Riversong (25 page)

“No. It's just 5:00 now.”

“Sleep. I'll keep my hands off you until at least 9:00.

“How did you know I didn't sleep?”

“I don't know. I just did.”

O
n Sunday, in her backyard, Lee draped a white sheet over borrowed tables from the restaurant. She arranged canning jars filled with flowers and tea lights in the middle of the table. She set four places with plates, silverware, wine glasses and white table napkins folded like small hats. She smiled to herself, enjoying the simplistic beauty.

Annie, in Lee's kitchen, hummed along to the radio amidst the sounds of chopping and clanging pans. Alder kicked his soccer ball outside the gate in an imaginary game, his cries of triumph making their way over the fence.

She walked to the front yard as Alder dropped his ball and jumped up to a tree branch to hang like a monkey. Lee sat in the rocking chair on her repaired porch and watched a pair of hummingbirds drinking the nectar of the Hibiscus Ellen had planted in the hanging planters.

Two weeks into May now, the thermometer hanging by the door said seventy-six and the air smelled like promise and fresh grass. She heard a low hum of a truck engine and tires crunching on the gravel road and looked up to see Tommy's truck bouncing down the driveway. He stopped next to the patch of grass and jumping from his truck joined her on the porch. “What time you leave this morning? I woke up and there was no trace of you.”

“I had an early meeting with a supplier.”

“What's that smell?”

“Dinner. First meal cooked in there since 1972.”

He laughed. “That the chef?”

She nodded and pointed to Alder, who was now chasing his ball in a circle around the yard. “That's Alder. Her son.”

He sat on the new steps and stretched his legs. “What're we eating?”

“This is a work thing.”

His face sobered. “You sleep in my bed two nights in a row and I can't come for dinner?”

“It's not Mayberry supper club.”

He picked up a pebble from the flower bed next to the step and lobbed it across the grass to the gravel road. “Dinner too much of an admission we're involved?”

“Don't make this complicated.”

“That's what you do.” He hoisted off the steps and stood. “Mike was at the rec. center this afternoon. Why didn't you tell me you committed to a partnership with him? He's talking crazy, like you're going to help us save the town.”

She shrugged but said, earnestly, “There's something about Mike. I can't say no to him.”

“But you can to me?”

“What? No. It's different.”

“How?”

“Because I shouldn't have a boyfriend when my husband's been dead less than four months.”

“Is that what it is?” He stared at her, cheeks flushed, eyes sharp, a vein in the middle of his forehead bulging. “Or, is it something else?”

“I need the money. What do you want me to say?” Her hands shook and she felt the sting of tears behind her eyelids.

He rested his head on a beam and looked towards the driveway. “I hear from Mike that you said you'd stay but you tell me you're leaving. Which is it?”

“I, I don't know.”

“I should go.”

“No, please stay.” She moved to where he stood on the steps. She touched a strand of his hair that curled around the neck of his shirt and breathed in his skin's citrus salty scent. “I'm still working some things out.” She couldn't think what else to say and played with the collar of his shirt. “Starting to see why my husband killed himself?”

He stood stiff, silent, rubbing the scar on his cheek. “You do this joke thing when you want to avoid saying the truth. To answer your question, no, I can't see one reason why any man could bring himself to leave a life that had you in it.”

“Is that a lyric from one of your songs?” she said, softly, feeling the tears form at the corners of her eyes.

He shook his head and smiled. “You're going to drive me crazy.”

She put her arms around his neck and pressed into him. “I'm sorry, just stay for dinner.”

He put his face into her hair. “Tell me your secret. I'll help you.”

Still pressed into him, she said quietly, “Tommy, you're right that I have a secret. It's something from my past. I'm taking care of it but it's complicated and I can't share it with you.”

He pulled back, searching her face. “Why?”

“Because it would put you in danger.”

“I don't care.”

“I need you to promise me you won't ask me about it again.”

He peered at her. “I don't know.”

“Just promise me.”

“Fine. For now.”

She heard footsteps on the gravel driveway. She pulled away from Tommy just as Ellen came around the corner of the house. But she forgot her embarrassment in the instant it took her to stifle a gasp. Ellen's braid had been replaced by an attractive pixie style cut. She had on new clothes too, a floral print skirt and lilac colored blouse.

