The Guest Cottage (26 page)

But now she could not fall asleep.

T
he next evening as Trevor bathed Leo after their long day at the beach, his mind wandered and he only half listened to Leo’s chatter. In a minute he’d have to dress his son, and then they’d go down to the special la-de-da Bulgarian dinner Sophie had prepared for her cosmopolitan, sophisticated, wealthy, multilingual, yacht-owning boyfriend Hristo.

Okay,
Trevor wanted to say,
okay, I get it. I’m too immature. I wear old T-shirts. I don’t have a yacht.

But Sophie didn’t need a yacht, she needed Trevor, and somewhere in that convoluted mind of hers, she knew it. She didn’t have to bring Angie down to flirt with him and relieve him of adolescent sexual cravings. He was a big boy. He could restrain himself. It wasn’t sex he wanted. It was Sophie.

“…is dying,” Leo said sadly.

The words jerked Trevor back to reality. “What, Leo? What did you say?”

“I said Connor told me he is dying.” Leo listlessly pushed a yellow rubber duck back and forth in the bathwater.

“Leo, dude, when did Connor say that?” Trevor tried to keep the alarm out of his voice.

“Yesterday. I told him about Mom dying, and that I wasn’t so sad anymore. He told me his mommy had died, and he wasn’t so sad anymore, because he was dying, too.”

“Um. Leo, I think he meant his wife died, not his mommy. But I’m sorry to hear that. What did you say?”

Leo looked up at Trevor. “I said maybe he’d see my mommy and his mommy in heaven when he got there.”

Trevor frowned, trying to remember the last time they’d seen Connor. The summer was flying by so quickly, so many visitors were arriving at the guest cottage, that he hadn’t wandered down to the apartment to chat with the old guy.

“Is he breathing all right?” Trevor asked. “Is he eating? Where were you when you spoke to him?”

“I was showing him my bridge to the fairy house. He liked it. He was sitting out on his deck carving something. He didn’t seem sad, Daddy. He didn’t seem hungry. I didn’t ask him if he was hungry.” Leo’s face crinkled with worry.

“It’s okay, Leo, you did exactly right. Old people don’t get as hungry as young people. I’m sure it made him happy to see your bridge. It is sad, though, that he thinks he is dying. I wonder if he needs to go see a doctor.”

“Oh, Connor doesn’t like doctors,” Leo said. “I told him I don’t either.” Leo stood up, water cascading from his chubby, tanned body. “I’m ready to get out.”

“I need to speak with Sophie about this,” Trevor muttered, more to himself than to his son as he lifted his child’s wet body from the bath.

Leo nodded. “Sophie will fix it.”

After dressing Leo and combing his unruly hair, Trevor changed out of his damp clothes. With guests coming to this special dinner, he couldn’t show up in a T-shirt. He put on khakis and a Brooks Brothers button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He’d been told—even Tallulah had commented—that the pale green of the shirt brought out the green of his eyes. Not that he was competing with Hristo.

Downstairs he found the rest of the party lingering around the dining room table, drawn by the tantalizing aroma of Sophie’s cuisine. He shook hands with Hristo, kissed Angie’s cheek lightly and warily, and went into the kitchen to ask Sophie if he could help. She was flustered, taking pans from the oven, stirring pots on the stove. Her cheeks were pink from the heat and excitement. Trevor wanted to shove her up against the counter and put his hands down the front of her cute white apron.

Instead, he did as she asked: he marshaled the kids in to wash their hands, then called everyone to the table. Sophie had allocated Hristo, as guest of honor, to one end of the table. She was at the other end, and everyone else could choose a place. Desi and Lacey of course sat side by side, Leo sat next to Jonah, and that left two empty chairs: one next to Sophie, one next to Hristo. With a silken glide, Angie took the chair next to Hristo. Trevor glanced at Sophie to see if she was as amused by this as he was. Sophie winked.

