Invisible (17 page)

As I reach for
the door, I notice my hand shaking. Oh my. I open the door and there stands Miles. His French-blue dress shirt matches his eyes, and his salt-and-pepper hair looks mussed, as though he's just run his hand through it. My heart betrays me as it flutters in my chest.

“Miles . . . hi. Come in. Twila's here—we weren't paying attention to the time.” I turn to Twila. “We didn't even talk about recipes. We need to do that still, so another time?” I'm rambling. I know it, but I can't seem to stop. I look back at Miles. “You know how it is when women get together, we just talk and talk. Twila's a sweetheart, isn't she? So it's cold out there. Twila, do you have your coat? I better grab a coat for myself, although, really, I'm fine without one. But . . .”

I stop to take a breath, and then notice Miles is holding a small gift bag stuffed with pale green tissue.

Miles has stood there, watching me talk, a crooked smile on his face. Now that I'm taking a breath, he walks over to Twila and puts an arm around her shoulder and gives her a squeeze. He hangs onto the gift bag in his other hand. “Hey gal, good to see you. Sounds like you've had a nice afternoon together.”

He looks from Twila to me.

“Yeah, we did. Isn't her place great?”

Miles looks around the living room and then to me. “It looks like you—warm.”

“Thank you.” I am warmer than he knows—I feel like a peri-menopausal hot flash has me by the throat. I loosen the scarf around my neck. A coat? Who am I kidding?

“Well, I better head out.” Twila puts her coat on.

Oh, how I wish she'd stay. “No rush, honey.”

She shrugs. “You guys have plans and my mom's expecting me for dinner.” Then she turns to Miles. “Um, I'm still praying, you know?”

He nods. “Me too.”

“So, like, I'll call you soon, if that's okay?”

Miles puts his arm around her again and smiles. “I'll look forward to hearing from you.”

Twila heads toward the front door, then stops and turns back to me. “Hey, thanks for everything.” Then she gives me a hug.
Wow.
It's quick, but I know it's significant.

“I'll call you. We have unfinished business.”

She smiles at me and her face lights up, making the dark thorns look out of place. “Yeah, we do. Call anytime.”

She grins at Miles. “Have fun tonight.”

“We will. You take care.”

I close the door behind Twila and wish I could just stand there with my face to the door and my back to Miles, but how dorky would that look? I turn back to him and smile.

He holds the bag out to me. “Here, I brought you something.”

I'm certain a flock of fowl have taken up residence in my chest. I picture feathers flying as I take the gift bag. “Oh, you didn't . . . you shouldn't . . .”

“Open it.”

I look at him. “Oh. Okay.” I pull the pale tissue out of the bag and reach inside and take out a small box that's heavier than it looks. I set the bag and tissue aside and take the lid off the box. “Oh . . .” I smile at him.

“It's the color of your eyes.” His voice is low. “Sea-glass green.”

I swallow and try to respond, but I'm sure there's a feather stuck in my throat. Instead, I pick up the piece of sea glass that's shaped like a rock, and focus on the word etched into the glass:
Friends
. I will myself to look back at Miles. “Thank you.” I nod. “Really.”

“You bet. So, are you hungry?”

“Hungry? Well, look at me? What do you think?”

Brilliant, Ellyn.

“Me, too. I'm starved. Shall we go?”

I shake my head. “Just give me a minute, okay? I want to . . .” I point to the stairs. “I'll be right back. Make yourself at home.”

“Sure. Take your time.”

I take the piece of sea glass and set it on the coffee table in the living room, and then tuck the box back into the bag with the tissue and take it with me. I climb the stairs to my room, praying he isn't watching my big back end as I go. Once up the stairs, I drop the bag and box on my nightstand and then go to the bathroom where I brush my teeth, dust my face with powder, and touch up my lip-gloss. I do the powder and gloss by braille, avoiding the mirror.

My hands shake as I try to screw the lid back on the lip-gloss.

I swish some mouthwash around in my mouth, spit into the sink—and then I take a deep breath and go back downstairs.

Miles's eyes shine as
he talks.

We're seated at the corner table in the Garden Dining Room, overlooking Café Beaujolais's garden. It's lit on this dark night with soft, white lights along the garden pathways. I listen as he tells me about his sons, whom I picture as younger versions of him. While I listen, I also notice how thick his hair still is and how he has permanent smile lines near his eyes and mouth—noticeable only when he's serious. I also take note of how well his shirt fits and, again, how the color sets off those blue eyes of his.

Smitten, big girl?

I pick up my menu and glance at the offerings. My stomach, usually growling, is knotted and silent. I run through the
House Apertifs, Appetizers, Entrees,
and
Desserts
.

“What do you recommend, Chef Ellyn?”

“Oh.” Nothing registered as I read the menu—I was too caught up in thoughts of him. But then, I check the menu online often to make certain my seasonal offerings are unique, so I should be able to come up with something. “Well”—I do a fast search—“the braised beet salad is always good, if you like beets, and for an entrée, how about the escargot gratin or the seared fois gras?”

He clears his throat. “Those sound . . .” He looks up at me and his eyes crease into a smile. “Horrible. Sorry.”

I laugh. “I set you up. And you don't have to apologize, I'm not the one cooking tonight.”

“Do you enjoy either of those?”

The disgust on his face makes me laugh again. “They're an acquired taste. I had escargot for the first time when I was in school, in Paris, and they really are good. But then how can anything swimming in garlic butter be bad?”

“It's a
snail
swimming in garlic butter.”

We both laugh again. We chat over the menu and make our choices. After the waiter leaves, Miles leans back in his chair. He seems so relaxed that he almost puts me at ease.

