. Why couldn’t she get over feeling so awkward around him? “I’m going to be doing some yard work today, too. Nice morning for it.” An inane comment by any measure of intelligence, but at least she was taking command of the conversation and not just stupidly staring at him.

“It is. And it’s an excellent break from typing, too. Been up since five-thirty working on the new issue.” He paused and glanced over his shoulder at the woodpile. “Lived here a year and a half. I plan to actually use my fireplace this winter,” he chuckled, more to himself, she thought, than to her.

“Are those vegetables I see over there?” She pointed at a small garden patch on the side of the house.

“Yep. Gonna be doing some serious broccoli harvesting soon.” He met her gaze and grinned. “I dare you to top that, even with your hundreds of juicy cherry tomatoes.”

She laughed, remembering when he plucked that tomato off one of her plants and, also, thinking of her Aunt Eliza and her reviled broccoli crop. “You dare me, huh? Well, I’ll see your broccoli, and I’ll raise you two bell peppers, a head of lettuce and an eggplant.”

He blinked at her. “You grow eggplant? Show-off. Fine. Bring it on. We’ll have to compare produce sometime. I know I’ve got a blue-ribbon bunch of superior cruciferous goodness here.”

She loved it when he pulled out the multisyllabic words. “Ha. I’ll take that as a challenge. And those flowers over there…” She waved her hand at the meager growth of goldenrods in his front yard. “Are they award winning, too?”

“Hey, just because I don’t do roses like
some
people—”

She found herself giggling. “Fine. You admit you’re not skilled enough for roses, but c’mon. No lively snapdragons? No delicate violets? Not even a handful of impetuous poppies?”

“Neighbor, you’re pushin’ it. I am
very
skilled.” He ducked his head to hide—unsuccessfully—a smirk. “I just grow dignified, manly plants.”

“Whatever you say, but I still think I’ve got you beat.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that.” He met her eye this time. Then, when she sensed she’d stayed long enough and had nodded goodbye at him, he winked, turned his back on her and headed again toward the stack of wood logs littering his driveway.

She drove the short distance home, her hands trembling faintly as she steered. This was ridiculous. He was just a
guy.
And he probably used that playful manner when he talked with everyone. She gripped the wheel tighter until she could no longer see the shaking. But she still felt it. Deep inside her fingers. Hidden by a camouflage of skin and jewelry.

She frittered away the next several hours with mindless tasks like vacuuming, dishes and dusting (Jon would be home that night and he hated “untidiness”), but she was unable to concentrate on much beyond that. Jon’s flight was due to touch down at O’Hare around five, but he was often late and had a habit of just taking a taxi back to the house. So, it would probably be hours before she spoke with another human being in person, and there was an undeniable pang of loneliness at the thought that her only remaining conversation of the day would be with her husband.

She didn’t want to bother Aaron, even if he worked from home and had flexible hours, but she couldn’t help but think about him when she picked a pail full of veggies from her garden. It would be funny if she dropped some off for him, right? An extension of that light mockery they always had between them.

So, she spent half an hour trying to choose a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved tee that said “casual and clean,” even while aiming for “cute and clever.” Then, just before four, she clipped three of her most perfect white roses, locked the door but left the garage door open and headed to Aaron’s, a plastic bag of vegetables in one hand, her house keys and the flowers in the other.

When she got to Aaron’s front step, she noticed the main door was open and the screen allowed her an easy view into his house. She could see him, well, part of him, sitting in a chair one room over, his back to her. She wasn’t sure what he was doing, but his sturdy shoulders appeared stiff and his level of concentration so intense that he didn’t hear the scuff of her shoes on his welcome mat.

She observed him for a moment, holding her breath, wondering how a woman who’d fallen out of love with him would perceive him. Would the shoulders Tamara considered broad and strong be seen by his ex-wife as rigid, tense and unyielding? Would the verbal repartee Tamara attributed to him as evidence of witty banter be viewed by his ex as examples of argumentativeness and hair-splitting? Would a rose by any other name…?

“Hey,” he said, spotting her and waving her inside. “You’re back. You can come in, you know.”

“Thanks.” She opened the screen door and stepped in. “You seemed involved in something. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

He shook his head. “Just editing. The next issue goes out on Monday, so I’ve got the weekend to finish up.”

“The next issue of—your magazine?”

“My company’s magazine,” he corrected. “I’m one of the co-founders. We send e-mail issues out to over one hundred twenty thousand subscribers, twice a month.” He pointed to his laptop, which, now that she was in the house, she could see resting on the table in front of him. He quoted from the site: “‘
The Enlightened Man
is for today’s Renaissance Warrior. It’s the only e-zine for men that specifically addresses health and fitness matters alongside in-depth features on relationships, clothing, entertainment, cars and culture. We cover everything that a Man of the Millennium needs to know.’” He paused to nod at her. “Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“A top-notch publication,” Tamara agreed. “Almost makes me wish I were a Man of the Millennium myself, just so I had an excuse to read the articles.”

He snickered. “Sure you do.” He logged off his computer. “Well, maybe if your husband is very good, Santa will get him a year’s subscription.”

“I doubt that’ll happen.” She kicked off her shoes, seeing as his sneakers were there, too, and crossed the light beige carpet with her vegetable and floral offering. Just as she was about to make some flippant remark about how her bell peppers were undoubtedly greener than his broccoli crowns, he made a comment that halted her midstep.

