Life Is A Foreign Language (13 page)

A sound from the direction of the garage brought her back. She cocked her head, listening. When she checked, Michael was unloading cans of paint and brushes and rollers.

She cleared her throat. “Morning, Michael.”

He looked up, a can in each hand. “Morning to you, too.” He set the cans in the garage. “I didn’t think you heard me. Would you give me a hand with the furniture on the lanai?”

She nodded, and together they stacked the chairs, pushing them and the table against the wall under the overhang. Noticing how worn and threadbare the carpet was, Nina resolved to replace it. While Michael painted, she measured the carpet, carefully writing down length and width.

“You’ll be busy for a while. I’ll go buy a carpet to replace this worn rag, and then I’m meeting Barry for lunch.”

He glanced at her from his kneeling position in the far corner of the lanai. Her breath caught when she met his blue eyes.

“Okay. If you ask them in the store, they’ll help you load the carpet in the car.” He wiped his brow with a handkerchief he pulled from his overall pocket. “I’m going over to Brian’s for lunch.”

She stopped, her hand on the door handle. “I’m sorry, I should have thought about you coming to paint before I decided to have lunch with Barry. I could have fixed us something here.” Flustered, the took a deep breath, exhaling slowly through open mouth.

“That’s perfectly all right, Nina. It’s important you talk to Barry.” He raised the paint roller in salute. “I’ll see you in the afternoon.”

She waved and after retrieving her purse, climbed in her car, somewhat embarrassed for leaving Michael. At the same time she was looking forward to seeing Barry again.

Driving north on Del Prado, she tried several stores before finding what she wanted in a specialty shop. She chose a thick forest green carpet. The salesman cut it to the measurements Nina gave and helped her fit it in the trunk.

When she arrived at the restaurant shortly after noon, Barry was already seated in a booth, a mug of coffee on the square beer mat in front of him. Seeing her approach, he slid to the side of the booth and stood, his gut making the movement seem laborious. He opened his arms to enfold her in a warm hug

“Gosh, Nina, it’s good to see you.”

“You too! It’s been … what? Two years?”

“Yeah. Too long.”

Barry gave the overall appearance of roundness: short and stocky, round head with a shock of jet-black hair standing on end, round eyes behind round black-rimmed glasses. His quick movements belied the initial impression of obesity.

They sat opposite each other on the brown vinyl-covered seats.

“How’s Paul doing?”

Barry shrugged. “Paul’s busy. He works the night shift. Hopes to be appointed head of the ER so we can have a normal life. As it is, we meet in the shower . he’s on his way in when I get out.”

She chuckled. Barry hadn’t always been so open about this relationship. During their student years, his homosexuality was kept well hidden; she was one of the few he’d let in on the secret.

“It would be fun to get together, all three of us,” she said.

“It would, and we will. As soon as Paul is on a normal work schedule, I’ll let you know.”

They studied their menus. The server filled tumblers with ice water and took their order. Nina sipped her drink, answering Barry’s questions about the children and the twins, without getting into the divorce.

After their food was served, Nina gave him an outline of her novel, describing Jeanette. “Explain to me your clinical experience with this form of personality disorder. I know the diagnostic criteria, but I need to be able to show its manifestations in my character without sounding like a textbook. I don’t want to bore my readers to death.”

He balanced a fork on his forefinger, thinking. “Okay,” he said at length. “Here’s what you need to show to project an interesting character. She strives to be the center of attention; behaves in a provocative manner, consistently—the emphasis is on consistent—uses physical appearance to draw attention.” He paused, thinking. “Without being aware, she acts out a role, like princess or victim. This should be enough. You could add some exaggerated expression of emotions. For instance, she doesn’t have an ordinary cold, she insists it’s pneumonia, which mobilizes the family and doctors, so she can be the hub of interest.”

“Such a character is often sexually inappropriate. No need to show that?”

He chortled. “Not unless you want to make your novel into a diagnostic manual, in which case you probably won’t get it published anyway. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so. Mind if I call you if I need anything more?”

“Not at all. I hope you’ll call me anyway.”

The server cleared away their plates. Barry ordered a regular coffee, Nina, decaf. After they were served, he leaned his forearms on the table, hands dangling over the edge. “Tell me about you. You look well. But there’s something different. Something new. What?”

