Bygones (9 page)
Bess turned in a circle. “It’s very dramatic.”
Off the gallery were the kitchen, living room-dining room, utility area, and powder room.
“Which would you like to see first?”
“Let’s see the living room.” She stepped into it, to be washed in light and delight. The room faced south by southeast, had a marble fireplace, and two sets of sliding glass doors that gave onto a deck overlooking the lake and a small park with a gazebo. “Oh, how marvelous,” she said. The master bedroom led off the living room. It had a fireplace, and a bathroom big enough to host a basketball game.
The kitchen was next, done in white tile and Formica, with blond oak woodwork. It was connected to a family room, which also had sliding doors to the deck.
“Well, I must say, Michael, I’m impressed.”
“Thank you.”
They returned to the living room, with its magnificent scope.
Bess said, “This architect knew what he was doing.”
Michael smiled. “I’ll tell him you said so. He works for me.”
From the opposite end of the room, she faced him. “You built this building?”
“I developed the property and arranged to have it built. The city of
White Bear Lake
came to me and asked me to do it.”
“Ah . . .” Bess’s eyebrows rose in approval. “I had no idea your projects had grown to this size. Congratulations.”
Michael dipped his head in a mix of humility and pride.
“Now for the questions,” Bess said.
“Ask away.”
“Did you choose the carpet?”
She’d noted that the same grayed-mauve carpet was used throughout; it wasn’t a color she’d have expected him to like.
“No. It was here when I took over the place.”
He studied the floor. “But I can live with it.”
“Do you have a sample I can take along?”
“In the entry closet.
I’ll give you a piece before you leave.”
They moved into the room with the drafting table. “Do you work here much?”
“Primarily in the evenings.
Daytime I’m in the once.”
Bess wandered nearer the drafting table. “Do you work. . .” she began, but the question died on her lips. Taped onto an extension lamp over the drafting table was a picture of the children, taken in the backyard when they were about seven and nine. They were freckled and smiling, and squinting into the hard summer sun.
“Do I work . . .?” Michael repeated.
She knew full well he’d seen her reaction to the picture, but she was a businesswoman now. She regrouped her emotions and went on. “Do you work every evening?”
“I have been lately.” He didn’t add, “Since Darla and I broke up” but he didn’t have to. It was obvious he sat here in this room, regretting some things.
“Will you need a desk in this room?”
“That would be nice.”
“File cabinets?”
“Probably not.”
“Would you place this room high or low in decorating order?”
“Low...All right, let’s move on.”
They meandered through the rooms,
then
stopped in the living room-dining room.
“Would you he entertaining in this room?”
“Maybe.”
“How many might you want to seat at one time?
A dozen?
Six?”
“Six, I suppose.”
“Would that entertaining be formal or informal?”
“Informal, probably.”
She made some notes and then moved into the kitchen.
On the island sat the pitiful collection of food that created his bachelor’s pantry. She looked away, because it brought a sharp desire to play housewife, and neither of them needed that.
“Will this be a working kitchen?” she
asked,
her back to Michael as she waited for an answer.
It took some time before he replied, “No.”
She gathered her composure and turned. “Now I guess all that’s left to ask about is the budget. Have you thought about a range you want me to work within?”
“Just do it the way you’d do it for yourself. You were always good at it, and I trust you.”
“All of it?”
“Well”-his eyes met hers-“I hate empty rooms,” he said.
She had the illogical impulse to go to him, take him in her arms, pat his back, and say, “It’ll be all right, Michael. I’ll fill it with things so it isn’t so lonely,” though she knew perfectly well a home full of things could riot substitute for a home full of people.
She looked down at her clipboard. She needed to take some measurements, and they spent the next twenty minutes getting room and window dimensions.
Then they returned to the foyer.
“What happens next?” he asked as he retrieved her coat.
“I’ll transfer these dimensions onto graph paper, room by room. Then I’ll come up with a furniture plan, window treatments,
fabric
and wallpaper samples. When it’s done, I’ll call you, and we’ll get together at my store for the presentation.”
“So when will I hear from you?”
“I’ll get on it right away and get back to you within a week, since you’re living in rather
spartan
conditions.” She flashed him a professional smile and extended her hand. “Thank you, Michael.”
He took it, squeezing hard. “You’re forgetting your forty-dollar trip charge.”
“Oh, yes. Why don’t I bill
you
for
it?”
“Absolutely not.”
He went into the room with the drafting table, and she followed him. He was making out the check.
The photo was still there, compelling. She studied it over his shoulder and said quietly, “They were adorable when they were that age, weren’t they?”
He looked at the picture awhile,
then
tore out the check before turning to Bess. “Yes, they were.”
“Michael, I . . .” Struggling far words, she met his eyes. “I visited my mother on Sunday, and we had a talk.” She paused, but he said nothing. “I told her how difficult it’s been seeing you again, and she said that the reason is because you’re making me take a second look at myself and my fault in the divorce.”
Still he waited, while she willed the words forth.
“I think I owe you an apology, Michael, for turning the kids against you.”
Something changed in his eyes-a quick transport of repressed anger, perhaps. Though he moved not a muscle, he seemed more rigid, while his hazel eyes remained steady upon hers.