“It was great to see Twila with you today.”

“Really? Why?” I take a sip of my water.

He looks at me and cocks his head to one side as though he's sizing me up.

She's a size jumbo.

I shake my head.

“You okay?”

“Oh, yes . . . it's just. Nothing. I'm sorry. Go ahead.”

He leans forward. “You're special, Ellyn. You're warm, accepting, funny.”

I pull the scarf loose around my neck again and take another sip of my water.

“Twila needs good people in her life.”

“Oh, well, thank you. But, you're the one who is really good for her. She told me about her struggle, and your offer to help her work through some things.”

“I'm glad she told you about the anorexia.”

“You know”—I put my hand over my heart—“she's so dear. I learned a lot from her today. Not just about nutrition.” I wave my hand. “That was the least of it.”

“What else?”

I pause as I search for the right words. “I learned some things about myself. Funny, but . . . we have more in common than you might think.”

He waits for me to elaborate.

“We look like polar opposites. She's young, I'm not. She's brunette, I'm not. She's skin and bones. I'm . . . not. Which is no surprise to you, Dr. Becker, after all, you know how much I weigh.” I have a strong desire to pull the tablecloth up and over my head. Why do I remind him?

You think he's forgotten? C'mon, Chubs, all he has to do is look at you.

I look around. When will our order arrive? I need to stick a steak in my mouth to shut myself up.

“Ellyn . . .”

I look back at him.

“I'm not your doctor anymore. I'm your friend. But I'm also a man. One who thinks you're beautiful.”

“I . . . I . . .” Forget the steak, his comment shuts me up. He must be kidding, right?

“Here are your salads. Madame.” The waiter sets the braised beet salad in front of me and the same in front of Miles. “May I get you anything else?”

I shake my head, pick up my fork, and dig in. Before I take my first bite, I look at Miles and smile. “Saved by the salads.”

When Miles pulls into
my driveway after dinner, the flock of nervous chickens in my chest take up their fluttering again, though I don't know why. This doesn't happen when Sabina drops me off, and Miles is a friend just like Sabina. There's no difference. Friends. That's all. Nothing more.

Really.

“Ellyn?”

“Oh. What? Did you say something?”

He chuckles. “I said maybe next time we can check out 955 Ukiah or Raven's.”

“Next time?” He wants to do this again? Oh, no. Oh, yes. Oh, no. Oh, dear. “Raven's doesn't use butter in any of their dishes.”

He laughs. “So Raven's is out?”

“Definitely.”

“I enjoyed the evening, Ellyn. Thanks for joining me.”

“I enjoyed it too.” As I say it, I realize it's true. I had a wonderful time—and I'm not sure what to make of that. “Thank you for dinner. You didn't have to . . .”

He holds up one hand. “It was my pleasure.”

Miles reaches for the door handle and gets out of the car. It appears he'll walk me to the door. Do I invite him in? I open my car door and by the time I do, he's there. I get out and he closes the door behind me.

Ever the gentleman.

We walk in silence to my front door.

“Well, gal, thank you again.”

I hesitate. “Would you . . . I mean . . .”

He watches me, then seems to understand. “Oh, thanks, no. I have an early morning.” He comes close and gives me a hug.

Quick. Appropriate. Like friends do.

“I'll see you soon.”

“Okay. Thanks again for dinner.” I watch as he turns and goes to his car. Once there, he looks back and waves. I put the key in the lock and open the door, then wave back before closing the door. Once inside, I flip on the entry hall light and then lean back against the front door.

My heart hasn't returned to its normal rhythm. I take a deep breath. And then another. What is
wrong
with me? It was a nice evening with a friend. Nothing to get in a tizzy about. I put my hand over my chest and feel the pounding of my heart.

But there's something more than the pounding. Something deeper calling for attention. Is it . . . disappointment?

“Disappointment? Good grief, no. Not at all. Why would I feel disappointed?” I converse with myself as I walk to the kitchen and open the refrigerator. “It was a nice evening. He's a good conversationalist. The food was enjoyable.” I rummage through the offerings and then close the fridge door. “Nothing to feel disappointed about.”

Maybe it's just indigestion. I turn off the kitchen light and make my way upstairs to my bedroom.

Later, when I climb into bed, Earl crawls in with me.

So how'd that hug feel? You kind of liked that, didn't you? You better watch yourself. Watch your heart. You know how men are—he'll only hurt you.

Is it possible that Rosa and Sabina are right, and that Miles Becker is a good man? A different kind of man?

Earl cackles.
He's just like the rest of them. He'll only want one thing. He made his first move tonight—telling you you're beautiful. Really? You?

I turn out the bedside lamp and pull a pillow over my head, but Earl's assault continues.

I reach out from under the covers, leaving the pillow over my head, and feel around on the nightstand for the box of tissue I keep there. Instead, my hand lands on the gift bag that held the piece of sea glass. I lift the pillow off my head, turn the light back on, and reach for a tissue. I blow my nose and wipe the tears from my eyes and cheeks. Then I sit up and think of the gift from Miles.

Friends.

He's respecting my boundary.

Ha! You're so gullible. Respect? You don't deserve respect.

I turn the lamp off again, and pull the covers tight around me. I fall asleep to Earl's litany of insults.

Our heart is restless until it rests in you.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Twenty-Two

Miles

I click the remote
and turn off the 11:00 p.m. news after catching the lead stories. As the flat screen fades to black, so does the bedroom. I roll my pillow into a ball and put it under my head and settle on my back.

Saved by the salads.