It's You (7 page)

“Like him for what?” I stare at Dad baffled by the changes in him, and his disconnect from my reality. Andrew has only been gone fourteen months. I am still in my own black hole of grief. Why would I want to meet a man now? And why would Dad think this Hallahan guy would be a good one for me?

“You need friends. You need to move on.”

“Move on?” My voice rises and I lean closer to him to keep others from hearing. “What about you? Maybe you’d like to move on, too.”

“I am moving on. I’m making friends here—”

“What about the house, Dad?”

“What about it? It’s my house. I own it. Why do I have to do anything with it?”

“But
you
live
here
.”

“So? It’s my investment property.”

“You’re paying someone to manage it. You’re paying monthly utilities—”

“It’s not a lot. I can afford it.” He stares at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Is this about money? Are you hurting for money?”

I owe thousands of dollars in loans, but this isn’t about money.
I’ve never used Mom and Dad’s money. Didn’t want it then and still don’t want it now. “I just think it’s a lot for you to worry about—”

“I have nothing to worry about,” he interrupts. “I have nothing to do but watch TV and play cards and wonder what’s on the menu for dinner.”

“Then maybe you should come live with me and—”

“That’s not going to happen.”

His sharpness silences me. I look away, hold my breath, hurt.

I don’t want to be hurt but I don’t understand.

I don’t understand how he’d rather sit here and stare at a TV screen and take his meals with dozens of strangers than live in my home with me.

“I’m trying very hard not to take this personally, Dad,” I say, lightly, crisply, to hide the pain. It’s the voice I use every day at work. “But I can’t help thinking that if I were a dog, you’d want to live with me.”

“But you’re not a dog.”

I should have been.

The corner of my mouth lifts even as a curl of hurt curves inside my chest. A hot painful question mark. Why doesn’t he love me?

Why can’t I be a dog?

A brown and white Spaniel named Freckles because then he’d touch me all the time.

And just like that, my eyes burn and I’m fighting so much emotion that I think it could take my legs out, lay me flat. The feeling. The grieving. How does one get from here to there? How does one get through life unscathed?

You don’t.

Suddenly I need to get up, move. Murmuring an excuse, something about the bathroom, I rise, walk out, my striped sundress swishing, low kitten heels clicking on the dining room floor.

Heads lift, faces turn, eyes watching me. Leaving the dining
room I use the ladies’ room and wash my hands, studying my face briefly in the mirror. My tan is fading. My freckles are pale on the bridge of my nose. My mouth is too wide. It always has been. I smile at myself. My mouth is huge, all those teeth. But they’re very straight and not that fake white advertised in the back of complimentary airplane magazines.

Leaving the bathroom I’m not ready to return to the dining room of the old and infirm. Instead I walk down the hall and slip out one of the French doors in the Reading Room to the wide, flat terrace overlooking the rolling hills covered with row after tidy row of grapes. What a view. Oak trees that give way to vineyards. Could Dad have found a better view anywhere?

Maybe Mom and Dad knew what they were doing choosing this as their final stop.

“You’re Bill’s daughter, Alison,” a deep male voice says behind me.

I glance over my shoulder, towards the French doors. It’s the Hallahan guy. The vintner. I recognize the blue shirt and the dark blond hair, shaggy at the back.

Incidentally, his broad shoulders have nothing on his face.

He’s tan, which makes his eyes intensely blue. A man in his late thirties, mature, and ruggedly handsome. Like the Robert Redford my mom used to love in
All the President’s Men
.

My mom would love him.

I feel my mom suddenly, with me, a prickle of my skin, little goose bumps covering my arms, a tingle at the back of my neck.
Hello, Mom.

And the tingle is stronger.

I rub my forearm. “Yes. You’re Edie’s great-nephew.”

“People have been talking,” he replies. “But then, when you’re my great-aunt Edie’s age, I don’t suppose there is a lot else to do.”

I smile faintly. “No. I don’t suppose there is.” And then I don’t know what else to say to him, aware that he is Craig Hallahan,
the nice, older Hallahan, but nonetheless a most eligible bachelor and chased by all the ladies.