“Why’s that? Because your husband hasn’t been very good or because Santa already has a different gift in mind?”

“Um—” She tried to laugh it off, but he was waiting for her reply. What did a woman with a marriage like hers say to a question like this? The approved answer would be the latter, with some well-rehearsed sexual allusion tossed onto the flame of innuendo for good measure. The truth would be the former, but one didn’t make such an admission aloud. Especially not to mere acquaintances. And especially,
especially
not to other men.

She cleared her throat. “Jon doesn’t have much time to read,” she said, marveling at her ability to lie so smoothly and, indeed, so often over the course of just one week. What would she claim next? That she was a tennis champ who could rival Venus and Serena at Wimbledon?

“Oh,” he said, shrugging. “Too bad.”

“Yeah.” She spotted a snapshot taped to the shelf above the computer. Aaron with an elderly man who looked to be his dad, an elderly woman most likely his mom and another female—a sister, maybe? She pointed to the photo. “Your family?”

“Two out of the three. My parents are in the middle. The woman on the right is my ex-wife. Isabelle.”

“Oh.” She studied the younger woman in the snapshot more closely. Long light brown hair, pretty grayish eyes, delicate bone structure. Features so petite they made Tamara feel like a Midwestern version of Xena, Warrior Princess. “You must still have a really good relationship with her to keep her picture up.”

He laughed, a sound that came so swift and strong it surprised her. “Not at
all
.” He laughed again until tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. “But it’s a real nice photo of the four of us, isn’t it?”

She nodded.

“Exactly. I keep it up to remind me that appearances can be deceiving.” And with that, he pushed himself to standing and took the plastic bag from her fingers. “What have you got in here, neighbor?”

Her head still reeling from his admission, Tamara mumbled something about how her roses could outdo his goldenrods any ole time, and her vegetables were
waaaay
better than his vegetables.

He raised one disbelieving eyebrow. “Are not.”

“Are, too. And,” she added, “where the hell is this famous broccoli of yours, anyway?”

He inclined his head in the direction of the kitchen. “Got a fresh bunch on the table.”

“Well?”

He plopped her bag full of peppers, cherry tomatoes, lettuce and eggplant on his oak table. “Feast your eyes, neighbor.” Center-table and ready to eat, the broccoli glistened with a just-washed sheen. It was cut in easy to grab florets, and Aaron pulled a small bowl of ranch dip out of the refrigerator. “Try one.”

So she dabbed a small floret in the dip and took a bite. Smooth stalk. Crisp but baby tender. Flavorful and fresh. “Not bad.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s excellent. Say it.”

“Not till I try it steamed.”

“What?” He laughed. “You’re a hard woman to please.” He moved to place her roses in a thin, clear vase he’d filled with water, then reached for the steamer pot on the stove.

“Aaron! You don’t really have to do that. I was just hassling you.”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Oh, I know. But you threw down the gauntlet, and I’m gonna win this round.”

As he steamed a couple of stalks, she glanced outside and saw Sharky chasing after a rabbit in the yard. Then, when the rabbit bolted under the fence, Sharky jumped up and down as if pleading for the bunny to come back. Barking, “Don’t leave! We’re not done playing yet.”

Aaron caught her watching and said, “He’s an extrovert. What can I say?”

“Are you going to bring him inside?”

“In a little bit. He’s been cooped up a lot today. Besides, he’s not real polite about waiting for attention when he wants it. He’ll snatch your keys or something until you play with him.”

She smiled. “Better to ask forgiveness than to ask permission, though, right?”

“So they say.”

And Tamara really didn’t know how or why what happened next happened. It probably wasn’t anything noteworthy in anyone else’s book, but to her their conversation fell into a rare easiness, one almost mystical in origin, at least compared to what she’d grown used to.

As he inspected her garden’s produce, their chatting took a personal turn. They talked about their favorite relatives. He mentioned his crazy Grandpa R. J., the one who always took him fishing—a couple dozen times at least—but they only caught fish twice. She told him about her Aunt Eliza. He laughed when she explained her aunt’s gardening antics, Al the “younger” man and her latest road trip…this time to a Patriots game.

He insisted on chopping up her vegetables to accompany his broccoli, both raw and steamed (turned out, she preferred the latter), so they could have a taste test. And, eventually, after they’d tried some of everything, he broke out a bag of molasses cookies and let Sharky back inside. A canine whose love of bacon treats, she soon learned, eclipsed even his love of jumping on people.

“Your dog’s hilarious,” she said, watching Sharky attack one of Aaron’s running sneakers with the exuberance of youth and the teeth of a baby wolf.

“Yeah, he’s funny. My very own teenager. But, he’s also kind—energetic, but in a good-intentioned way. And loyal.” He exhaled long and hard. “Never lived with anyone like that. Not as an adult.”

She shot a look at him, not knowing whether she should ask directly or wait for him to explain, but then she thought, How freakin’ ridiculous. Since when was
she
afraid to ask a man a question? “So, things with…um, Isabelle, they ended badly?”

He didn’t hem, haw or remotely hesitate. “Things with Isabelle ended like the Agony of Defeat, Tamara. Like the most disastrous skiing wipeout imaginable.”

Oh, she wanted to know more. To probe for details and explanations. To have her theory confirmed that Isabelle played the role of
bad
spouse and Aaron the
good
one. Because—c’mon—only a female villain would’ve given him up. “She was disloyal to you, right? She let you down?”