More Than You Know (16 page)

Authors: Nan Rossiter

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Family Life

BOOK: More Than You Know

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Beryl looked up. “It looks like she couldn’t think of the word she wanted. . . .” She tried to read her mom’s handwriting. “On the next line she wrote the word
urgency
—but it’s misspelled—which is so unlike her.” Isak, Rumer, and Micah nodded, sadly realizing the loss and helplessness their mother would have felt.

“She must’ve been beside herself,” Isak said quietly.

“And she never said anything,” Rumer added. “She kept it all inside.”

Micah smiled sadly. “She was protecting you.”

Beryl turned the page. “There’s a small notation scribbled at the top of the next page. It simply says,
‘Today is better . . .’ ”

We were so busy that night that I hardly had a chance to say hello to David. He was sitting with a large group of artists and they were having a rousing discussion. I asked one of the other waitresses what they were talking about and she said they were talking about Kent State. I nodded as if I knew all the details—but, in reality, I didn’t. I’d only heard that there’d been some kind of confrontation between students and policemen . . . and it had ended tragically. As much as I wanted to keep up on the news, I barely had time to keep up with my life!

The evening slipped by and the residents finally started to leave. I was wiping down a table in the corner when David came over. “Hey,” he said with a smile.

“Hey,” I replied, looking up.

He pushed back his hair. “Do you have to head home right away?”

I straightened up and started to answer, “Yes, I . . .” But then I suddenly realized I didn’t have to head home—the girls were sleeping at my parents.

“Want to come by for a beer?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know—it might be late,” I said. “We still have the kitchen to clean up, and then we have to set up for breakfast.”

“I’ll still be up,” he said. “I’m a bit of a night owl.”

I nodded. “Okay, maybe . . .”

An hour and a half later, I parked under the oak tree and rolled up my windows. Although the rain had stopped, it felt like it might start again at any minute. The porch light was on and I saw David leaning against the railing with a beer in his hand.

“You came!” he called happily.

“Against my better judgment,” I called back. I opened the car door and, just as I did, the skies opened up and it started to pour! I ran, laughing. “See what I mean!” I said, almost slipping on the steps. He laughed, too, catching me with his free hand. I looked up, and he gently brushed the raindrops from my cheek—his touch sweeping through me, arousing a sensation I thought I’d never feel again. He searched my eyes—and then shook his head as if trying to fight some inner turmoil.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

He shook his head and turned away. “Nothing . . .”

I looked at his back as he leaned on his cane. “It must be something,” I said softly.

“It’s nothing,” he said, turning to me and smiling. “Are you ready for that beer?”

I nodded.

“I’m afraid I only have Bass.”

“Anything,” I replied.

“I finished my still life. Would you like to see it?”

“I’d love to,” I said, following him inside. He’d set up his props on a table near the window.

“I borrowed that blue and white bowl from the kitchen,” he said. “I hope they haven’t missed it.”

I laughed. “Actually, I think someone was looking for it today.”

“Well, I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

He handed a frosty bottle to me and I thanked him and took a sip. “Mmmm—this tastes good. I can’t remember the last time I had one.”

He nodded, turning the easel toward me.

“Oh, my! It’s beautiful! I’ve always considered still lifes to be . . . well, boring, but I love the way the light from the window falls across the bowl and the way you’ve painted shadows in the folds of the cloth. And the apples make me think of autumn—it looks as if someone is getting ready to make a pie.”

He smiled and nodded thoughtfully. “I’m learning how to do that with people, too—you should let me show you sometime.”

“Ahh . . . now I see where this is going.”

“Not at all,” he protested, looking into my eyes. “Mia, you’re beautiful—I would love to draw you.”

I nodded slowly, my heart pounding. “Okay,” I said softly, hardly believing I was actually agreeing.

His face lit up. “You will?!”

I took another sip and laughed. “You better hurry up before I change my mind.”

“Okay, give me a minute to think. Would you like to lie down or sit?”

“Sit.”

“Clothes or robe?”

“Clothes. And I don’t want to be paid.”

“Agreed,” David said, setting a stool in the middle of the room and moving a lamp next to it. He maneuvered his easel closer and looked around for his pad.

“Okay if I freshen up?”

“Of course—down the hall, first door on the right.”

I went to the bathroom and quietly closed the door behind me. I stood in front of the mirror and tried to come to terms with my reflection. It had been quite some time since I’d given any thought to my appearance. I was busy—I had no time—and who was looking anyway? As long as I was showered, dressed, and moving in the morning, that was all that mattered. But now . . . someone was looking. I unbuttoned the top button of my blouse—and then one more, and ran my fingers through my hair, trying to get it to lie flat. Then I rebuttoned the lower button and turned my head to one side, wondering—for the first time in my life—if I might actually have a good side. I felt self-conscious and nervous . . . and then I noticed a soft terry-cloth robe hanging on the back of the door. I paused and bit my lip, trying to decide.

David looked up when he realized I was standing in the doorway. “You look comfortable,” he said with a slow smile.

“I couldn’t resist—I love the color—and it’s so soft,” I said, moving toward the stool.

“Well, I’m glad you couldn’t resist,” he said quietly, adjusting the light.

I sat on the stool, and he asked me to turn toward him. He stepped back and looked; then he stepped forward, turned the light away slightly, and lifted my chin. He adjusted the neck of the robe and hesitated. “Would it be okay if I open this a little?” he asked.

I nodded and he slowly slid the robe off my shoulder.

“Are you comfortable?”

“To be honest, I am a little warm.”

“Well,” he teased, “there’s a way to fix that . . .”

“A fan?” I asked.