Uncomfortable, I turn back to the rolling hills. He doesn’t take the hint, although I suppose it’s not much of a hint, and joins me outside on the patio.

I don’t know what to do now. I don’t really want to talk but I don’t know how to just stand here in silence, either. “It’s a beautiful view,” I say at length.

He glances down at me. “I don’t see a view anymore. Just grapes.” His mouth quirks. “A friend that once surfed professionally says he never sees the ocean, just the waves.”

“Would you prefer the view?”

“I’d like to be able to see what others see.” He looks at me, lashes lowered, lips pressed. “I’m no longer detached.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Good question.” He hesitates a moment. “When you look at people and they smile, do you see the smile, or the teeth?”

“Touché.” My face grows hot as I admit, “I see the teeth.”

The corner of his mouth lifts higher. “My aunt said you’re a dentist. I think she worries about you.”

“Because I’m a dentist?”

“Because you prefer Phoenix to Napa.”

“I don’t prefer—” I break off, frown, aware that Dad must have said something to her about me wanting him to move. Or me not wanting to move here. “My dental practice is in Arizona. And I love Arizona. The desert is beautiful. Camelback Mountain is beautiful—” I turn and look at him, brow furrowing. “Your aunt has a lot of opinions.”

“She does. And she can deliver them in a very cutting tone.”

“So it’s not just me?”

He laughs softly, sympathetically. “No, that’s just dear Aunt Edie.”

“Why is she so rough?”

“She’s old and she’s lived a challenging life.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“You should hear her story. It’s interesting.”

“Hmm.”

“But she does like your dad. Has quite a soft spot for him. Apparently he’s a very good bridge player.”

“And that’s all that’s required to earn her affection?”

“Not affection, but respect. I think his dog stories earned her affection. She’s a big animal lover.”

“I knew I should have been a dog.”

He lifts a brow. He’s amused. “Is there a particular breed you fancy?”

“A beloved lap dog. A Scottie or a spaniel. Or maybe something that could fit in one’s purse and go everywhere.”

“And you’d be happy in a purse?”

“Depends on the purse.”

He studies me a long moment, a glint in his eyes. “I suppose it would.”

I laugh out loud.

He cracks the smallest of smiles, and yet his storm blue eyes are full of light.

I’ve never met this man. I know nothing about him other than what my father has told me and this is the strangest conversation with a stranger. I like it. I feel free somehow. Nothing matters. Everything matters. Andrew would enjoy this moment. He was good with new and novelty. He enjoyed change.

The warmth inside me recedes.

I reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I was at your winery last night, for the Concert in the Cellar.”

“Yes, I know.” He’s still smiling but his expression is different, less playful. “You wore red.”

I just look at him, unable to think of anything to say.

“You were with Diana Martin, the florist,” he adds. “I asked about you, but no one knew your name.”

I snap my mouth closed. My cheeks burn. “I should get back to my dad. He must be worrying about me.”

“Can’t have that,” he agrees.

Edie

I
’m walking Ruth to the ladies’ room when I glance into the Reading Room and see my great-nephew talking with Alison, the dentist, out on the terrace.

He’s interested in her. I’m not entirely surprised. He likes smart girls, academic girls. He’s always been more serious than Chad, more interested in the arts, too. As a boy I’d take him to the symphony in the city. I don’t know if he liked the music, but he was always polite, and he’d dress up for the concert, even if it was a matinee, putting on a dress shirt, blazer, and tie.

He’d take my arm as we crossed the street, and would caution me to watch for traffic, as cars don’t always slow down for people, and then when we reached the other side and we’d step up onto the curb, he’d give my elbow a little squeeze as if letting me know I’d done well. We’d made it.

Craig is the thoughtful one, but both boys have good manners. Ellie was very strict with Elizabeth when she was a child, stressing the importance of manners. Manners aren’t just about good breeding, they are an essential courtesy and an expression of respect,
values drummed into me and Ellie as the daughters of a man who made his career in the Foreign Service.

