Read Twelve Months Online

Authors: Steven Manchester

Tags: #Adult, #Contemporary, #FICTION/Family Life

Twelve Months (6 page)

BOOK: Twelve Months
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On a stretch of beach between Oak Bluffs and Edgartown, I pulled over. Driftwood, broken shells, old fishing line and tattered nets that covered a cluster of rocks led us to the ideal spot. Children with their shovels and pails, and mothers with their paperback books watched as we spread out the towels and set up camp. The horizon was peppered with weekend sail boaters.
Bella's right,
I thought.
This is heaven.
“Thank you,” I told her.

“For what?” she asked.

“For having such a great idea.”

She grabbed my face with both hands. “There's more where that came from,” she promised. The sun was warm, the rhythm of the waves mesmerizing. It must have only taken seconds before we both fell asleep – side-by-side, holding hands.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

By dusk, the air got colder, but we were rested and ready to ride. We put the top down on the convertible, turned on the heater and steered back onto the street. I was suddenly aware that the gift of life is offered in every breath we take.

As the darkness crept in, Bella slid closer to me. I put my arm around her. With an unobstructed view of the moon and stars, we reminisced about our life together.
Sometimes it doesn't take much to experience pe
r
fection
, I thought.
The simple things may actually be the greatest of all
.

We spent the next hour debating whether we should get a clam boil for dinner or go for the baked stuffed shrimp. In truth, I didn't care. My stomach was churning something awful, so wherever we ended up I didn't expect to eat more than a few bites.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

On Sunday morning, we decided to spend the second half of our getaway in Oak Bluffs and Edgartown. My wife insisted, “We have to visit the gingerbread houses in Oak Bluffs first.” Known by the locals as “the Cottage Colony,” this cliquey community is famous for its storybook gingerbread cottages, three hundred thirty in all, encircling Trinity Park. With rocking chairs on the front porches and candle-lit Japanese lanterns glowing at night, names such as Time Remembered, Rose Crest and Alice's Wonderland made Bella coo. Many of the gothic resort cottages – adorned with their ornamental scroll work, decorative shingling, porch aprons, arched double doors and candy cane colors of pink, blue and green – contained miniature gardens behind white picket fences.

“They look like doll houses,” I said.

She nodded. “They're wonderful.”

Rising out of the center was the Tabernacle, an open-air cathedral with dominant wrought iron arches, colored windows and an octagonal cupola. The Trinity United Methodist Church was just next door. It had a classic New England spire that had been hit three times by lightning. With blown-glass windows and a stamped-tin interior, I remembered visiting it as a kid. “It's still my favorite,” I told Bella.

Beyond the summer cottages that rented for more than it would have cost us to put both Madison and Pudge through college, the Annual Oak Bluffs Harbor Festival beckoned.

It was a junk-food junkie's paradise. The air was thick with the distinct aromas of cotton candy and fried dough. While a live band played on the dock and young children competed in a chalk art contest on the cement walkway, we ate as we walked along and looked at the boats. I'd given my belly a rest, so we shared a pulled pork sandwich from a local Bar-B-Q smokehouse, and then an expensive lobster roll overflowing with claw meat.
I'm dying
, I figured,
but I'm not dead yet
. At the end of the dock, a heavy-set woman dressed like a rag doll yelled out, “Strawberry shortcakes! Get your strawberry shortcakes here!”

We stopped and I turned to Bella. “Oh, good…fruit!” I said, excitedly.

She laughed, and we bought one and split it. It was made with fresh strawberries, a real shortcake and sweet whipped cream. Two bites in, I almost told Raggedy Ann that I loved her.

As we strolled further down the pier, I stopped and gave Bella a hug. I was starting to understand that it wasn't so much about doing anything; about feeling or even thinking anything. It was about
being
; being who I was, and being with the woman who owned my heart. I looked into her eyes and kissed her again.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “It's just that I love you.”

We hugged for a while, swaying together on the dock, while the crowd milled around us.
Sometimes all we have to do is breathe
, I thought.
The rest is out of our hands.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Flying Horses Carousel was the nation's oldest operating platform carousel. In 1884, this treasured merry-go-round was brought to Martha's Vineyard and placed right in the heart of Oak Bluffs where it could be enjoyed for more than a century. I bought two tickets for four dollars and tried my best to catch the brass ring and win a free ride. It never happened. Instead, I shelled out a few more bucks for a cone of cotton candy and an iced-cold bottle of water. I grabbed Bella's hand and headed back to the convertible.

When we reached the car, I looked at her and couldn't help but laugh. She had a wad of the pink cotton candy stuck to her chin. “What now?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said again and opened the passenger door for her. “I was just thinking that sometimes the silliest things make for the best memories…even though no one ever realizes it at the time.”