He laughed. “Okay, I’ll be quick.” He moved to his easel and began to draw, and although I couldn’t see him looking, I could feel his gaze.

Ten minutes passed and a cool breeze drifted through the window. “Would you like to see it?” he asked.

I nodded and walked over to where he stood. I couldn’t believe my eyes—with a few sweeps of his pencil he’d captured my likeness and made me look confident . . . and beautiful.

“That’s amazing!” I said. “I can’t even draw a stick figure—but you, in a few short minutes, have made me look the way I’ve only dreamed of looking.”

“That is how you look.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

He looked in my eyes and said, “Mia, I can’t draw what I don’t see.” He paused. “Are you up for another?”

I nodded, feeling more at ease.

“On the couch?”

“Okay,” I agreed, taking a sip of my beer. He moved the lamp closer and I sat down, trying to keep the robe around me.

“Do you want to lie down?”

“Do you want me to lie down?”

“I want you to be comfortable.”

I leaned back awkwardly, trying to stay covered. “How’s this?”

“Good,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully and eyeing the robe, which had somehow wrapped itself more tightly around me. “What do you think about loosening the robe a bit—so I can see a little more of you?”

“Okay,” I said. “You do it.”

He shook his head slowly. “No . . . you do it.”

I looked down—and slowly pulled one end of the belt until it came undone. I looked up to watch his face as I pushed the robe away, but his solemn expression didn’t change. I leaned back on the cushions and felt his eyes taking in my body as he began to draw.

I lay there for a long time, watching him. He seemed completely caught up in the moment, focusing intently on the different curves and shapes of my body. “Lay your hand here,” he said, putting his hand on his lower abdomen.

“On you . . . or me?” I asked.

“Whichever you’d prefer,” he said with a slow smile, still trying to focus.

“I think you should show me. . . .”

“I just showed you.”

“I mean on me . . .”

He took a deep breath. “If I come over there and show you . . . I may not leave.”

“You better stay there, then.” I laughed.

He nodded and kept drawing.

Beryl looked up. “Can you believe this is our mother?!”

Isak shook her head. “Yeah—no!”

Rumer grinned. “I can believe it.”

Micah laughed. “She really had a wild side!”

Beryl glanced through the next few pages. “Well, that looks like the end of this section—she didn’t use chapters. Should we stop?”

Micah sat forward. “I’d like to stay, but I should get going. You don’t have to stop on my account; I can always catch up later.”

Beryl looked at her sisters.

“We can stop,” Rumer said. “I need to call Will anyway.”

“Fine with me,” Isak agreed. “I need to call my kids, too, before it gets too late.”

“Okay, well, tomorrow’s Wednesday, and if we’re going to finish before everyone starts arriving, we’ll have to have a marathon session tomorrow night—although . . .” she said, thumbing through a number of blank pages on the bottom of the pile, “it might not be as long as it looks.”

“Marathon it is,” Rumer said with a nod.

Micah stood up and stretched, and Beryl handed the papers to Rumer and got up to walk him to his car.

“Good night, Micah!” they called.

“Good night,” he called back with a grin.

“I forgot to ask you,” Beryl said, falling in step beside him with Flannery at their heels, “how did tutoring go?”

“Good! There were four boys and two girls—and one of the boys has autism. His name is Henry and my mom said she’s known him since he was little. His grandfather was Mr. Wyeth, the history teacher.”

“I had Mr. Wyeth—he was great, everyone loved him!”

“I know, silly,” Micah said. “I sat behind you.”

“You did?”

“Gee, I can tell I made a big impression on you.”

“I’m just teasing; I remember. I always borrowed your pen.”

“And never gave it back—I went through more pens that year! Anyway, my mom said Henry’s on the cross-country and track teams—in fact, he’s their best runner—and he’s very neat and organized—perhaps it’s characteristic of autism. So, when I mentioned that you were looking for someone to help in the shop, she said he’d be great at making sure the shelves are stocked and everything’s in its place—he’s very particular about stuff like that.”

“Does he have any negatives?”

Micah shook his head. “None that I know of. He has a service dog named Honey that’s always by his side—I don’t know if he’d need to bring her, but she’s a beautiful yellow Lab, very well behaved and mellow.”

“Hmm . . . Henry and Honey—I’ll have to think about that. Are you tutoring tomorrow?”

“I am—in the morning. I saw all the boxes, though. Do you want help after lunch?”

“Are you sure you don’t have something better to do?”

“I’m sure,” he said. “Oh, and before I forget to ask, tell me again what time the service is?”

“Eleven,” Beryl said with a lump suddenly forming in her throat. “I don’t even want to think about it,” she said, her voice full of sadness.

Micah put his arm around her shoulder. “It’ll be okay, Ber—you need to think of it as a celebration of her life.”

“I know, but I just keep thinking that all the people she loves will be together in one place and she won’t even get to enjoy it.”

“She’ll be there in spirit,” he said softly, “
and
she’ll be smiling.”

Beryl looked up at him. “How come you always know the right thing to say?”

He shook his head. “I don’t always,” he said, resting his chin on the top of her head. “I say the wrong thing all the time.” He kissed her forehead lightly and whispered, “I should go.”

“You’re right,” she said.

“I
should
go?”

“No—you’re right about saying the wrong thing.”

He gave her a puzzled look.

“You’re supposed to say, ‘I should stay . . .’ ”

He shook his head and laughed. “Believe me, I’ve been thinking about it . . .”

She smiled. “Well, as long as you’re thinking about it. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow, then,” he said with a grin. “Tomorrow, ole girl,” he said, squatting to scratch Flannery’s head.