15 Tales of Love (15 page)

Callie thought Mitch was going to say something else, but he turned away, leaving her disappointed.
This might turn into a real conversation.
“Maybe you should say something to Mr. Brant? Suggest he speak to Kevin?”

Mitch turned back. “I did.”

Callie met his eyes for a moment, a long, lingering, unsettling look she didn’t try to decipher, and turned to look at the pile of broken skids again. “It does look awful, even if it isn’t a safety hazard.”

“It will be a hazard if the pile gets any bigger.”

She decided she wanted to continue the conversation, even if it was immaterial, to give her time to think about that expression in Mitch’s eyes.
Is he interested in me? He’s never said anything.

“How come there are so many broken skids? I didn’t think we had that problem before.”

“We didn’t, and these aren’t all ours. The drivers brought them back from somewhere. Mr. Brant’s idea, I guess, to save money by repairing these instead of buying new ones.”

“That isn’t a bad idea.”

“Not if you actually repair them.”

She heard disgust in his voice and said, “It wouldn’t take much to do it. I could probably do it myself.”

He glanced sideways at her, his eyebrows raised. “Really? That’s not a woman’s job.”

“Sometimes we have to do things that aren’t. If there’s no one else around to do it.”

He didn’t comment and she turned toward him again. He was regarding her steadily, his hand on his chin as if contemplating what she had said and was bemused by it.

“We aren’t totally helpless, you know.”

“I guess not. I never thought about it.” He gestured with his mug toward the pile of broken pallets. “But that’s not our problem, until Mr. Brant says it is.”

She wondered if that was a hint that she wasn’t to come out here and tackle the job, something she had no intention of doing. But before she had devised another observation, Mitch had again turned away. The pregnant moment had passed and she went back to work pondering it. Was Mitch actually interested in her? He had never given her any hint that he was.
And I’m certainly not interested in him.

But there had been that look in his eyes, a searching, questioning kind of gaze and what did that mean?

Taking her Friday morning break, Callie flipped through an old celebrity gossip magazine, looking at the pictures of screen starlets in their expensive, but frequently ugly, gowns. She sipped at her Diet Coke and recalled a white crepe dress trimmed with a thin line of glittering gold sequins around the revealing neckline and along the slit elbow-length sleeves: the newest display in the window of the pricey boutique she wished she could frequent. The dress was not quite form fitting, but draped seductively to just below knee length. It was the style that best suited her slightly plump, short-waisted figure, and disguised what she considered more hips than she wanted. Suddenly feeling someone beside her, she looked up self-consciously at her employer. She had not heard him enter and it wasn’t his usual time for coming into the office.

She said, “Hi, Mr. Brant,” trying not to sound nervous.

He smiled benignly, as he usually did. He was a good boss, she thought, well built for a man in his late fifties, only graying a little, friendly and not very demanding as long as she completed her assignments properly and on time.

“You look lost in thought, Callie. That old magazine can’t be that interesting.”

Momentarily flustered, she laughed and shook her head. “No. I was just looking at the dresses and wondering what I would wear if I go the Spring Gala. I saw a dress at the mall I like.”
Now why did I say that? I’m sure he doesn’t care what I wear.

“You’ll look great in whatever you choose.” He glanced toward the pile of papers on her desk. “Who’s the lucky man?”

“No date yet,” she said, trying to keep her voice light.

“Plenty of time. Do you have this morning’s totals?”

“Right here.” She reached for the calculator tape. “A lot of checks this morning.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

When she looked up again, she saw Mitch standing behind Mr. Brant watching her.
Has he been there all along? Did he hear what I said about the dress and the Gala and no escort? Do I care?

Mr. Brant took the tape, glanced at it, and turned away. He said, “Mitch, about that supplier, it was just a rumor, thank goodness. And about those broken skids . . .”

She watched them leave, relieved that they were gone and that Mitch’s fears had been groundless. She set her Coke down and went back to work. The Gala was still two weeks away.

On Tuesday morning she found a letter for Mitch in her stack of mail, addressed to him as “produce manager.” It looked like some kind of form letter and she decided it wasn’t urgent.
He must have not noticed it, or maybe he never looked at the mail.

