Mourning Becomes Cassandra (10 page)

“No way! I may be old, but if the Predator gets desperate enough he might go for me. Besides, I wanted to make that cheesecake for tomorrow. Do we have a head count?”

“Don’t bother asking us,” said Joanie. “Better ask Daniel when he comes home.”

Cheesecake was something I hadn’t made in years, but I had a good recipe, the kind with sour cream topping that covered any surface cracks. I was pulling the baked graham-cracker crust out of the oven when Daniel came home. I hadn’t seen much of him this week; the couple times he came home at a normal hour he had Missy with him, and Missy made it clear that she didn’t want to socialize. It made me slightly uncomfortable to have him catch me in the kitchen with an apron on. Too Mrs. Cleaver or something. At least when Missy was with him, I felt more like Alice on
The Brady Bunch
.

“Smells great. What is that?” he asked, dropping his briefcase and gym bag by the barstools, and running his hand through his hair. He must have just showered because the blond spikes were still damp.

“It’s the spaghetti I made, but this here will be a cheesecake for tomorrow. By the way, should we be expecting the barbarian hordes? Joanie wants to grill salmon, but we don’t want to put it on the endangered species list.”

“I’ll rein it in, then,” he answered lightly, taking the plate and glass I offered him. “I think just Michelle and me.”

“You mean Missy. Her name is Missy, for Pete’s sake.” I pushed the spinach salad toward him.

“No, actually, her name is Michelle. Missy and I are…taking a break.”

“Oh,” I said, blushing. Turning away, I dumped the cream cheese and eggs in the mixer and switched it on. Sugar, vanilla, lemon zest. Once, when I had been using my stand mixer, I lifted Min up to see the beater rotating. When I put her down, she turned round and round across the kitchen floor, to show me what she’d seen.

“Are you sorry to see her go?” Daniel broke into my thoughts. For a second I was confused and thought he meant Min.

I shook my head to clear it. “No. I mean, it’s none of my business. I’m sure Michelle will have her…strong points as well.” Knowing Daniel, I’m sure she’d have at least two very strong points. Wanting to change the subject I added, “Do you know much about criminal law?”

“Why, have you done something naughty?”

“No, a…a friend of mine did.” His flirty tone made me uncomfortable, but I couldn’t help grinning when I said this. “Do you know, for instance, if vandalism can be considered a felony?”

“You were going to repaint your room, weren’t you? Are you trying to tell me something? Should I go take a look?”

What was the deal with him? “I promise you it’s not me, and my room looks fine. Be serious and answer the question.”

He sat back thoughtfully. “Well, I’m going off of two quarters of criminal law years ago, but I’m pretty sure that vandalism is considered a misdemeanor until you exceed a certain dollar amount in damage. I don’t know Washington State’s threshold.”

“Does it make a difference if it’s a minor?” I pressed.

“It makes a difference in who has to pay for it. The minor’s parents are probably liable, but the minor himself would be the one arrested or doing time or facing charges.”

“So then, what would it mean if the prosecutor diverted? Would that mean you wouldn’t face charges?”

“If it’s a first-time offense, oftentimes the prosecutor will want to give the kid a chance to rehabilitate and make restitution, without getting a ding on their record. I imagine a property crime would fall in that bucket.” Daniel’s mouth twisted in characteristic amusement, his heavy-lidded eyes meeting mine. “Quite the conversation. I wouldn’t have let you live here, you know, if I didn’t think you were a good church girl. I hope you’re not falling in with the wrong crowd.”

“Yeah, and I thought you said they weren’t coming to open house this week,” I retorted. It annoyed me that Daniel seemed incapable of conversing with a woman without having that flirtatious edge. It was only absent when he spoke to Joanie or Phyl. Joanie was obvious, but why not Phyl? I pondered this while pouring the filling into the springform pan. Did he suspect flirting with Phyl would make a giant mess of things, but I was safe? I was a broken-hearted widow, for crying out loud—show some respect.

Gingerly I placed the cheesecake in the oven and set the timer. Between the spaghetti and the dessert, I’d managed to dirty every bowl, pot, and utensil in the place, and it took me some time to clean up. When I finally finished, I snuck a peek at Daniel. To my surprise, he was perusing my
David Copperfield
, which I’d left on the table. He must have felt my eyes on him because he looked up. “Yours, I gather? Joanie only reads books which are sub-200 pages.”