When everyone was seated, Sophie tapped her glass. “Before we eat, I want to thank you all for coming and tell you what we are eating tonight. You know we are having a Bulgarian meal in honor of our guests, Hristo and Desi. First, we will have
tarator,
a cold soup of yogurt, cucumber, and garlic.”

“Ick,” Leo interrupted spontaneously, and everyone laughed.

“Try it,” Sophie suggested gently. “Next,
shopska
salad, which is made from chopped tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, peppers, and white cheese. I used feta. Next, moussaka, which I know my children like, and
sarmi,
grape leaves stuffed with rice and mincemeat. But first, a toast with the Bulgarian rakia Hristo has brought us tonight.”

“Can I have some?” Jonah asked.

“Me, too!” Leo piped up.

“No, Leo,” Sophie said. “Rakia would burn your throat. Jonah, you may have a sip. One sip, and Hristo is pouring your glasses now. Rakia is clear, so it has the appearance of water but it is extremely potent—that means, Jonah, it could make you sick.”

Lacey, thrilled to have her friend to dinner, averted a potential crisis. “Look, Leo—Desi and I aren’t having rakia. It stings. We’re having ginger ale. Want some, too?”

“Okay,” Leo agreed.

Hristo poured, Sophie asked everyone to wait until each person had a glass, and then she held hers high in a toast.
“Nazdrave!”
she said. “To life!”

“Whoa!” Jonah said, swallowing. “I need water.”

“We have water for everyone, and plenty of food,” Sophie told him, handing him a pitcher.

As they ate, Angie plied Hristo with questions about Bulgaria. Finally he said, “Enough, enough. Angie, tell me what you do.”

Angie leaned toward him, showing cleavage. “I’m a trial lawyer. In Boston. We have scores of immigrants from all countries in Boston. I’ve represented people from practically every nation. Recently…”

“Mom. More moussaka?” Jonah asked, holding up his plate.

“More moussaka,
please
?” Sophie corrected automatically.

“Please.”

She spooned another helping onto her son’s plate. At this end of the table, it was difficult to hear Angie and Hristo because of the children’s chatter. Trevor kept an eye on Sophie to see if it bothered her that Angie was attempting to move in on Sophie’s beau, but Sophie appeared content, even radiant.

When the meal ended, Sophie said they’d have dessert outside—ice cream and berries. Jonah, in a charitable mood after such a good meal, deigned to play “Statues” with Lacey, Desi, and Leo.

“I’ll wait for my dessert,” Angie said, rising. “I’m stuffed.” She rubbed her hand over her slender belly, inviting them to regard her figure in her restrained turquoise silk dress.

“Go on out,” Sophie told her. “I’ll clear the table.”

“I’ll help,” Hristo said, rising and picking up a plate.

“No, that’s my job,” Trevor
interrupted—perhaps
a shade too sharply. “I mean, my agreement with Sophie is that she cooks and I clean the kitchen.”

“But tonight is a special night,” Hristo argued winningly, with a smile and a twinkle in his eye. “Bulgarian night.”

Angie yanked Trevor’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go out.”

Trevor followed her, feeling sullen. He sat in a lawn chair next to Angie—anywhere else would be churlish—and watched her slowly unbuckle her glittering sandals and remove them.

“Trust Sophie to have men fighting over her to do the dishes,” Angie said. She glanced at Trevor. “Honey, I’d say you’ve got it bad.”

He didn’t want to discuss how he felt about Sophie with anyone, certainly not Angie. “And how are you doing, Angie?”

“Honestly?” Angie curled up in her chair, tucking her feet beneath her skirt. “I’m lonely. My ex has a serious girlfriend and my kids like her, too, the traitors. Although I know it’s a good thing, it’s like my kids have even more people to love them, blah blah blah, here I am, all alone in the world, and why? I’m not exactly an old hag.”

Touched by her candidness, Trevor agreed, “You’re certainly not, Angie. You’re beautiful. Smart, too.”