I help Ruth into the bathroom stall and step out to give her privacy. Earlier in the week, the management here forbid me from helping Ruth. They say it’s dangerous, and a liability. I’m to get an aide when Ruth must use the lavatory. But where am I to find an aide, and how is Ruth expected to hold it? Yes, they’ve put her in diapers but if she’s aware she has to go, why piddle in her pants?

And what is the worst that can happen if Ruth falls, and pulls me down with her?

I break an arm or a leg?

I get pneumonia?

I die?

It wouldn’t be the end of the world if it happened. I have to go someday. I might as well go doing a good deed.

I told them that, too. But they thought I was being a smart aleck. I wasn’t.

I was serious.

But of course they don’t know that because they don’t know me.

Ali

O
ver the past week, Dad and I settled into something of a routine. I run in the morning and putter around the house before getting a coffee in town and heading to Napa Estates to meet Dad for lunch.

I haven’t given up trying to get him to leave the retirement home for lunch and try one of the picturesque restaurants downtown, but so far, he prefers the ease and comfort of meals in the home’s dining room.

But Tuesday Dad calls me early, and announces he has plans for me, and I’m needed at his retirement home at eleven as the couple Dad and Edie usually play bridge with aren’t well and so they need to find warm bodies for the game. I’m to be one of the warm bodies. Jerry, the widower from Detroit, is the other.

I’ve just been in the yard, weeding, and am still sweaty, with dirt-encrusted nails—a fact I forget until I clap a hand to my forehead and feel grit fall into my eyes. “Dad. Seriously?”

“I thought you liked spending time with me.”

“I’m
not
a bridge player.”

“You are. You’re just not a good one.”

“Even more reason why I shouldn’t play!”

“But Edie’s partner isn’t, either. You’ll be fine. It’s Edie and I that will be challenged by our partners’ lack of skill.”

“I’m really not in the mood. Let’s do something different—”

“Like what? Watch TV? Listen to a ballgame? What will we do?”

“We could pick up lunch from one of the cute Napa cafes and come here to the house for a picnic. I’ve been weeding the beds and getting ready to plant some flowers.”

“Why? Are you staying in Napa?”

“You said you wanted to keep the house. You said it was your investment property. I’m making sure it’s a good investment.”

“Well, don’t do too much. You don’t want to get attached. You love the desert, remember?”

“Why should I come play bridge with you when you never do anything I want to do? Hmm?”

“Are you being serious, or a smart ass?”

I hesitate. “Both.”

He hesitates, too. “Fine. Be here by eleven for the game, and then later this week, or before you leave, we’ll go out to eat. Or go to the house. Or whatever it is you’re dying to do.”

“Promise?”

He sighs. “I promise.”

I roll my eyes at his exasperated sigh—he sounds so put-upon—but at least I know he means it. Dad might not tell you what you want to hear, but he doesn’t break promises.

• • •

I
arrive at Napa Estates for the card game thinking that maybe, just maybe, Jerry isn’t the fourth but Craig Hallahan will be. I don’t know why I think it’s going to be Craig, but I get to the center
and head to the Reading Room where Edie likes to play cards because it’s quiet.

It’s quiet because it’s a
Reading
Room. But that means nothing to Edie, not even the posted sign on the wall inside the door asking residents and guests to take their card games and conversations elsewhere. But rules don’t apply to Edie. Others have to follow them, but not her. Apparently when you’re almost one hundred, it’s okay to say outrageous things and make demands and do what you want.

Thirty minutes into the game, we’re in between hands, shuffling cards and sipping our iced drinks (which you’re not allowed to have in the Reading Room but that’s another rule that’s ignored) when she asks me why I chose to become a dentist.

But before I can answer, she tells me I don’t look like a dentist.

I’m not sure what to make of that. Do dentists come in certain packages? We can’t be petite and blonde, with a wide mouth and a freckled nose?

“I’m good with my hands,” I say, reaching up to rub the bridge of my nose, feeling the bump near the bridge that I got when I took a softball to the face in eighth grade.

