Bygones (10 page)
Once Randy had asked, wishfully, “Do you think I’ll ever be taller than you, Dad?” And now he was, by a good inch-all grown up and capable of holding grudges.
When the fitting was done, they put on their street clothes again and shuffled from the store into the mall. Mark and Jake headed straight toward the exit, leaving Michael and Randy to follow. Every step of the way, Michael felt his chest contract as his chance slipped away. A question danced on tilde his tongue, while he feared Randy’s rebuff.
Just before they reached the plate-glass doors, Michael spoke. “I haven’t had lunch yet, have you?” He strove for an offhand tone, but his heart was in his throat.
“Yeah.
I grabbed a burger earlier,” Randy lied.
“You sure?
I’m buying.”
For a moment their gazes locked. Hope took on new meaning as Michael sensed Randy vacillating.
“No, thanks.
I’m meeting some friends.”
Michael gave away none of the crushing disappointment he felt. “Well, maybe some other time.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Six years was a long time, and some sins go beyond forgiving. So they left the shopping center by separate doors, went their separate ways, and clung to their separate hurts.
THAT NIGHT BESS FINALLY HAD her date with Keith.
They ate at
Lido
’s, where the minestrone was thick and spicy, the pasta homemade, and the chicken
parmigiana
exquisite.
When their plates had been removed, they sat over wine and spumoni.
“S. . .” Keith said, fixing his stare on Bess. His face was round, and his glasses were thick enough to magnify his eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you to mention Michael.”
“Why
?.,
“Well, you’ve been seeing him lately,
haven’t you?”
“I’ve seen him three times, but not in the way you infer.”
“Three times?”
Keith began ticking them off on his fingers. “The night Lisa set you up and the night of the dinner at the in-laws. When was the third time?”
“Keith, I don’t appreciate being grilled like this.”
Keith took a sip of wine, lowered the glass, and remarked, “I’m waiting to hear about the third time you saw him.”
“If I tell you, will you stop haranguing me?”
He stared at her awhile before nodding stiffly.
“I went to see his condo. I’m going to decorate it for him. Now could we just finish our spumoni and go?”
“Are you coming to my place tonight?”
“I don’t think so. I have a lot of work to do at home tomorrow, and I have to get up early.”
“You put everything else before me.”
She said gently, “You demand a lot.”
He leaned closer to her and whispered fiercely, “I’m sleeping with you. Don’t I have a right?”
She found herself unmoved by his resentment, tired of fighting this fight. “No. I’m sorry, but no.”
He pulled back. “I’ve asked you so many times to marry me.”
“I’ve been married, and I never want to go through that again.”
He pushed aside his spumoni and said, “I think we’d better go.”
They left the restaurant and drove to where she had left her car parked, at the foot of his driveway.
He passed it and pulled into the garage. With the engine and headlights off, they sat in blackness. The absence of warmth from the heater chilled Bess’s legs. The absence of warmth in her heart chilled much more.
“Keith,” she said, “I think maybe we should break it off.”
“No!” he cried. “That’s not what I want. Please, Bess.” He took her in his arms. Hampered by their heavy coats, the embrace was bulky. “You’ve never given us a real chance. If it’s something I’ve done, I’ll try to change. We’ll work things out. Please, Bess.”
He kissed her heavily. She found herself slightly revolted, eager I to be away from him.
“Please, Bess,” he whispered again. “I’m forty-four years old. I don’t want to start looking for someone else. I love you. I want to marry you.”
“I can’t marry you, Keith.” She had no desire to hurt him further. “You have a lot to offer a woman. I’m just not the right one.”
I... ,
As he grew desperate his voice became pleading. “I can make you love me, Bess.
just
give me the chance.”
Groping for her, he tried to kiss her again.
“Keith, stop it,” They struggled, and she shoved him back, hard. “Stag UP’ His breathing beat heavily in the confined spate.
“I’m sorry.”
She grabbed her purse. “I have to go,” she said, scrambling out. She hurried toward her car, running the last several yards after she heard his door opening.
“Bess, wait! I’d never hurt you, Bess!” he called. His last word was cut off as she slammed and locked her car door. She rummaged in her purse for her keys, and found herself shuddering as she peeled out of his driveway. A quarter mile up the street she realized that tears were running down her cheeks. What had happened to her back there?
She knew full well Keith would not hurt her, yet her revulsion and fear
had .
been
genuine. He was right, though. She had often put her children first; she had frequently put him off in favor of business that could have been delayed. And perhaps Michael did play a part in her rather sudden severing of ties with Keith. Keith had been the one calling out apologies, but perhaps it was she who owed them.
Chapter Eight
Bess thought of Michael too much during the week that followed. While she leafed through wallpaper and furniture catalogues, she pictured his rooms. Sometimes she pictured him moving about there in intimate disarray-the kind only a wife or lover can know-or in a freshly dressed state, with his skin still flushed from a shave and his lips still shiny from the shower.
It was hard to remember a job she’d enjoyed more or had designed with as much confidence. She called him on Thursday. “I’ve got your design all worked up, and wondered when you can come to the store and go over it.”
“When would you like?”
“How’s
tomorrow?”
“Fine.
I’ll be there.”