She nodded, her cotton candy beard still intact.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Everything tucked away into back alleys and unassuming little neighborhoods, Edgartown was another national treasure. The quiet streets were lined with large elegant homes, many crowned with widows' walks built by wealthy nineteenth century whaling captains. I parked the car on South Water Street where we had to walk around the roots of a huge pagoda tree breaking through the slate sidewalk. It had been brought back from China in 1843 in a tiny cup by Captain Thomas Milton to decorate his home.

Edgartown was home to many of the Northeast's most elite. With their boat shoes and sweater-wearing dogs, most of them reeked of money. They weren't any better or worse than the rest of us – just experiencing a very different reality.

As we navigated the red brick sidewalks and marveled at the amazing architecture, two women in big flowered hats happened by. If I didn't know better, it would have been difficult to identify the exact era we were in – that is, until a guy walked by, wearing two earrings and holding hands with his tattooed girlfriend. The tiny shops and cafés were a delight, each one a glimpse of Norman Rockwell's inspiration. Bella finally broke the silence. “We were crazy to stay away from this place for so long,” she admitted.

I agreed, and as we made our way toward the Edgartown Lighthouse, the sun glistened off the water, its light dancing on the waves. A foghorn sounded in the harbor and the taste of salt grew stronger on my palate.

The colonial-style homes, sitting almost flush with the quaint street, flew American flags in the stiff Atlantic winds. Most were covered in white cedar shingles stained driftwood gray, trimmed in white and offset with a red front door. Though the lawns were no larger than a postage stamp, some had anchors in the front yard; others had sheds decorated with colorful buoys and fishing nets in the back. The white Adirondack chairs reminded me of home.

We finally reached land's end where the Harbor View Hotel overlooked the lighthouse. While Bella chose to wait on the sidewalk and take in the harbor, I stepped onto the massive wraparound porch and told her, “I'm going to check out the place.”

Built in 1891, the hotel was credited with beginning Edgartown's climb to fame as a summer resort. Built on a generous scale, the advertisements boasted, the hotel offered comfortable bedrooms, gaslights in every room and large public parlors. Guests, however, were lured most by the gorgeous panoramic views promised from its front porch.

Today, the hotel's sprawling veranda was lined with rocking chairs, inviting guests to take in the sweeping views of the sea and yachts of Edgartown Harbor. I took a seat and then a deep breath.

“Don…look,” someone called out in a strained whisper.

I glanced up to see Bella waving me over. I walked the length of the porch and when I reached its end, I spotted a young couple exchanging vows before a hundred family and friends beneath the hotel's gazebo. I'd crashed a wedding and didn't even know it. As I sneaked off the porch, I had an idea – as well as most of the details figured out by the time the evening ferry docked back at the mainland.

“What's that smile about?” Bella asked, as we searched for our car in the giant, dirt parking lot. “You've been wearing it all afternoon.”

“Nothing,” I said, giving her a kiss. “It's just that…I really love you.”

Chapter 5

“So the pain levels are the same, but the fatigue is getting worse?” Dr. Rice asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I get so exhausted from the smallest things sometimes.”

“Well, as the cancer progresses, the fatigue will get worse. The trick is to save your energy for when you really need it…like dipping into your savings for a rainy day.” She smiled and raised one eyebrow. “How has your diet been?”

“Much better,” I said, with a grin. “I'm eating my veggies and my grains…and
some
junk food.”

She nodded. “That's fine, but all things in moderation, right?”

“I know.”

“The old saying ‘garbage in, garbage out' is still true.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Although spring was upon us, my poor lawn, which I'd slaved over for years to get just right, was abandoned. The smell of fresh-cut grass, the pride of reaching perfection – it no longer meant as much as it once did. Even my weekly car waxing had come to an end. Instead, if I could have, I would have taken every class available to man. As my appetite for food decreased, my hunger for knowledge became voracious. But there was so little time left. In my sudden quest to learn as much as I could, I picked up a
South Coast Learning Network
catalog.

According to SCLN's diverse catalog, all courses were short-term and non-credit, held in local libraries, workplaces, churches, museums, schools, public buildings and even private homes. Instructors were experts in their fields; artists, business people, cooks, computer specialists, craftsmen, health experts, historians, scientists, woodworkers and writers. “Real learning for real life,” they called it. “Besides being fun, every new learning experience improves the quality of life, while helping you to succeed in a world of constant change.”

From Food & Wine and Home & Garden to Liberal Arts and Nature & Science, there was something to spark the interest of those who had not stopped learning – the curious, the adventurous; people who were still looking to stretch their personal horizons – me. Yoga and meditation; American Sign Language; Acting 101; it was an inexpensive invitation to become a more cultured and well-rounded human being; to become a true Renaissance person. Like a fat man reading through a Chinese menu, I flipped through its pages.