According to Andrew one of my nostrils is also a hair wider than the other. He’s right. But only a perfectionist would notice. Or care. He didn’t care. I’ve never cared.

I’ve never gotten that hung up on looks. But I do like teeth. Straight white teeth. A great smile.

That’s what I noticed about Andrew first. His smile.

“And I make decent money,” I add, because it’s true.

“You’re not one of those altruistic people who choose medicine because they like helping people?”

I hear the bite of sarcasm in her voice. I get the feeling that Edie isn’t particularly fond of me. And that’s fine. I don’t need her approval, or her friendship.

“No,” I answer, smiling, but it’s to hide my irritation. Edie
seems to enjoy taking jabs at me, or maybe she just feels entitled to take jabs at everybody. Either way, I’m tired of it. I’m tired, period. This “vacation” to Napa has been rather grueling. Going back to work would be easier. “I wanted to make a good living. And I wanted to do something that not just anyone could do, and dentistry is challenging. Both in dental school, and in practice.”

“So you’ve a mercenary streak.”

“I have an independent streak. My mother worked, her mother worked, and I wanted to work. And if you’re going to work, why not make money?”

“But you are a good dentist,” she says.

“I think so.” I can see from her expression that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. “And my patients seem to think so, too.”

“Have you killed anyone yet?”

“I’m a dentist, Edie.”

She sniffs and reaches for her cards. “It can happen.”

• • •

D
uring the game Diana texts me that she’d love to go get a drink after work and would I like to meet her?

After hours of bridge at Napa Estates, I need a drink, as well as the company of someone a little closer to my age.

I meet Diana at the restaurant she suggested. Angele overlooks the river and we’re seated outside on the patio. It’s a comfortable evening and I sigh with pleasure as I settle into my chair.

“I am so glad you texted. I needed this badly.”

“Are you still spending every day with your dad at his retirement home?”

“Not all day, but I usually meet him for lunch . . . and sometimes stay until dinner.”

She wrinkles her nose. “How’s the food?”

“Not bad. Could use more salt, so now I keep my own salt shaker in my purse.”

“Do you really?”

Grinning, I reach into my purse and pull out the cardboard salt and pepper shakers I bought at the grocery store. “It makes a difference.”

The waiter returns to take our appetizer and salad order. Diana also selects a bottle of wine. It’s not until we’re on our second glass of wine that she confides she’s had a really shitty week. She lost two of her staff within a day of each other, and this weekend she has a huge wedding and she’s panicking about being able to get all the bouquets and the centerpieces done.

“I don’t know how I’m going to get it done.” Her brown gaze meets mine, expression unhappy. “I even considered flying my mom and sister up from Phoenix, but that’s stupid. I need to hire someone now. Someone from around here.”

“Have you posted a want ad?”

“I’ve got an ad on Craigslist and I’ve taped a discreet sign in the window of the shop, but nothing yet.”

“It’ll happen.”

“Hopefully sooner than later.”

I see the stress in her face, her lips are pinched tight, and I feel bad for her. I know what it’s like when you feel it’s all resting on you. “Is there anything I can do? I’m not a designer but I can stick flowers in a vase. Show me a picture or give me a sample arrangement, and I can try to copy it.” I lift my hands, wiggle my fingers. “I’ve got good hands. Or so my professors used to say.”

“Stop it.”

“I’m serious.”

“Don’t tease me like that.”

But she’s smiling a little and I smile back. “I have nothing else to do, Diana, and God knows, I cannot take another afternoon
of bridge or keep up with this running. I’m getting shin splints. You’d be doing me, and my shins, a favor.”

“You’re good,” Diana says, stabbing her salad with her fork. “I’m also tempted to take you up on your offer.”

“You should. You’d be giving me a sense of purpose and providing me with some um . . . youthful . . . company.”

She laughs. “As long as you don’t mind working for minimum wage.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“You’re out of your mind, but hey, I’m not complaining.”

• • •

A
lthough Diana won’t be making up the wedding party bouquets and boutonnieres, and the twenty-five centerpieces for the reception until Friday, she could use help tomorrow taking and fulfilling orders, and possibly delivering a few arrangements if her driver is a no-show.