“Thanks, Trevor. But do men want beautiful and smart? Sometimes I think I’m too smart, too ambitious, too driven, too argumentative, too flamboyant—and don’t say a thing. I know what I am. My husband liked all that until I became more successful than he was; then he became unfaithful and now he’s with Betty Boop, all dimples and
gee whizzes.
”

Trevor shifted uncomfortably in his own chair. He wasn’t up for this intimate a discussion. “I’m sorry,” he said at last, apologizing for men in general.

“Oh, well, don’t worry about me. I like my solitude, being my own boss about everything in the house. And I’m getting plenty of carnal knowledge, believe me, and perhaps that’s all I need. If I can’t get loved, at least I can get…” With the children playing nearby, Angie refrained from finishing her sentence.

Trevor focused on the children, who were running over the green grass, freezing into silly positions, falling onto the ground with laughter. Overhead the setting sun struck gold into the edges of the clouds as the sky changed from blue to lavender.

“Remember being that age?” he asked. “The sheer joy of bare feet on soft grass, the excitement of being out at night, the smell of the fresh summer air…”

Angie snorted. “Honey, I wasn’t ever that age.” She put her hand on Trevor’s arm. “Move slowly, but look in the kitchen window.”

Trevor turned. Clearly outlined by the kitchen light, Sophie and Hristo stood facing each other in front of the sink, so close that Hristo could put his hand gently on Sophie’s cheek as he bent to kiss her lips.

“Go on and shoot me now,” Angie said.

“He might be kissing her to thank her for the meal,” Trevor suggested desperately.

“MOM!” Jonah shouted. “WE CAN SEE YOU!”

The bellow made its way into the house, causing Sophie to jump back from Hristo. She said something Trevor couldn’t understand, and then both people disappeared from the window.

“He can’t marry her,” Trevor said. “He travels all over. Her children need the security of a home base.”

“Oh, Trevor,” Angie sighed. “Step up to the plate, guy. You’re in love with Sophie—go
get
her. Then I’d have a chance with Hristo.”

“She told me I’m too young,” Trevor protested. “And I
am
six years younger than she is. I don’t know what to do.”

“If you don’t know what to do, you
are
too young for her.” Angie snorted. Rising from her chair, she said, “I’m going to play ‘Statues’ with the kids. At least I’ll run off some of my dinner.”

Trevor sat brooding while Angie and the kids ran around in the dimming light and Sophie stayed inside, probably making out passionately with Hristo.

A light came on in the apartment, and suddenly Trevor remembered what Leo had told him. He’d better check on the old guy. Skirting the swirling players, he went across the lawn and knocked on Connor’s door.

Connor opened it. “Good evening, Trevor.”

Trevor quickly assessed the man. Connor seemed perfectly fine, dressed in a white T-shirt and long khaki pants and those handsome loafers with the toe cut out of one side. No doubt, Trevor thought irrelevantly, the man had a bunion. Most old people did.

Quickly, he came up with a reason for knocking. “Um, we’re going to have dessert on the patio. Angie is here, and Hristo, the Bulgarian, and we wondered if you’d like to join us.”

“Thank you, but I believe I’ll decline,” Connor replied formally. “I’m in the middle of a good detective novel and I just brewed a fresh cup of coffee.”

“All right, then,” Trevor said. “I hope the kids aren’t bothering you with all their screaming.”

“I enjoy hearing their voices,” Connor told him. He nodded. “Good night.”

Trevor went back up to the patio, thinking that Connor looked all right. He’d have to ask Sophie about him tomorrow. He was glad to see Sophie and Hristo sitting on the patio now, chatting with Angie. Trevor joined them.

“Hristo follows the Red Sox, too,” Sophie informed Trevor. “We were just talking about this season.”

“Yes,” Hristo agreed. “I was wondering why the baseball grand finale is called the
World Series
when it is played only in the United States.”