Blue Heart Blessed (18 page)

T
he door to Rosalina’s and Mario’s apartment is always open on Sunday afternoons. It is the easiest way to remind The Finland’s tenants that there is always an open invitation to have Sunday dinner with the Gallardos. Tantalizing fragrances waft up and down the staircases on Sundays, beginning around three o’clock, with hints of coriander and turmeric and garlic. No one is likely to forget who is making dinner.

Today, Rosalina is fixing
llapingachos rellenos
—stuffed potato patties. I only know this because on my way out the door to church services this morning she asked me pick up some shallots for her at the grocery store. She told me to tell everyone her
llapingachos rellenos
aren’t overly spicy unless you drown them in
tamarillo
sauce, which is precisely what Mario does. This was especially for Mom and L’Raine’s sake, who both tend to shy away from anything with a kick. They’re coming. Solomon is actually thinking about it. Wendy and Philip will be there. Max will be off wooing Bettina.

It’s been relegated to me to explain Sunday afternoons to Ramsey. I don’t see why he needs a special invitation. Liam knows about them. So does Father Laurent. But Rosalina thinks Ramsey Laurent is too polite to just show up without having been properly invited.

So now, at five o’clock, I am heading for the stairs to the third floor.

At the landing, the first door on my right opens and Solomon pokes his head out.

“Daisy! Just the person I was coming down to find!”

“Are you coming, then?”

“Coming where?”

“To Mario’s and Rosalina’s, of course.”

“I can’t. I have to play at St. Patrick’s tonight. Someone backed out at the last minute. Come play this for me.”

He thrusts a sheaf of music at me.

Brahms’
How Lovely is Thy Dwelling Place
from
The Requiem
. Only three flats. But ten pages at least. And countless accidentals dotting every one of them. I shall fairly obliterate it the minute my fingers hit the keys.

“Solomon, you know how I play. You know how I handle the classics. You should play show tunes. Then perhaps I’d actually be able to help you.”

“I only need to go through it once.”

“I’m sure that’s about all you’d be able to stand.”

“C’mon. This one’s not that hard. I haven’t played it in awhile. I’m rusty.”

It always amuses me when inordinately talented people find fault with themselves. I don’t know that I’ve ever heard Solomon play a wrong note. I hand the music back to him.

“All right. I’ll be right back. I have to go invite all the Laurents to dinner at the Gallardos’. But I’m warning you, Solomon, it won’t be pretty.”

“Okay. But don’t dawdle. I have to be there in an hour.”

He slips back into his apartment as I walk across the hall to Reuben’s usually empty apartment.

Don’t dawdle, indeed.

I knock on the door and wait. No answer. Ramsey and Liam are either gone or next-door at Father Laurent’s. I turn and walk the few steps to Father’s front door and knock. A moment later, Liam opens it.

“Hey, Liam.”

“Hi.”

“Just wanted to let you guys know dinner is at Mario and Rosalina’s at six if you want to come.”

Before Liam can say anything, I hear Father Laurent calling my name from within the apartment.

“Daisy, come on in.”

Liam steps aside and holds the door open for me. I take a couple of tentative steps inside. Father Laurent is seated in one of his comfy leather chairs. His feet are up and a cup of something steaming is in his hands. Ramsey is on the sofa across from him with the Sunday paper strewn about the cushions. He’s sipping something hot, too.

“Hey, Father Laurent.” I step fully in.

“Want to join us for a cup of tea?” Father Laurent’s voice is as kind as ever. Ramsey appears void of thought.

“I’m sorry, I can’t. I told Solomon I’d help him with something.”

“Oh.”

“But you’re looking like your old self, Father. That’s so nice to see.”

“Well, it’s wonderful to be home.” His voice lingers on the last word like he’s trying to communicate to me that he’s grateful for my part in getting him home.

“I just wanted to remind you that it’s Sunday and Rosalina’s cooking dinner for the building.” I turn toward Ramsey. “There’s a standing invitation on Sundays, for everyone in the building, to join the Gallardos on the second floor for supper at six. Rosalina’s from Ecuador. She’s a really good cook.”

“She is indeed,” Father Laurent chimes in. “I’m not quite up for it, but Ramsey, you and Liam should go.”

“I don’t want you fending for yourself for dinner, Dad.” Ramsey sits up in the sofa when he says this and places his cup on the coffee table. Like he needs his hands free.

“I’ll be fine. I can open a can of soup.”

Ramsey shakes his head and starts to open his mouth but I jump in. “I can stay with him. You and Liam can go.”

“Can we, Dad? Can we go?” Liam clearly has been bored this afternoon. “Will Max be there?”

He sounds so hopeful, but I tell him that Max has other plans. “He usually does come, though.”

Liam looks downcast for a second. “Can we still go?”

“I don’t know…
” Ramsey says.

“I don’t mind staying,” I try again.

“No one needs to stay.” Father Laurent sounds insistent. “I’ll be perfectly fine. Really.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Ramsey sits back into the cushions.

“Why not?” I ask and I can feel Harriet within me falling off her inner chair. She hates it when I’m impertinent.