I promise to show up the next morning after I check on Dad, and I do, entering Bloom, the charming florist shop that looks more like a cottage than a store, with a quick step.

I breathe in the scent of lilies and roses, freesias and hyacinths, so different from the smell of chemicals in my office in Scottsdale, and find Diana at one of the large pine tables in the work area behind the counter, putting together an all pink arrangement with sixteen pink roses. “For a sweet sixteen birthday,” she says.

I watch her work, noting the structure of the arrangement, and how she creates a triangle and then fills in, creating a pattern that gives the arrangement fullness and balance.

“That’s pretty,” I say.

“It’s easy when you use one color,” she answers, drying her damp hands and standing back to check her work. “Some of my favorite bouquets are all shades of pink or violets and purples.”

She grabs a French blue pottery pitcher and sets it on the table. “But for this next arrangement, I need something different. It’s for a seventh wedding anniversary and the husband said his wife loves jewel tones, and because she’s an artist and eclectic he said she would prefer something fresh that isn’t too staged. So I’m going to go for colors that contrast, to give it a bit of edge.”

I watch Diana reach into the refrigerator for a bucket of dark red dahlias. “I start building my arrangements in my hand,” she says, showing me how she then wraps the stems lightly with a flexible twig. “You can also use twine, you just need to secure them so there is a shape when you put them in the vase. Once in the vase, you start filling in with smaller flowers, contrasting flowers, dark blues and purples, paying attention to the shape and height. For the height I’m using white snapdragons and some of the blue larkspur, and then rim the base with greenery—ivy and hosta in this case would both be nice.”

She’s done in short order and it’s a striking and rather bohemian arrangement, reminding me of gypsies or the kind of flowers you might find at a Parisian flea market.

“Very nice,” I compliment. “But you make it look very easy. I know it’s not that easy.”

“I’ll show you one more, that’s our signature arrangement. You can do it in all colors and throughout the year if you have big, lush flowers. My favorite flowers to work with for this bouquet are hydrangeas, lilies, lisianthus, peonies, and roses. You need seven to nine flowers and then some height in the back—snapdragons for spring and summer, and pine or holly is always fun during the Christmas holidays. These lush flowers look extravagant, and they really do impress. They’re all terribly romantic, which is what Bloom is all about.”

Diana gets me to work on one of these lush arrangements now. I’m to use a low silver bowl that she has bought at a local antique
mall. She’s always on the hunt, scouring antique stores, thrift stores, and garage sales looking for unique and interesting vases, as the vase is as important as the arrangement at Bloom.

I’m working with blue hydrangeas, dark purple hyacinths, and violet tulips, and Diana sets me loose to work. I do as she did, form a base with my largest flowers, in this case the hydrangeas, tie them loosely, and start adding the tulips and hyacinths in small clusters, but it looks drab to me. I glance uncertainly at Diana who is working with stalks of gladiolas, flowers I always associate with funerals so I’m glad she’s doing that one and not me.

“Something isn’t right,” I tell her. “It looks flat.”

She takes one glance at the flowers and nods. “You want the brightest flowers in the center. It’ll draw your eye to the middle, creating a pleasing focal point. Then keep the tulips in a cluster, all five together, and the two shades of hyacinths. You’re bunching the flowers in this bouquet and then going to finish off with some height at the back. The dark bearded purple iris would look wonderful. Or you could experiment with some snapdragons, too.”

She’s right on all accounts. The bunched flowers make more impact, and the dark purple irises are stunning at the rear.

“You’re good,” I tell her, finishing adding in the dark green veined hosta leaves here and there at the base.

“I love what I do. I get to work with my hands and make people happy. I can’t imagine a better way to pay my bills!”

• • •

I
t’s a hectic few days at the flower shop, but the time passes quickly and I’m having fun. By the end of the day my legs are tired from being on my feet all day but I don’t mind. Diana is fun and she’s training a new girl who is young and sweet but not learning very quickly. Every night Diana thanks me for playing backup, and every night I go home feeling as if I’ve done something good.