She set the letter aside, planning to give it to him when he came back to the office, but today was one of the occasional days when he didn’t. At break time, she picked up the letter and went out into the warehouse looking for him. He wasn’t in his office, so she left the letter on his overly-tidy desk. Drawn by the sound of hammering, she continued on to the loading dock. Kevin was banging on one of the broken skids with a large hammer. Pieces of broken wood were scattered across the dock.

She asked, “Kevin, have you seen Mitch?”

He looked up at her and she saw his smoldering anger. He was a big blond man, probably near forty, almost six feet tall and pudgy around the middle.

She stepped away, not wanting to linger where he was.

“He went that way.” Kevin gestured with his hammer toward the warehouse. He went back to his pounding, half-heartedly attempting to remove broken cross pieces from the skid.

Callie saw at once that he was going at the job backwards, making it more difficult for himself. “Kevin, if you’d work from the other side of the skid it would be . . .”

He exploded, jumping to his feet and brandishing the hammer in her direction. “Don’t you tell me what to do,” he yelled. “Go back to your office and leave me alone. I don’t want to fix these damn broken skids. Arthur should just go buy new ones. He can afford it.”

Startled, Callie stepped backward, closer to the edge of the loading dock, keeping her eye on him. “Kevin . . .”

He came toward her, still waving the hammer. Suddenly frightened, she called, “Mitch!” and retreated another few steps.

“And don’t you yell for him, neither!”

The insane wildness in his eyes was terrifying, freezing her limbs, but she couldn’t retreat any farther—she was almost to the loose rail at the edge of the dock. She glanced around for a means of escape, but didn’t see one. Kevin was between her and the door into the warehouse.

Kevin advanced toward her menacingly, his eyes wide and boring into her. The hammer was gripped tightly in his hand but he was no longer waving it at her. His foot landed on a piece of broken skid and he tripped. He floundered, his arms flailing, and fell, his back against the railing. It didn’t break, just came loose at one end and left him dangling over the six-foot drop to the cement below, with his feet still on the edge of the dock. He dropped the hammer and screamed.

Callie caught hold of his arm, but she couldn’t pull him back onto the platform; he was dead weight and too heavy. The best she could do was steady him and keep him from falling.
As long as the railing doesn’t break off! Why didn’t somebody fix it?

She said desperately, “I can’t pull you back, Kevin, hang on,” and yelled again, “Mitch!”

Kevin was babbling incoherently, his fear overpowering him, totally unnerving him, and he paid no attention to Callie’s efforts at calming him. Nor did he make an effort to help her get him back onto the dock.

Her arms ached, her muscles growing leaden, and sharp pains were shooting through her shoulders. She was near panic and losing her grip on Kevin’s arm before she heard footsteps behind her.

Mitch’s hand closed around Kevin’s arm and yanked him back onto the dock. Kevin collapsed into an untidy heap, breathing heavily, sobbing his relief.

Mitch ignored him. His other arm was around Callie, steadying her, pulling her back from the edge of the dock and the loose railing. She collapsed against him and released a long shuddering breath. His arm tightened around her, holding her close.

Mitch asked, his voice strained, “Are you all right? What happened? Did Kevin . . .”

Callie looked up and met his eyes, saw his concern, perhaps some fear, and that something else she hadn’t identified. Disconcerted, she protested, “I’m fine. Now. Just let me stop shaking. I don’t know what possessed Kevin to . . .”

Mitch said flatly, “He didn’t like the job.” He didn’t remove his arm from around her shoulders. “You weren’t trying to do it, were you?”

“No, of course not. I was looking for you. You got a letter . . .” She heard other people, urgent voices and steps hurrying toward them. She tried to move away from Mitch, but he didn’t loosen his hold.

“You saved him from a nasty fall. I hope he appreciates it.” He was still looking into her eyes and she felt herself melting into them, a totally new sensation engulfing her. “That was quick-thinking, facing a big unpredictable guy like that. Who knows what he would have done?”

“I don’t want anyone to get hurt, not even Kevin.” She thought that sounded inane. Mitch’s arm was much too comforting, steadying her.

He moved suddenly, slid both arms around her and wrapped her in a tight hug against his chest, his face against her hair. “But you could have fallen . . .”

“But nothing happened . . .” His arms were warm, strong, holding back the thought of what might have happened. “I’m all right now, Mitch. Thanks.”

Mitch stepped back a little, loosening his hold as Mr. Brant came onto the dock followed by two other workmen, but his encompassing arm kept Callie close beside him. She could hear Mr. Brant’s angry voice, railing at Kevin, telling him to get up, but she tried to ignore it. Mitch’s arm around her shoulders was distracting, making it hard to think.