I nodded. “Mine. I’m kind of a Dickens nut. When it comes to good books, I think the longer the better. I even like his long-winded descriptions. The only thing I don’t like is that every book seems to have at least one character I can’t stand.”

He waved
David Copperfield
. “Uriah Heep?” he guessed.

“He’s awful, too,” I agreed, “But it’s Steerforth who drives me nuts.”

Daniel’s gaze flicked away, out the bay window. “Because he’s a seducer?”

Was that a
conscience
smiting him? I smothered a giggle. “No! I mean, it’s bad that he ruins Little Em’ly, but what really bugs me is how David is so trusting of someone who only uses him. It’s the same reason that I want to wring Mr. Skimpole’s neck in
Bleak House
.” I couldn’t quite believe I was having this conversation with him. Apparently discussing literature could effectively jolt him out of perpetual flirtation mode.

“Steerforth takes advantage of David Copperfield, and Skimpole takes advantage of Mr. Jarndyce, but does it necessarily follow that the users don’t love the ones they use?”

“That isn’t love,” I objected. “That’s…fondness…for someone who indulges your self-love without giving you any trouble. Real love is thinking about the other before you think of yourself. Thinking about the good of the other, even if it puts you at a disadvantage or costs you something.” He didn’t answer, and I felt suddenly embarrassed by my earnestness. Cripe, I’d be quoting the Bible at him next.

It appeared to have bounced off the Teflon, however. He laid my book back down and gathered his things. “Well, I’ve got some trade secrets to protect before I hit the hay tonight,” he said lightly. “Enjoy your book, Cass.” That sly look returned. “Unless you’d rather hold my pens.”

“Your what?” I gasped, almost dropping the tub of sour cream.

“Pens.
Pens
. Like Dora Copperfield does for David. What on earth did you think I said?”

“Never mind,” I muttered, turning away to hide my scarlet face. I heard him laughing softly as he let himself out the back door.

Our second open house was much quieter.

Dave and Sandy Lucker showed up, looking as awkward and nervous as I did, at first. We hadn’t really spent much time together in the past year, and when I congratulated Sandy on her new pregnancy, she stammered and teared up, assuming I was feeling terrible about Min, which I actually hadn’t been until she made me think I ought to, and then I teared up, too, confirming her fears. Ugh.

Sandy and I had never been total kindred spirits, but we had gotten along well enough to make the Luckers our closest couple friends. Dave and Troy were much more compatible: they met on a church service day when they were both assigned to carpentry, and found additional common ground at work and weekly pick-up basketball. Sandy and I bonded over our daughters: little Claire Lucker was a girl exactly Min’s age. Ordinarily Sandy could talk indefatigably about Claire—something I had found tedious when I still had a daughter of my own—but now, with the emotional embargo on the subject, Sandy seemed at a loss.

“Do you have Claire signed up for anything?” I asked.

“Oh, yes!” Sandy glowed. “I found this great Mommy & Me ballet class at the Arts Center. Claire just loves it and wants to ‘practice’ with me all the time, and she even wanted her leotard to match mine. It is the cutest thing…It’s—that is—we like it.” She trailed off uncomfortably.

As for Dave, he and I couldn’t get much beyond how his job was going, and he took frequent refuge in talking to Roy or Daniel, while shooting me occasional furtive looks. If my anxiety for their anxiety hadn’t been so exhausting, I might have pitied their pity for me. As it was, I was grateful for my new house and housemates because they didn’t excite any painful compassion, and we could converse as a large group without having constantly to avoid emotional landmines. Phyl’s sangria didn’t hurt, either.

Roy was on a roll that week with Joanie because he had scraped together several first-round interviews with different companies. His unemployed status was cramping their dating style, and they had only seen each other at church and Chaff because Roy didn’t want Joanie to treat. Even for the open house he had done his part, showing up with a respectable orzo salad that was his own creation.

Phyl was 0-for-2 on the invites, and I was secretly hoping the Luckers would go home early and leave us free to play another game of Scrabble.