Ramsey is taken aback, I think, by my asking. And the way I asked. It was kind of snippy.

“Because my father just had a heart attack.” His words are edged with equal snippiness.

“But I said I would stay with him.”

“Thanks just the same.”

He has that here-I-stand-and-I-will-do-no-other look in his eye.

“Well, can I go?” Liam says.

“Of course you can,” Father Laurent answers before Ramsey can say anything. “Are you sure you can’t stay for a cup of tea, Daisy?”

I turn my head back to face Father Laurent. “No, I really did promise Solomon I’d help him out. Thanks anyway. I’ll come and see you tomorrow, though.” I take a step toward Father Laurent and place a kiss on his forehead. Out of the corner of my eye I see Ramsey staring at me. Kind of wide-eyed. Perturbed.

Well, well, well. I do believe he’s jealous I have such a great relationship with his dad.

“Good night, Father.” I start to head out of the apartment practically shaking my head at the notion that Ramsey is envious of my relationship with his father. Like it’s so hard to have a meaningful bond with Father Laurent and oh, how we wishes he had one. For pity’s sake, it’s the easiest thing in the world.

As I walk away Liam asks if he can come with me now instead of waiting another hour and I say “Sure” in a very loud and jolly voice so that Ramsey won’t put the kibosh on that, too. Next thing you know he’ll be jealous that his kid likes hanging out with me.

“I’m going with Daisy!” Liam yells and he shuts the door behind us as rapidly as he can, thinking the same thing as me, that if he doesn’t, someone will protest and he will hear it.

“I have to play something for Solomon real quick, Liam. The door is open at Rosalina’s. You don’t have to wait until six. And I’m sure Andréa won’t mind having someone her age for company.”

He gives me a peeved look that tells me it’s not cool to intentionally seek out a girl’s company. If it happens, it happens.

Liam heads down the stairs, two at a time. I stop at Solomon’s and knock. He opens his door and quickly ushers me in to his polished piano.

As I start to play, the notes from his violin do what they always do. They carry me away to a lovely place and I start to flub up my part.

“Forte there, Daisy. Give me some volume!” Solomon says with his left jowl crunched against the chin rest.

I pound out the notes as best I can and when we are done and I’m playing my last notes at the bottom of the register, he turns to me.

“That was better than last time.”

“You’re too kind, Solomon.”

“You really should practice more.”

“Well, you really should find another pianist to practice
with
.” As I rise from the bench I suddenly remember that Liam told me Ramsey plays the piano. And this just strikes me as odd. I’m not sure why. Maybe because music is so beautiful. Romantic, almost.

Ramsey doesn’t seem that interested in beautiful things.

“I hear Father Laurent’s son plays,” I continue. “He’s going to be here for a little while. I’m sure he’s better than me, Solomon.”

“Really? Well, I didn’t know that about him. I’ll have to ask him. I do like the way you play, Daisy. You have a lovely touch. When you hit the right notes.”

Such is my lot. A lovely touch when I hit the right notes.

T
he clouds above me are fat with substance. An errant and foreboding breeze seems to sneak through them to ruffle my loose hair as I sit on the roof and sip from a Caribou Coffee cup. The Monday morning sun is hidden away and a low rumbling echoes off the horizon. The forecast calls for rain.

I close my eyes and lean back in my Adirondack chair, savoring the solitude for as long as I can. When the rain starts I’ll have to head back downstairs where day-to-day life in all its chaos and splendor awaits me.

Shelby wants to bring Eric by this afternoon so I can meet him. She doesn’t really need my approval, but I think she kind of wants it anyway. They’re going to a matinee and then dinner. Ah, the unhurried summer lives of schoolteachers! Shelby asked me if I wanted to join them and I declined. They’ll just stop by Something Blue on their way to the theater.

I am trying to imagine what her Eric looks like. Shelby has described him to me. Medium build, brown hair, fit and trim. But for the life of me all I can picture is the gym teacher from the movie
Runaway Bride,
the guy Julia Roberts almost marries (in a perfectly lovely dress, by the way) but doesn’t. Just picturing Eric looking like that man makes me want to laugh. I hope I don’t burst into hysterics when I meet him.

You know, there were people who thought I was the runaway bride when my wedding was cancelled. They thought I was the one who chickened-out at the last moment, that I was the one who ran like a scared rabbit from the handsome groom. As I sip, I attempt to picture Richard Gere running, in his tuxedo, away from Julia Roberts, and jumping into the Federal Express van to get as far away from her as he can. The thought is laughably absurd. That just wouldn’t happen. I giggle there on the rooftop with my coffee cup. And then I stop because that is pretty much what happened to me.

My groom ran away from me.

I chase these thoughts away and begin to hum my favorite song from the
Runaway Bride
soundtrack. It has a lovely melody line. I’ve seen the movie a dozen times, of course. The words to “I’ve Never Seen Blue Like That,” start to fall off my lips while my eyes are still lazily closed. They are really quite beautiful—

And then someone clears his throat…

My eyes fly open, my coffee cup ejects itself from my hand, and find myself gaping at Ramsey Laurent.