Mitch asked, “Are you all right now?”

“I think so.” She turned her head enough to see her employer, to watch Kevin being hustled back into the warehouse by the other two men, and was engulfed by a wave of relief. She would probably, thankfully, never see him again. But, she realized, Mitch’s arm was still around her, holding her gently but firmly, and she raised her eyes to meet his.

“I’ll get tickets to the Gala,” he said in her ear, “if you’ll go with me.” He added, “I wanted to ask you before, but I thought . . . anyone as pretty as you are must have lots of other guys . . . and you ignore me most days, barely talk to me. I didn’t know I could, or should . . .”

Still confused and disoriented, a little lost, Callie said, “What?”

His fingers tightened on her arm for a moment. He repeated, “To the Gala. You said you wanted to go.”

She heard his desperation, his need, and said, “Oh,” and then realized what he had said, an invitation to the dance. “Yes, of course, I’ll go with you.”
He did come to my rescue. How could I say no? And he isn’t a bad sort, nice looking, and maybe there’s more to him than I’ve seen. I guess I never really asked. But he never said . . .

Mitch smiled at her, “And I don’t care what dress you wear. You’ll look great in any of them.”

Callie said, “Oh,” again, but she was thinking
, maybe that white dress is still there or maybe that lavender one. I wonder what kind of dancer Mitch is . . .

Not that it mattered. She would go the Gala, and who knew what might come of that.

THE PALM TREE

The odd-looking tree was about four feet tall, including its garish green and orange Southwestern-style pottery planter. It was on the ground beside the Good Stuff Swap Table at the town recycling center on a below freezing April morning and the tips of its arching and sweeping leaves were beginning to shrivel.

Lucinda Allwarden saw it when she stopped by the table to leave a collection of ceramic flower pots. She had never seen anything quite like it and decided it must be some kind of palm tree. It was about the last thing that Lucinda wanted. She was trying to thin out the collection of house plants she already had but she knew at once that she couldn’t leave it there. Even an ugly tree should be disposed of properly, and not simply thrown away to freeze to death at a recycling center. She found one of the young men attendants to put it in the back seat of her car.

She asked, “Has it been here very long? It looks cold.”

“An old guy left here about half an hour ago,” the man told her, laughing at the memory. “He said his wife hated it and told him to get rid of it. He said he liked it, had it for years in his office and looked kind of sad when he left it.”

Lucinda sighed. “I can’t leave it here to freeze to death. That wouldn’t be right. Throwing away good plants is one step below throwing away kittens.”

The young man laughed again. “I don’t think we’ve ever gotten any kittens.” He turned away after closing the car door, bending the tree a little to make it fit. “Hope you save it. We don’t get plants here very often and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a palm tree. I guess it’s a palm tree.”

Lucinda said she thought so, too, and finished putting her bags of trash and newspapers into their respective bins and left the center with one of the tree’s long flowing leaves–it didn’t really have branches–brushing across the back of her neck.

Back at home, she found the potted tree to be almost more than she could manage, but decided she had no choice but to struggle with it. Asking a neighbor to come over for such a minor chore seemed ridiculous
. Not that Ted wouldn’t help, but I don’t want to ask. Even at my age I can still manage a few things by myself. Sometimes Ted seemed to want to be more helpful, and she wasn’t ready for that.

Savoring her small show of independence, she heaved the pot onto a table on the winterized front porch and took a closer look at it. It was not particularly attractive and she had no idea what sort of palm it was, if it actually was a palm, but it was obviously something tropical. The stem, which had the lapped-scale bark of a palm tree, was over an inch in diameter and grew from the side of what looked like a big bulb, about half the size of a basketball, which bulged from the soil. There had once been other stems since there were several short nubs on the bulbous growth, including a large one in the center, as if the tree had been cut down but had refused to die. The tips of the thin shiny leaves were shriveled and the whole plant looked sad.

The remaining stem appeared healthy, curving upward from the ball and spilling its bright green foliage over the side of the pot. A tight bundle of long thin leaves grew from the top of the stem, rising up fountain-like several inches and then bending in graceful sweeping curves almost to the floor. The new leaves were a brighter, paler green than the older ones beneath, about three feet above the bulb. Apparently as the tree grew and the lower leaves died, the trunk acquired another ring of tannish scales, resembling the usual trunk of a palm tree.