Missy’s replacement Michelle was the assertive brunette I remembered from last week, and I preferred her to Missy, if only for the fact that she didn’t seem so desperate for attention. She was an architect in a firm that shared Daniel’s office building in downtown Seattle, and she was refreshingly smart and confident. When I whispered as much to Joanie, Joanie only cracked, “Yeah, and I bet Daniel’s been studying her form and function.” He looked willing to learn, turning on the full charm for her, and she was smart enough to hold herself a little apart.

After yesterday’s odd conversation with him, I was relieved that he hardly seemed to notice my presence, although I might have preferred disrespectful flirtation to walking on eggshells with the Luckers. Phyl, however, was a little cast down by Michelle’s superiority and was trying to make up for it by being extra nice to her.

“I think that’s wonderful, that new high-rise your firm designed going up on Camden and Northeast 6
^th
,” Phyl said warmly, “Did you play a part in that?”

“They actually gave me the atrium,” Michelle answered. “I had a great vision for this multi-story waterfall dropping down the center of the grand staircase against a stained-glass backdrop, but alas—cost-cutting measures. The glass made it in, but the waterfall had to go, and the staircase turned out to be much more utilitarian.” She gave a graceful shrug.

“I love stained glass,” Phyl enthused. “The company that did the glass for our new church building did a beautiful job.”

“It’s probably the same company the builders are using. There aren’t many in the area—Ascensions and Crucifixions aren’t such a growth industry anymore.” A hint of condescension tinged her voice. “In fact, I wanted my design to reflect a new, secular spirituality, a yearning for transcendence. You know, the human race, kind of,
outgrowing
the chains that held us back.”

Phyl looked abashed, but I saw Joanie sitting up a little straighter. “What kind of chains?” she asked innocently. Joanie loved philosophical discussions.

“Well, chains like religion and old ways of thinking,” Michelle said, with an apologetic smile at Phyl.

“That sounds good,” said Joanie. “No more religion and old ways of thinking. What are we growing toward? What is our new source of transcendence?”

Michelle sat up a little straighter. “I would say…compassion. And peace based on tolerance for people’s differences. Growing toward…our potential…Love, I guess.”

“Love? Oh, I thought you were describing toleration,” said Joanie. “What kind of love? What do you mean by love?”

Michelle threw a glance at Daniel, as if to say
what’s with your intense sister
? but he merely shrugged. One got the sense that she could throw around phrases like “secular spirituality” and “yearning for transcendence” at the office without anyone questioning her. “By love I mean love! We recognize our common humanity. I let you be you, and you let me be me, and we don’t throw bombs at each other.”

“But what if me being me hurts you? Or what if you being you hurts me? Or what if you being you hurts you? What would love do in that situation?”

“I’m not following,” Michelle said impatiently. “Are we in college again? This feels like a freshman dorm talk.”

“I don’t get what you mean by love,” persisted Joanie. “If people love me, I hope that would mean more than being nice and not throwing bombs at me. How much do you really love me, if you don’t actually care what the hell I do or think, even if it’s harmful? How much do I really love you, if I don’t care what the hell you do or think, even if it hurts you? Is that really love I’m feeling for you, or is it just…just…”

“Fondness,” interrupted Daniel, “for someone who indulges your self-love without giving you any trouble.” It would be hard to say whose mouth fell open the hardest—maybe a three-way tie between Joanie, Michelle, and me. Briefly his eyes met mine, and I couldn’t read his expression.

Michelle was done. “All I meant was I think it’s possible as a race to be humane and compassionate and loving without all the religious baggage,” she snapped.

“That would be a lovely development,” Joanie mused. “And since religion and old ways of thinking haven’t changed much about us as a race, I sure hope your stained glass will do the trick.”

“Should we get started on the cheesecake?” Phyl piped up hurriedly, when Michelle looked ready to blow. “I’ll get a pot of decaf on.”

Dessert marked a philosophical truce, and deliverance came shortly after: Dave and Sandy invoked the twelve-year-old babysitter and left at 8:30, with vague assurances on both sides to get together again soon; Roy and Joanie plopped on the couch to watch a movie; Phyl and I got the Scrabble board out; and Daniel and Michelle left to enjoy what Joanie called “second helpings of cheesecake.”

“I don’t think she liked getting into it with me,” Joanie remarked, trying to skip through the movie previews.