She looked down. “I swore I wouldn’t do this-mix business with anything personal - but it’s been bothering me, and today, when I saw their picture here, I realized that . . . well, that you loved them, too, and how it must have hurt you, losing them.”
Ire thought about it for passing seconds before speaking in a low tone. “I hated you for it, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” she said quietly.
“Why did you do it?”
“Because I felt hurt, and wronged.”
“But that was another matter entirely-what was between us.”
“I know that now.”
They stared at each other until the silence in the room seemed to be compressing them.
“Mother said something else. She said that when I went back to college, you fell to the bottom of my priority list and that’s why you found another woman. Is that true?”
“I’m not going to answer. I don’t see any point at this late date.” He handed her the check. “Thanks for coming, Bess. I really should get down to my once now.”
Her cheeks were hot as she accepted his check and said, “I’m sorry, Michael. I shouldn’t have brought it up today. It’s not the appropriate time.”
“Why did you bring it up at all, Bess?”
“I don’t know. I don’t understand myself lately. It seems as if there were so many things between us that were never settled, and all these ugly emotions that kept roiling around inside me. I guess I just need to deal with them once and for all and put them behind me. That’s what apologies are all about, right?”
His eyes, hard as chips of resin, lit on hers.
He nodded stiffly.
“All right, fair enough.
Apology accepted.”
He found her a carpet sample, ushered her out, and pushed the elevator button. The door opened, and she stepped in. When she turned to offer a conciliatory smile, she found him already stalking back into his condo. She rode downstairs wondering if by her apology, she’d made things better or worse between them.
Chapter Seven
Randy Curran dropped into a lopsided upholstered rocker and reached into his pocket for his bag of pot. It was
, and Bernie’s mom was out, as usual. She was a cocktail waitress, so most nights they had the place to themselves. The radio was tuned to Cities 97, and they were waiting for
, the Grateful Dead hour. Randy had known Bernie
Bertelli
since the eighth grade, when Bernie had moved to town right after his parents got divorced, too. The friends had done a lot of dope together since then.
Bernie’s place was a dump. The floors were crooked, and the walls had a lot of plastic knickknacks hanging on them. Skipper and Bean, two old dogs, were presently stretched out on the davenport. Against one wall stood a pyramid of beer cans, the top can wedged against the ceiling. Bernie’s mom had put the top one there herself.
Randy struck a match and lit up. After a while he said, “I met this girl. Did I say that already?”
“What girl?”
“Maryann Padgett. Lisa is marrying her brother . . . . She scares the hell out of me.”
“Why?”
“Cause she’s a good girl. We don’t mess with good girls, do we,
Bern
?”
“No way, man.
Why should we?”
Minutes later Randy said, “You can’t get serious about girls - you know what I mean, man? I mean, hell, next thing you know, you’re
marryin
” “
em
and you got kids, and then you’re
walkin
” out with somebody else’s old lady and your kids are
bawlin
’.”
Bernie digested that a long time before he asked, “You bawl when your old man left?”
“Sometimes.
Not where anybody could see me, though.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
A while later Randy felt the lethargy lifting.
He had to be up at six. Actually, he was getting pretty tired of that stinking job at the warehouse.
And of this pigsty of Bernie’s.
And of Bernie.
What the hell was he doing here? Who was he getting even with?
His father, that’s
who
.
Problem was
,
the old man didn’t really give a damn.
RANDY hadn’t thought about his dad’s being there. He walked into
Gingiss
Formal Wear at
Saturday afternoon to pick out his tuxedo for the wedding, and there stood Michael, talking with Mark and Jake Padgett.
Randy came up short.
Mark spied him and came forward, extending his hand. “Here’s our last guy. Hey,
Randy,
thanks for coming.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Jake shook his hand, and that left only Michael, who offered his hand, too. “Randy.”
Randy looked into his father’s somber eyes and felt a sick longing to hug him and say, “Hi, Dad.” But he had not called Michael Dad in a long time. The word seemed to fill his throat, needing to be spoken, needing to be repressed. His father’s hand waited.
At last he put his hand in Michael’s and said, “Hello.”
Michael flushed, and gripped Randy’s hand.
Long after the contact ended, Randy felt the imprint of his father’s palm on his own.
A clerk intruded. “Gentlemen, if you’ll step this way.”
They followed him into a room, carpeted and mirrored, that held tuxedos in every color, from black to pink. The clerk told Mark, “I presume you’ve talked with the bride about colors.”
“The bridesmaid’s dress is apricot. She said I could decide what color the tuxes should be.”
“Ah, good.
Then might I suggest ivory with apricot cummerbunds? We have several styles . . . .”
While the clerk prattled on, Michael and Randy remained intensely aware of each other, their emotions in turmoil. They removed their jackets, faced a wall of mirrors, and had their measurements taken, trading glances in the mirror before looking discreetly away. They buttoned on pleated shirts, experimented with bow ties, and thought about when they were a boy and a young father and Randy had put shaving cream on his face and shaved with a bladeless razor, while his dad stood beside him and shaved with a real one.