“You poor thing,” Lucinda said, examining the soil which she found hard and dry. “Nobody has been taking care of you. Well, first some water.” She frequently talked to her many plants; there was no one else to talk to except Shadow, her old gray cat.

She left the palm tree on the porch, thinking it might be best to warm the plant up slowly. She watered it well and went on with her usual Saturday chores.

She kept an eye on the tree over the next several days, saw the leaves begin to brighten and stiffen a little, and that it was looking a little more robust, the topmost leaves standing taller. She noticed a few new leaves poking up in the middle of the fountain topknot. “I guess you’re going to make it,” she said companionably, examining and wondering at the dried stubs of the severed limbs. “You seem to have survived a lot in the past, but now what do I do with you?”

The weather was warming, deceptively as it does in New Hampshire, but she moved the tree to a corner table where there was better light and decided to leave it there. In a few weeks her son-in-law would remove the plastic sheets covering the outside of the screens, and in the meantime the porch was quite warm with no danger of freezing, even if the temperature did occasionally dip below thirty. Once the plastic had been removed, the tree would essentially be outside, and she wouldn’t have to think about moving it again until fall when all of her porch plants moved inside.

She asked it, “And then what do I do with you? I’ve never had a tree before. Where will I put you? And what should I do about that awful pot somebody put you in? It doesn’t suit you at all. Maybe you came from the Southwest where they make such things.”

But repotting such a large plant was more than she should tackle by herself, so she left it.

Lucinda had never given her plants names as a couple of her contemporaries did, so she thought of it simply as The Palm Tree. But she was intrigued and spent some time on the Internet, looking at dozens of pictures of tropical plants, and finally decided that hers was a ponytail palm, a medium sized tree that could live for decades if properly taken care of. It was not a true palm tree, but a variety of
Beaucamea,
and a native of eastern Mexico.
To me, it’s a palm tree. Maybe those people just had it too long. The man at the center said it was an old guy. Maybe they were moving and couldn’t take it along. His wife didn’t like it, and I’m not surprised that she didn’t, particularly that awful fake Hopi pot. I’ll have to do something about that.

Lucinda’s daughter Glenna said it was ugly. “I don’t blame the woman for wanting to get rid of it. What on earth are you planning to do with it?”

“Right now, keep it on the porch.” She regarded the ungainly tree. “I think it’s interesting. I’d never heard of a ponytail palm.”

Glenna humphed. “I’d take it back, or throw it out on the compost pile.”

Lucinda frequently found her daughter’s voice grating and her attitude difficult to deal with. She said, “I don’t know yet. It’s something different. I can always get rid of it later.”

Glenna sniffed. Glenna frequently sniffed. “I wouldn’t have it in my house.”

There are lots of things you wouldn’t have in your house
. Lucinda said, “Shadow likes to play with the trailing leaves.”

“Humph.”

Glenna’s husband Erwin said he’d be back in a week to take the plastic off the screens. “It’s May and getting warm enough.”

Lucinda truly liked her son-in-law and was careful not to ask too much of him, partly out of the dislike of offending her daughter. Glenna was easily offended. Lucinda’s late husband, Carl, and Erwin had gotten along very well, had done a lot of work companionably together, and Lucinda wanted to keep that warm feeling. She said, “Whenever it’s convenient for you. It’s early yet.”

“I can get started on the raking, too, and maybe clean out the garage. Make a day of it.”

Lucinda could sense Glenna sniffing again. “I’ll do whatever I can,” Lucinda said. “I need the exercise.”

“Just don’t overdo it.”

She smiled. “I won’t, and thank you.”

Having an exotic palm tree on her porch turned out to be a novelty and Lucinda enjoyed the comments from friends, from the raised-eyebrow incredulous as to why she would have it to the slightly envious of those with no room for one. It was outside of her, and their, experience, and gave her something new to think about, when she had little else to interest her. As the trailing leaves straightened and the color brightened, she admired it, applauded its return to health, and found some recommended food for it. She used scissors to trim the ends of the long leaves so that they wouldn’t brush on the floor
,
but they trailed well below the small table the pot was sitting on.

I wonder how it does in the wild. Do those long leaves just lie on the ground and tangle?
She checked on the Internet again and found ponytails frequently grow to over ten feet tall and, since it grew in semi-arid places, the bulb was used for storing water
. Do I have that to look forward to, a real tree? What can I do then? But trees don’t grow very fast. Do they?