Ellen clapped her hands when she saw Tommy. “I'll be, I didn't know this was a party.”

“I kind of invited myself,” said Tommy.

“It's just you two. And Alder. Not really a party,” said Lee.

“Haven't seen any lights down here in two nights.” Ellen looked from Lee to Tommy and back again. “You been busy?”

Lee felt her cheeks blaze with heat and saw Tommy stifle a smile. “Ellen, your hair looks nice,” said Lee.

“The ladies down at the salon talked me into it.” Ellen waved her hand in the air, as if it was the ordinary course of things. “I thought I might ask that nice Verle out on a date.”

“A date?” said Lee.

Ellen chuckled. “What? The old biddy can't have some fun?”

“But, I mean.” Lee stumbled on the words. “How old is Verle anyway?”

Tommy laughed. “Old enough to go on a date.”

Ellen picked lint off the front of her skirt. “How old
is
he, Tommy?”

“I think he's sixty-eight.”

Ellen clapped her hands together, beaming. “Perfect. I always went for younger guys.”

Tommy laughed again and then lowered his voice, as if Verle were in the next room. “Now, don't tell him I told you this but he has a little crush on you.”

Ellen whipped her head around to stare at Tommy. “Are you sure?”

Lee sat in the rocking chair and put her head in her hands.

“As a matter of fact.” Tommy glanced back at Lee. “I think he might be free tonight.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “Can we invite him?”

Lee held up her hand. “We don't have enough food.” She gave Tommy a pointed look, which he ignored.

Ellen's face fell. “Well, that's just fine. We'll do it some other time.”

Lee's heart softened and she waved her hand in the air. “Fine, invite him. I hope Annie can feed all of us.”

Tommy went to where she sat in the chair and kneeled, putting his hands on her thighs. “Don't try to control it, just let it unfold.”

She smiled, wanting to kiss him, but instead said with a tease and a mock pout in her voice. “You two have to do the dishes.”

Tommy whooped, kissed her full on the mouth and then pushed a couple of buttons on his cell phone. “I should've brought my guitar.” He shuffled to the other end of the porch and murmured into the phone.

The pair of humming birds hovered near the Hibiscus, invisible wings a loud buzz. “I should get a feeder,” said Lee.

Ellen stared at Tommy but spoke to Lee. “What's that?”

Lee smiled to herself and sighed. “Never mind.” She walked to the kitchen where Annie was cutting onions into large chunks on a thin wooden cutting board. “There are two extra guests coming. Is that okay?”

“There's plenty of food.” On the counter were peeled and quartered Golden Delicious apples and small white potatoes washed but still in their skins.

Lee leaned on the counter and looked around the remodeled kitchen. Joshua, the handyman, was good, she had to admit. He'd started with the kitchen and had sanded and painted the cabinets eggshell white, the color Lee had in her condo kitchen. He'd then resurfaced the counters with white tiles that he found on sale at a large discount home repair store. He'd ripped the old linoleum floor out and installed the manufactured wood slabs that would also go in the rest of the house once he was through with the other repairs. The walls he painted a pale yellow and Ellen had made simple white linen curtains for the windows. Ellen lent her the money to replace the old appliances with a black General Electric gas stove and refrigerator. Joshua convinced her to install a dishwasher too, as it would add to the salability of the house. “You've got to have a dishwasher or the ladies won't want to buy,” he had said, with a toss of his ponytail. Standing here now, even though she preferred stainless steel appliances, overall, she was pleased with the clean, crisp feel of the new kitchen.

But it wasn't clean tonight. Dirty pans covered the counters, flour powdered the floor, and grease spots speckled the wall by the stove.

Annie saw her looking around the kitchen. “Sorry for the mess.” Her plump cheeks were flushed a deep pink and she sounded breathless. She ran her hand down the front of her stained and flour coated apron. “I'm a sloppy cook. If I keep things in order the food isn't as good.”

Lee fluttered her hand and smiled. “It's fine. I'm not here to interfere with an artist at work.” Lee peered through the glass door of the oven and breathed in the smell of warm chocolate. “Do I smell chocolate?”