She sighed, shrugging her shoulders. “I’ve left André. I’m getting a divorce, and I’m living here in Cape Coral now.”

He wiggled his stumpy fingers, encouraging her to keep talking. “Come on. There’s more.”

She glanced at him, puzzled. “What else do you expect? There’s nothing more.”

Mischief was in his voice as he spoke in a low, husky voice. “You’ve met somebody, a man. A special man.”

She leaned back and laughed. “You must be kidding, Barry. I’m hardly rid of André, what would I want with another man? In fact, I haven’t looked at a man in more years than I care to remember.”

“Aha.”

“What does that ‘aha’ mean?”

“So that’s what’s wrong with you. Sexual frustration.” He sounded so sure of himself.

For a long moment she stared at him, speechless, her mind a whirl. The idea of a man in her life was incongruous. Or was it?

Barry took her hand and played with the fingers. “Let me tell you this, my Nina. It’s nothing new to you, just a reminder. From what you’re implying, you haven’t had sex in a long time. My experience tells me you’ve met somebody who’s stirred up that hunger you’ve been sitting on—literally.” His round eyes were serious as they fixed on hers. “Now, go do something about it. Get laid. Fall in love. Or perhaps you already are in love. Or in lust. No matter. There are some good years ahead of you, Nina. You’ve sacrificed enough for André. This is your time.”

She held up a hand to stop the torrent of words. “I don’t know …”

“Yes, you do. I don’t need to know the details, but at least be honest with yourself. You may not be aware of it yet, but there is somebody. If he isn’t worth it, if, for instance, he already has a relationship, forget I said anything. But don’t squander this opportunity if he’s an okay guy.”

Before she could get in a word Barry continued. “I’ve known you for years, so this isn’t idle speculation on my part—you’re a very competent professional, you know your worth. In that department you’re strong and self-assured. But there’s Nina, the woman—in that role you’re insecure and fragile. From the little you’ve mentioned about your past, I believe it’s safe to assume your husband built on the damage your father caused to your self-esteem. But it’s not too late for you to outgrow the damage. You’ve already made a start through therapy; in fact, I think you’ve had all the therapy you can use. The right man could help, somebody who looks at you with positive eyes, so you’ll learn to see yourself as precious and special, instead of flawed.”

A wave of heat settled on her face. She kept stirring her coffee. “Barry, don’t go shrink on me.” The spoon fell from her numb fingers and clattered to the table. “How do you …? Gee, I don’t know what to say. I feel confused.” She shrugged.

“But I’m right, there is a man, isn’t there?”

Despite the air-conditioning she was so hot she felt perspiration trickle between her breasts. “I suppose so. Yes. His name is Michael.” Her hand on the table trembled. “He’s been very good to me and I … I’m very fond of him. When he’s around I feel good, and I miss him when he’s gone.” She toyed with the salt shaker, thinking of the times they’d shared; the things they talked about, the way she felt when he looked at her, touched her. The shaker dropped from her hand, spilling salt on the table. “Gosh, there’s no point to this discussion, Barry. Michael is a friend, and I appreciate him. I want him to remain my friend.”

He patted her hand. “Don’t get all worked up. Maybe something good has come into your life.”

She studied him. “Maybe. Yeah, who knows? I’ve had these odd feelings lately. You know—jittery, yearning and excited and … and when I see him I’m so …”

“Happy? Excited?”

“Yes. Both.” A mere whisper, not sure she had made much sense during this exchange, but her heart beat too fast, and her cheek muscles cramped from smiling.

She moved restlessly on the vinyl covered bench and leaned against the back. “I’d like some ice water, please Barry.”

He caught the attention of the server, placed the order and glanced at Nina. “Tell me about Michael.”

“I’m not sure I know that much about him.” But once she began, it poured out in a torrent of words, everything she knew about him and how they’d met. When she ran out of words, she was a little breathless. “That’s all.”

Barry smiled one of his cherubic smiles.

The server brought their check. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s the end of my shift. I’ll take this whenever you’re ready.”

Barry reached for his wallet, and counted out some bills, folding them inside the check.

Nina played with a beer mat, thinking. “I’ve had a well-organized life. Now you’ve turned everything upside down.” Possibly she didn’t dare be honest enough to admit she had grown fond of Michael in such a short time.