There were classes on painting, pottery and photography. One could learn Tai Chi and how to invest money one term, and then take classes on stained glass and scrapbooking the next. There were belly dancing lessons, or beginner guitar. Languages such as Japanese, Spanish and Scottish Gaelic were offered, as were courses on fencing, kickboxing and chess. For the aspiring writers, SCLN hosted several classes from creative writing to a popular workshop on how to get published.

There'd be no scrolled diploma, or cap and gown received at the end of the class. Instead, I'd get a fresh perspective and some valuable knowledge to carry with me for the rest of my days. I circled the one that interested me most.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Though I believe it was only one of two things she'd always wished for and never received from me, I'd never cooked dinner for Bella. So, as the first half of my ingenious plan, it was time to do just that. And if I was going to successfully turn my grand idea into action, I needed a diversion.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After coming to the United States from Portugal, Master Chef Antone Carvalho worked in New York as a chef and magazine food editor. He apprenticed at several New York institutions, including the Waldorf Astoria, before being appointed Executive Chef at Bittersweet Farm in Westport, Massachusetts. Teaching was a lifelong dream that became a reality in 1999 when he joined forces with SCLN.

For four hundred dollars, his class looked great. I had a few questions, though, so I called him. “I'd like to learn how to cook dinner for my wife…for the first time in thirty years,” I told him, “and I have some specific dishes in mind.”

“And what are those?”

I read from the paper in front of me. “For the hors d'ouvres, I'd like to serve coconut crusted shrimp with a soy dipping sauce. We'd start with a traditional minestrone soup and tomato & mozzarella salad with an olive oil drizzle.” I waited for a reaction. He was still listening. “Just in case, I'd like to serve two entrees; chicken stuffed with spinach and feta cheese, as well as tenderloin of beef in herb garlic butter. For dessert…chocolate cake.”

“Plain old chocolate cake, huh?”

“Yup. That's what she loves. How much will it cost me to learn all this?”

“I'm impressed,” he said. “You've done your homework.” He paused. “Let's just say it'll cost you more time than money,” he finally answered, clearly moved by my gesture.

“How much time?” I asked, brutally aware that I had much less time than money.

“I can teach you what you need to know in three weeks, two nights a week, two hours each night.”

I was thrilled. “When do we begin?”

“Tomorrow night, six o'clock sharp.”

“Perfect! I'll see you then.”

I hung up the phone and called Riley. “I'm planning to take a culinary class and cook dinner for your mother, but…”

“Oh, Daddy…”

“Yeah, I know. It's long overdue. Anyway, I need your help to throw her off. When she asks, tell her that I told you I'm taking some writing class for a few weeks.”

“I will,” Riley promised.

“That's my girl.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I had no choice. Though I didn't like it, I had to fib to Bella. “I'd like to be able to capture a few of my stories on paper, so I'm taking a class.”

The next time they spoke, Riley corroborated the story. The heat was off for a while.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

By the second week of fumbling around in Chef Carvalho's kitchen, he pulled me aside and reluctantly told me, “Some people have a knack for cooking and some people… well…some people don't.”

“And I'd be in the second group, right?”

With a gentle grin, he nodded.

“Be honest…do I have any chance of pulling off this dinner for my wife?”

“Sure, if you can smuggle me into your house and hide me in your kitchen for a few hours,” he joked.

I laughed. “Although that sounds tempting,” I told him, “I need to do this one by myself.”

“Then follow each recipe to the letter and take your time!” he said, stressing the last few words with the same effort that a father instructs his six-year old son.

I didn't take offense, though. I completely understood where he was coming from. “I will,” I promised, thinking,
I wonder if he makes emergency house calls.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was a Friday morning when I sent Bella shopping. She knew something was up, but humored me and didn't ask. No sooner had she pulled out of the driveway than I began cleaning the house, top to bottom. I spent hours cleaning. Once I finished, I dragged myself to the market for all the ingredients I needed to make dinner. Two pain pills later, I started cooking. Each tiring step was a lesson in appreciation for all that my wife had done for me through the years. I tried to follow Chef Carvalho's instructions and take my time, but my nerves were driving me and I knew it. A few times, I looked at the telephone and considered calling him. Pride stopped me.

Severe fatigue had me by the throat and was choking the life out of me. But if there was ever a rainy day to spend my energy on, it was today. Bella deserved at least that much.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As quickly as it had started, it was over. “Oh, my God!” she gasped. Through her look of astonishment, I served dinner and even threw on an old Sinatra album for us to dance afterward.

If it weren't for healthy, active taste buds, the meal would have been delicious. Bella tried her best to conceal it, but by her second bite, her face contorted. The dinner was nearly inedible. By my third bite, I threw my fork into the plate and shook my frustrated head. Bella smiled at me from across the table – and kept smiling. Eventually, I joined her until we both began to laugh. “I'm so sorry,” I said, thinking,
I should have called Chef Carvalho.