The following day, Friday, she went home at
to change, put on fresh makeup, and touch up her hair. She returned to the store in time to dismiss Heather early.
When Michael came in, the window lamps were lit, the place smelled of fresh coffee, and at the rear of the store, amid the wicker furniture, the materials for Bess’s presentation stood ready-fabrics, wallpaper, photographs. Bess went forward, smiling.
“Hello, Michael. How are you?” She locked the door and reversed the OPEN sign so that they wouldn’t be interrupted.
“You’ve done a lot with this place,” he said, shrugging off his coat. She had to shinny past him between tables and glassware
to
hang
his coat on the back of the basement door.
Then she turned. “I’ve got everything at the back of the store,” she said, leading the way to some wicker seats. “May I get you a cup of coffee?”
“Sounds good.
It’s cold out there.” He waited until she’d set the cup and saucer on the coffee table and taken a chair, before he sat.
“We’ll start with the living-dining room.”
Surrounded by samples, she presented scale drawings of his living room the way she envisioned it-subtle wallpaper of cream, mauve, and gray; vertical blinds; an upholstered furniture grouping facing the fireplace; smoked-glass tables; potted plants. After considering the samples, he said, “I think I like it.”
She smiled and went on,
dislaying
out her suggestions-for the formal dining area, for the gallery, for the master bedroom.
Finally, for the family room, a sumptuous cream
Natuzzi
Italian leather on a sofa that stretched out into forever and turned two corners before it got there.
“Italian leather is the finest,” she told him.
“Since you gave me carte blanche on the budget, I thought you might enjoy the luxury.”
“
Mmm
, I would.” Michael studied the solar brochure of the curved sofa.
She recognized the look of covetousness on his face. There were more samples to be considered. By the time she’d covered the highlights, it was
. She handed him a sheaf of papers and said, “Now, here’s the bad news.
A breakdown, room by room and item by item.
The grand total is seventy-six thousand, three hundred dollars.”
Michael looked as if he’d been
poleaxed
.
“Criminal”
Bess threw back her head and laughed. “I haven’t heard that expression in years. You’re the only one I ever knew who said it.”
Michael ran a hand over his hair.
“Seventy-six thousand . . .”
“The
Natuzzi
sofa by itself is eight thousand. I went with some pretty classy designers, too-Jay
Spectre
,
LaBarge
. You own your own firm now, you’re very successful. It’s only right that your home should reflect that success.”
She sat back with her eyes leveled on Michael, while he studied the lists in detail.
“How long before I get this stuff?” he asked.
“Custom orders, twelve weeks.
Window treatments and wallpaper, sooner.”
“You take care of all that?”
“Absolutely.
I should warn you, I’ll be in and out of your place a lot. Do you have any problem with that?”
“No.”
Bess began gathering up the floor plans.
“It’s a lot of money, Michael. No question.”
“May I think about it?”
“Of course.”
Their gazes met as they stood. He checked his watch. “It’s almost
, and I’m starved. Would you –
“ He
cut himself off and weighed the invitation before issuing it. “Would you want to grab a bite with me?”
She could have said
no, that
she had to get home. She could have simply said no, without qualifying it. But the truth was, she enjoyed his company and wouldn’t mind spending another hour or so in it.
“We could go to the Freight House,” she suggested.
He smiled. “They still make that dynamite seafood chowder?”
“ Absolutely
.”
“Then let’s go.”
She locked up, and they left the Blue Iris.
Outside, the wind was biting. But it was only two blocks, and they decided to walk. The wind bulldozed them from behind, and Michael took Bess’s elbow and held it hard against his ribs while they burned along with their shoulders hunched. His hand felt both familiar and welcome against her elbow.
The Freight House was exactly what its name implied-a red brick relic from the past, facing the river and the railroad tracks, with six wagon-high, arch-top doors through which freight had been loaded and unloaded in the days when both rail and river commerce flourished. Inside, it smelled wonderful. Unbuttoning his overcoat, Michael spoke to the hostess.
“It’ll be about fifteen minutes. You can have a seat in the bar if you’d like, and I’ll call you.”
They kept their coats on and perched on hip-high stools on opposite sides of a tiny square table.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been here,” Michael remarked. “If I remember right, this is where we came to celebrate our tenth anniversary,”
Bess smiled in reply.
A waitress came to take their order.
“I’ll have a bottled Michelob,” Michael said.
“I’ll have the same.”
When the waitress went away, Michael said, “We drank a lot of beer together over the years.”
“
Mmm
. . , yeah-a lot of hot summer evenings on the
deck watching
the boats on the river.”
Their beers arrived, and after they’d each taken a deep swallow, Michael fixed his eyes on her and asked, “What do you do now on hot summer evenings, Bess?”
“I’m usually doing design work at home. What do you do?”
He thought awhile.
“With Darla, nothing memorable.
We both worked long hours and afterwards just sort of occupied the same lodge.”
He took another swig of beer, his eyes still on her. Man-oh-man, she looked good.
The hostess came and said, “We have a booth for you now, sir.”
The backs of the booths went clear up to the ceiling, forming a three-sided box that was lit by a single hanging fixture. While Bess spent sometime perusing the menu, Michael only glanced at it. She sat across from him, feeling his eyes come and go while he waited.