Barry raised both his hands in defense. “Me! I haven’t done a thing. Only made you think.” He gave her a questioning stare. “Do you trust Michael?”

“I do.”

Gathering her purse, she prepared to leave.

Barry’s hand stopped her. “Are you angry with me?”

She gave him a faint smile. “With you? Now how could I be angry with you?”

They left the restaurant, and Barry walked her to the car.

“Stay in touch,” he said. “Let me know about the novel. And about Michael.” He took her hand. “Everybody has the right to be happy. Go for it, girl—be happy.” He turned on his heels, crossed the parking lot and waved as he got in his car.

Nina eased her car out of the parking slot, where it was wedged between two SUVs. She would need to concentrate on her driving—the conversation with Barry had upset her more than she wanted to admit.

On the way, she stopped at a florist and bought a dozen long-stemmed red roses for Samantha. Feeling indulgent she bought flowers for herself, as well.

Driving into the garage, Nina was more anxious than she remembered being in a long time. She hit the remote control to close the garage door, as if by the gesture she could shut out the disturbing thoughts triggered by Barry’s comments, but failed. He had challenged her, forced her to analyze what she felt.

After her fall off the ladder, Michael soon became a constant presence. She thought she had succeeded in creating a protective wall around her feelings, but gradually, without her noticing, she came to count on him. His gentle and considerate ways, his wisdom and the things they had in common sneaked behind her armor. Without seeing it come, she’d fallen in love with him. She hadn’t planned it, had certainly not wanted it, found it much too soon after the breakup with André, but she couldn’t hide from reality; she loved him.

Nina carried the flowers into the kitchen and glanced at the lanai. While she was gone Michael had almost finished painting the first coat. His back was turned, so before she put the flowers on the counter she cracked open the sliding door, a tiny tremor in her hands from excitement.

“Hi, I’m back.”

He turned and studied her for what seemed like a long time. On a deep intake of air she gazed at him, waiting to exhale until she could breathe normally.

Clearing his throat, he wiped his hands on a paint-specked rag. “Lovely flowers. What’s the occasion?”

She smiled. “No occasion, really. I love flowers and missed having them around.”

Motioning at the red roses. “And I bought these for Samantha’s barbecue tomorrow.”

Only then did she notice Sophie standing by the screen door to the lanai, partly hidden by the “Snow on the Mountain” tree. Nina rested her eyes on Sophie, not sure she was pleased to see her, sneaking in when Nina wasn’t home, usurping Nina’s time with Michael. Then she berated herself for lack of generosity.

“Hi,” Nina said. “I didn’t see you at first.”

“I was strolling in my back yard when I saw Michael working here. Thought I’d do the neighborly thing and say hello.”

“Uh-huh. Are you sure you should be in the sun after your bout with the tumor?”

“I use plenty of sun block, don’t worry about me.”

“Well, don’t just stand there. You can’t come in through the lanai because the paint’s wet, but walk around the house, have a drink with us.”

“No, I don’t want to disturb you. Michael’s busy, and you have things to do. I’ll just go back the way I came.”

“Wait,” Nina said. “I’ll walk you …”

“I’m on my way.” She waved a wide-brimmed white canvas hat Nina hadn’t noticed.

Sophie left, and Nina went into her office, deep in thought. She wondered about Sophie’s visit, feeling uneasy. Last fall, when Sophie told about her life, she had mentioned a man she used to date. Then there had been this indefinable way she talked about Michael when she came to visit unexpectedly. Nina wondered then, as now—was it Michael Sophie had dated? Then she decided she was irrational; even if there had been something between Sophie and Michael, it must be long over, or they would have told her. She didn’t know very much about men, but it was hard to imagine that Michael would spend all this time with her if he was involved with Sophie. Nina could ask Michael, but she didn’t want to be embarrassed by her lack of self-confidence.
Let’s see how this plays out. Either they’ve been close, in which case I’ll find out or I’m totally paranoid.

In the kitchen Nina filled vases with flowers, distributing them here and there in the house—in the den, on the dining room table, in the living room, moving those she’d received from the children into her office. She was left with one vase of plump cinnamon-colored roses, which she carried into the bedroom. With defiance directed at André, she placed the vase on the dresser. He used to object to flowers where he slept—they ate up his oxygen, he insisted. As usual, Nina hadn’t protested.