“Sorry!” He is as wide-eyed as I am. Ramsey bends down to retrieve my cup, which, despite its lid, is oozing its contents on the pea gravel surface of the roof. He hands it to me. I swear his hand is shaking.

“You scared me to death,” I whisper, taking my cup.

Okay, so my hand is shaking, too.

“I, uh, I just came up here to, uh, start on the design. I can come back later.” He turns.

I get up from my chair. “No—wait, Ramsey. There’s rain on the way. You may as well get done what you can today before it starts. As you can see I wasn’t doing anything important.”

I am shaking coffee off my wrist as he turns back around.

“Did you get burned?”

“It’s not that hot. I’ve been up here awhile.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

“When you have a design ready, Reuben would like me to send it to him.” I sound oh-so-business-like. “Is that okay?”

“Sure. Of course.”

More silence.

“Well, I’ll let you get to work,” I start to move away. “Unless you need anything.”

“Yes. No. I mean I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” I walk past him and he says my name. I’ve been around him almost a week and he really hasn’t said it that much. He usually just starts talking to me when he needs to say something. For some reason, when he says my name, the sound of it pulls at me. I turn back around. “Yes?”

He hesitates, and then takes a big breath. “Look, I owe you an apology. For yesterday.”

An apology? For yesterday?

“It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you to help my dad open a can of soup. I know you could’ve done that. And I know my father would have enjoyed your company. He thinks a lot of you. But I…”

He falters. I stand there and blink, surprised beyond words.

“I just didn’t… I just haven’t spent a lot of time in social gatherings since… since my divorce and I really wasn’t ready to jump in just like that. It was me, not you. It’s taking me a little while to enjoy being around other people again. I… That’s probably something someone like you can’t understand.”

His voice falls away again like he really doesn’t know how to say what’s on his mind. I doubt he’s rehearsed this. And I’m not really sure what he means by “someone like me.” But he’s wrong nonetheless.

“Of course I understand.”

“You do?”

I’m beginning to think he really knows nothing personal about me at all. I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised. It wouldn’t be like Father Laurent to talk about other people
to
other people for no other purpose than just spreading news. “Well, yes, I do. You don’t owe me an apology, Ramsey.”

He seems to relax a bit. “No, I do. I’m really trying to work past this. But I need to mend the fences along the way. Especially the ones I break myself.”

I smile. “That sounds like something your father would say.”

He smiles back. “He did.”

My smile fades a little as I consider that maybe he was told to come and ask my pardon. “Did your father send you up here to tell me you’re sorry?”

Surprise floods his face. “No. Not all. It’s just been bothering me, that’s all.”

“Well, I don’t know what kind of person you think I am, but I do understand what it’s like to be hurt. You don’t have to explain anything.”

He looks down, like he doesn’t want to make eye contact for a moment. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that I know he was the one who was walked out on.

Omigosh. I shouldn’t have.

I’m a dunce.

“Ramsey, I’m sorry.”

He looks up again and it’s like his face has aged a little in the moments he looked away from me. “So how much do you know?”

I swallow. “We don’t have to talk about this.”

“Did my father tell you what happened?”

“I… Well, see before you came home from Tokyo and Liam spent his weekends here, your ex-wife would just honk for him on the street, which I thought was rude, and one day Liam didn’t want to go when she was coming for him and he said it was because he didn’t want to hear Allegra’s howling and I thought he was talking about his mother’s dog or something and Liam said no, it was his baby sister. And then Liam left and I turned to your father and said how shocked I was that there was a baby already and Father Laurent said the baby was—”

I shut my mouth as Ramsey turns his head away.

I’m a super dunce. I can feel my face turning a thousand shades of red. Why didn’t I just shut-up? Harriet, where were you?
Lord, help me make this right
. “Ramsey, please forgive me. I’m an idiot. Please?”

He turns his head slowly around to face me again. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Please don’t be angry at your dad for explaining how those two could have had a baby so soon. I practically asked.”

“What’s to explain? It’s not hard to do the math. Anyone can figure it out. Even Liam knows.”

Again my face floods with hot embarrassment. His voice sounds so detached. If I didn’t know any better I’d say L’Raine was nearby insisting I weep for this man: my eyes are stinging. Ramsey must see the tears rimming my eyes. The expression on his face has just now changed from vague to perplexed.

“It’s none of my business,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

He says nothing. I shake my head and blink back the tears and he just stands there looking at me. Transfixed, almost. He is wondering why on earth I would be so affected by what happened to him. He doesn’t know I live with rejection, just like he does. Every day. All day.

A drop falls on my forehead and I reach up to touch it. Another one falls.

The rain has started.

“Guess I won’t get to that design this morning after all,” he says.

“There’s no rush.”

We stand there for a moment as the rain begins in earnest. Then we silently head to the stairs that lead to third floor roof access. By the time we are back inside the rain has begun to pour down upon The Finland, the drumming on the roof sounding like a million tapping feet.