Shadow found the dangling leaves endlessly fascinating. He lay on the floor behind them, batting at them as they moved in the breeze whenever the door was opened.

When Lucinda’s elderly neighbor, Ted Carson, first saw the tree he said he thought it was interesting, and appreciated the story of its abandonment and rescue. “It’s so like you,” he said. “Charming in an exotic sort of way.”

Sometimes Lucinda found Ted charming in an old-fashioned gentlemanly way, and sometimes annoying. He was a little older than she was, mid-seventies probably–she had never asked–and he had recently moved in next door with his son Jim and his wife Dolly. Jim had decided his widowed father should no longer live alone and arranged a suite of rooms over the garage: not an actual apartment since it had no kitchen, but it was private with its own entrance.

Lucinda usually considered Ted a medium sort of man, not too tall, not yet pudgy, beginning to gray around the temples, and he had expressive, laughing dark eyes. He had once been an athletic sort and obviously missed the activity. She didn’t know what was keeping him from it since he appeared to be healthy, but she didn’t ask.

Occasionally Lucinda thought Ted had his mind on some kind of relationship. He had never said so, never asked her out. It was something she sensed. She was not interested in that sort of thing, however casual, although Carl had been gone for almost five years. She did make attempts to be friendly, occasionally asked Ted in for coffee and cookies, but perhaps that was a mistake.

She said, “I’ve never considered myself exotic.”
But it is an interesting idea. Certainly different.

He laughed gently. “All women are, one way or another, intriguing and a little mysterious.”

She had to smile at that, acknowledging to herself that his manners were nice, courtly, and old-fashioned, so different from today’s young people. She said matter-of-factly, “Glenna doesn’t like it. She thinks it’s ugly.”

He tilted his head a little and regarded the tree thoughtfully. “Then it wouldn’t like Glenna, either. Plants have preferences, you know, my wife always said.” He glanced at her, his eyes twinkling. “And you saved its life. It would know that and remember.”

She doubted that, but it was a charming idea. Maybe Ted was a little too charming and was wearing her down.

Ted walked over one morning while she was raking the mulch out of a flower bed beside her front walkway and offered to help. She said no, she needed to know what bulbs were coming up and to be careful of the tips. “The daffodils are budded. Besides, I like to get my hands dirty. That’s one reason I garden.”

However, he shoveled the collected debris into her cart and took it to the compost pile, saying that he needed a little exercise and Dolly didn’t have much for him to do. She knew that her neighbors both worked and Ted was pretty much on his own. With Ted’s help, Lucinda was able to clean out the whole length of both sides of the walkway. Grateful for the assistance, but not wanting to encourage him too much, she invited him in for coffee.

He stopped on the porch to look at the palm tree and commented on its improved appearance. He shook his head, again marveling at it. “How could anyone throw away such an interesting tree?”

“That’s what I thought,” Lucinda said, laughing at his mock horror
. Or was it really mock?
“Now I guess I’m stuck with it.”

He said softly, still studying the palm, “Not stuck with it, graced by its presence.”

While the coffee brewed, she got out the cups, milk, and sugar, and found some cookies. She asked, mostly for simple conversation, “Are you familiar with tropical plants, Ted?”

“Only in passing. My wife Dorcas had a few orchids. She mostly liked the foliage things, said they were easier to care for.”

“Boston ferns?”

“Several of them.”

Sensing that speaking of his late wife made him sad, she said, “I’ve been given an orchid or two, but they didn’t do well for me.”

He smiled. “You probably overwatered them. Dorcas always said that was the usual problem with raising orchids. Or maybe it was the light. They don’t like direct sun.”

She poured the coffee, considering that. He was probably right. “I’ll have to check into raising palm trees.”

“It would make a nice display in a corner somewhere. Maybe where the light is good. You could put the palm tree there and a couple of orchids. The flamboyant kind with lots of bright flowers.”

“That is a thought, but I don’t have a good place. I’d have to rearrange everything.”

He didn’t comment.

A few days later on a Saturday morning, Lucinda was standing on the porch looking out at bright sunshine and watching Erwin working on the plastic removal. She saw Ted walking toward them across the lawn. He stopped to talk to Erwin and apparently offered a helping hand.