“It's a flourless chocolate hazelnut Cake. It has another 30 minutes to bake.” She looked at her watch. “It's served cool with a dollop of whipping cream sprinkled with hazelnuts.” Annie was wrapping bacon around a long skinny piece of meat. “Pork tenderloins look like a big ‘ol tongue, don't you think?” Annie chuckled. “Maybe that's just me.” She stabbed toothpicks through the fatty bacon, securing it to the fleshy pink tenderloin.

The timer on the oven began to beep. “That's the crostinis,” said Annie. She slipped her left hand into a mitt, yanked open the oven door and pulled out a baking sheet with three lines of toasted golden pieces of thin bread. She dropped the baking sheet on the counter and a few crostinis slid off the pan onto the floor and broke into pieces.

“My main course tonight is pork tenderloins with apples, dates, and baby potatoes,” said Annie. She took string from the pocket of her apron and tied four pieces around the tenderloin, yanked out the toothpicks and tossed them in the sink. Coarsely cut romaine and chunks of parmesan were piled on a plate. Next to the lettuce was a bowl with a mixture of purple and green grapes. Annie pointed at the salad with the wooden spoon she held in her hand. Drops of the sauce propelled through the air, landing on the fronts of the cabinets. “Every cook should have a Caesar salad with their own secret tweak.” She wiped a greasy hand on the front of her apron. “We'll sell a lot of Caesar's.” She giggled. “I mean, if you choose me.” She chopped the grapes in halves, one by one, the juice making puddles on the surface of the cutting board. She pulled out a package of soft goat cheese from the refrigerator and mixed it with finely chopped fresh thyme and oregano. Using a butter knife, Annie spread the goat cheese on the bread and placed three grape halves on the top of each one.

Lee leaned on the sink, filling a glass with tap water, and drinking it in two gulps. “This pregnancy makes me hot all the time.” She heard Annie sniff and turned to see her wipe something from her cheek. “Annie, are you alright?”

Annie spread the cheese on the last crostini. “I broke up with my boyfriend, and the weird thing is I don't feel that bad, and that makes me feel bad, like why did I waste time with him if I don't even care when we break up. Does that make any sense?” Tears drifted down her flushed cheeks and she wiped them with the back of her hand. Her voice warbled and saliva caught between her tongue and her teeth. “Mostly, I just want this job more than anything in the world. I'm afraid to even think I might actually get the kind of life I've dreamt about because things like this don't happen to people like me.”

“Oh, Annie, what kind of person do you think you are?”

“A mess.” She grabbed a paper towel and blew her nose. “I'm always so emotional. They used to mark me down for it in culinary school.” She pulled a bowl of uncooked croutons out of the refrigerator, dumped them onto the empty baking sheet and spread them over the surface of the pan with her bare hand.

A memory came to Lee of college. It was the last day of her iunior year and Lee sat before the art professor assigned to judge her final project for the year. It was a series of ten paintings, the culmination of her year's work. She needed a passing grade in order to remain in the program for her Senior year. Her professor was a crusty man in his sixties and had taught at the school for at least thirty years. He sat behind his cluttered desk, in his small office in the basement of the art school, and peered at her over his reading glasses. His office, stacked with art books and papers smelled of dust and musty paper. She sat before him, quivering with fear, praying silently that he would pass her. He shook his head and stroked under his loose chin. “I'll pass you on for next year, but I'm disappointed in your work. It's good technically and you obviously work hard and you have talent. I can see all that, even though it's not reflected in the pile of crap you turned in this year. Let me tell you something, no one wants to see landscapes of some obscure little village in Oregon. It's been done and no one cares. The modern art world wants edge, excitement, a unique point of view.” He took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on the surface of the desk. His fingernails were long and there were dry irritated patches of skin around his knuckles. “You're the type of student I find hard to teach - detached, insecure, shying around here like a scared little mouse, painting in corners. Your paintings are overworked and empty of anything real. Go out and get laid for Christ's sake, instead of acting like a child. Find some Goddamn passion to put in your work. Otherwise, there's not much point. You're just another silly bitch amongst hundreds of other silly bitches. Wouldn't you agree?”