“Don't you dare apologize,” she said, her face growing serious. “This is the sweetest thing you've ever done for me.” Her smile returned. “The thought means everything.”

It took a moment before I surrendered to her wisdom.
I guess she's right
, I pondered.
Results mean so much less than effort.
I stood to clear the plates. “So what'll you have on your pizza?” I asked.

“Mushrooms and onions, please,” she answered with a beaming smile.

I nodded and, as I walked past her to grab the telephone, she grabbed my arm and pulled me to her.

“I love you so much,” she whispered into my ear. “And I loved your surprise. Thank you!”

I hid my smile in her shoulder. The first part of my plan was complete; my wife's curiosity to uncover my secret had been quenched. I now had a decent shot at surprising her for the first time in my life. I struggled not to giggle.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

From the moment I'd met Bella, I loved her and she knew it. But life – work, a child, bills, and a thousand responsibilities – all jockeyed for priority and fought for our attention. We did all we could to keep the romance alive, but both of us wished there were more.

I decided that she'd waited long enough to be properly courted. It was time to guarantee the rest of our precious days together by returning to where it all began. For me, the joy was all in the planning. While Madison and Pudge helped me by pretending to be working on the puzzle, I schemed and planned and had the time of my life.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I secretly met with Vic at Sagres Restaurant on a random Monday night, exactly one week before the big night was to take place. Sagres sat on the very location where Bella and I had our first date; the same spot I'd proposed to her thirty-one years before.

“The most important thing is that the timing be right on,” I told Vic.

My friend winked. “I'll make sure the entire night goes off like clockwork.”

On Tuesday morning, I called nearly a dozen acoustic guitarists before I found one who would also sing. “To play for three hours?” the musician confirmed.

“Or until she runs out the door, crying.”

The man laughed and promised he'd be there, awaiting our arrival.

That afternoon, Riley and I stepped into a jewelry store on Washington Street in Boston. “What exactly are we looking for?” the stuffy clerk asked.

“A diamond engagement ring,” I answered. “Princess cut…something around a carat.”

With a wave of the hand, we were escorted into a locked room where the clerk poured out a velvet satchel of glittering rocks and then began a brief class on the four C's of the diamond world – cut, color, clarity and carat. By the third diamond he touched, I'd discovered the one. “She'll love it!” I said and handed him my credit card.

On Wednesday, I contacted Bella's favorite flower shop and ordered a dozen long stem red roses with baby's breath and greens, boxed and scheduled for delivery to Vic at Sagres for Monday afternoon.

Thursday had me on the phone again, confirming a white stretch limo for Monday night, as well as ordering a half dozen of Bella's favorite chocolate covered strawberries from a gourmet sweet shop. “At three bucks a pop,” I told Riley, “she'd better love them.”

The entire day Friday was spent finishing up the poem,
Moments of Destiny
, which had taken me weeks to craft. It had to be just right.

But the toughest days of all proved to be Saturday and Sunday. I thought I was going to burst. Instead, I reserved my fleeting energy and acted like nothing was going on. I spent my time eating wholesome foods, getting plenty of rest and taking a walk each evening.

On Monday afternoon, I rushed to Sagres Restaurant with a half dozen chocolate-covered strawberries and a scrolled sheet of tan parchment tied in red ribbon. “The flowers should be here in an hour or so,” I told Vic, “and the guitarist says he'll be here by six o'clock.”

With a promise of success and a pat on the back, Vic sent me on my way. “It's going to be unforgettable.”

At the car, I flipped open my cell phone and dialed Bella.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Hi, it's me. Just make sure you're ready for seven, okay?”

“Okay,” she promised. “Is there something going on?”

“Yeah. I'm already starving.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Though there were empty tables up front, Vic escorted Bella and me to a darkened back room where no one else was seated. The table sat in the center of the room and was very nicely decorated. I could tell by Bella's face that it seemed peculiar to her. As we took our seats, Vic lit a candle. “I'll be right back,” he said.

Bella started to question it, but I shrugged it off. “There must have been reservations for the other tables up front?” I suggested.

She nodded, and then noticed a man seated on a stool a few tables over. He was holding a guitar and squinting at some sheet music.

He looked over and smiled. “I hope you guys don't mind, but I'm trying out tonight for a weekend gig at this place.”

“Oh, that's great,” Bella said, with no idea Gary had already landed the job.

“Not a problem,” I added, acting as though I'd never spoken to the man. And through an acoustic set of love ballads, Gary was just as convincing.

Bella had no idea but the order had already been carefully spelled out – drinks first, Pinot Grigio for her, beer for me, and the itinerary would begin. Vic approached with both drinks on a small round tray. “Appetizers tonight?” he asked.

I smiled. “Why don't we start with an order of little necks in garlic and oil?”

BOOK: Twelve Months
13.68Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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