The Coach House (9 page)
“And I’m not now?” he teased.
“I’ll let you know after dinner,” she teased back. She climbed the stairs to their bedroom to change clothes while he got things started in the kitchen. She emerged a few minutes later in a blue silky dress, the same one she had worn on the first day they met, and the same one she had worn to his apartment a few months later when they cooked lasagna together.
Richard looked at her and smiled a smile that went straight to her heart. “Get your pretty behind over here.” He scooped her up in his arms and gave her a strong hug. “I am defenseless against that dress!” He kissed her passionately. “Just defenseless.”
They spent the next two hours cooking, he guiding her as to what to do next…as usual. He cooked from memory and instinctive know-how. She needed a cookbook to boil water.
Marie studied his physique while he stood in front of the stove, his broad shoulders narrowing down to a tight waist. He had pushed up his sleeves, revealing his strong forearms. The hem of his sweater rested gently on the top of his narrow hips with one side slightly askew. He hummed as he stirred the sauce. She remembered the first time she had looked at him in that way; the gentle strength about him arousing.
As they constructed the layers of lasagna from noodles, sauce, bescia-mella, pieces of mozzarella, and grated Grana Padano, Harry James sang “It’s Been A Long, Long Time” in the background. The aroma of the baking lasagna gradually filled the air. They sat close to one another on the sofa while dinner cooked.
Kiss me once, then kiss me twice
Then kiss me once again
It’s been a long, long time
Haven’t felt like this, my dear
Since I can’t remember when
It’s been a long, long time
“Hold that thought.” She dashed upstairs to where she kept a memory box. She retrieved the dried purple daisy he had stolen from his next-door neighbor’s yard the first time they had cooked together.
She looked around the office, distracted by her recollection of how impressed she had been when she first saw these furnishings in his apartment: the antique roll-top desk; bookcases with leaded glass doors; and the Tchelitchew painting of peasant girls that had been a gift from the Rosas.
She noticed a book awkwardly tucked behind a box of envelopes.
Of Human Bondage,
the book she and his father had discussed the first time she met his family.
Well, that’s interesting. For some reason he felt compelled to read this book.
She wondered why. At the time, he seemed abhorrently disinterested in her discussion with his father. She wondered if it bothered him that his father, for whom he displayed so little homage, had done something impressive, something he hadn’t done. The idea worried her.
Marie shook off her thoughts, raced down the stairs, and sat next to her husband. “I saved this,” she said with a blissful smile, showing him the flower. “Do you remember what you confessed to me that night?”
He shook his head.
“I asked you to tell me everything about yourself…warts and all, and you said I already knew the important stuff.”
“And you asked me to tell you the unimportant stuff, like that I don’t always remember to put the toilet seat down, and you told me that was important.”
Marie laughed. “You’re doing well on that one by the way, but draping the wet dish rag over the kitchen faucet…”
“That’s a wart?”
“That’s a wart.”
Marie headed to the kitchen to start preparing the salad when the ringing phone caused her to stop midway in the hall.
“Hello.” There was a minute of silence before Richard said in a low voice, “I can’t talk right now.” And then he hung up the phone.
“Who was that, hon?”
“Nobody important. I’m going to check on the lasagna. Is the salad ready?”
“You know when you do that, it only makes me suspicious.”
Richard looked her right in the eye. “There’s nothing to be suspicious about, Marie. It was Jack Clancy from work. He’s trying to hone in on my Fiefield project in the worst way. Now the bastard’s calling me at home, and I don’t appreciate it. Alright?” He knew she didn’t like it when he used foul language. She didn’t respond.
They ate in the dining room on the massive cherry table Richard had had in his bachelor days. Six chairs fit around it comfortably, and two others flanked each side of the buffet. He lit candles and poured each of them a glass of wine. Harry James warbled in the background.
Imagine me with my head on your shoulder
And you with your lips getting bolder
A sky full of moon and a sweet mellow tune
I’ll buy that dream
“I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
A honeymoon in Cairo, in a brand new autogyro
Then off to Rio for a drink
We’ll settle down in Dallas
In a little plastic palace
Oh it’s not as crazy as you think
He walked over to her and hugged her. Marie heaved an audible sigh.
“Was that a good sigh or a bad one?”
“A little of both I think,” she admitted.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
They separated, and Marie retreated to the living room. Richard stayed in the kitchen. She heard the side door slam shut and then silence. A minute passed. Still no noise from the kitchen. She waited another whole minute.
What is he doing?
Richard emerged through the front door. He had a flower in his hand. He leaned over his wife and put it in her hair, and then kissed her nose. “You look beautiful tonight.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Richard, you have GOT to stop stealing the neighbor’s flowers.”
As they tidied up the kitchen together, Richard purposely brushed up against her every chance he could, trying to reenact their first lasagna dinner from a year earlier. Marie played the game by quickly stepping out of his way each time to avoid his contact, the bottom of her silky dress swishing around her legs with every step.
“You realize it was that kind of movement that caught my eye the first time I laid eyes on you.” They laughed and retreated to the living room, sitting down next to each other on the sofa. He put his arm around her and massaged her neck with his strong fingers. She leaned back into his arm and turned her head until her eyes met his. She loved moments like this. She pictured them a few years forward doing the same thing while a baby cooed in a bassinet nearby. “I love you, Mr. Marchetti.”
“I love you, too.” The phone rang, again interrupting them. “I’m not going to answer it.”
After ten rings, Marie started to get up to answer the phone.
“Just leave it ring. It’s probably something related to work, and they need to stop calling me in the evening.”
Marie got up. “Or it could be for me,” she said dryly.
“Hello?”
Richard sat on the edge of the sofa while Marie concentrated on what the caller had to say. “He can’t come to the phone right now. Can I give him a message?”
She stared at Richard. “Okay. I’ll tell him.” She hung up the phone.
Marie’s heart sank. One minute Richard could be so benevolent, and the next minute someone was calling him about a notorious mobster’s funeral arrangements. “Capone’s funeral is on Friday at one,” she said. Richard’s face showed no reaction. She headed towards the stairs. “Have a nice evening.”
She felt flat, emotionless, as she climbed into bed. She knew if she had confronted Richard on why someone would call him about Capone’s funeral, he would come up with a semi-believable explanation, and then it would create distance between them. As a newlywed, distance was the last thing she wanted between them. She wanted each and every day to bring them closer together, closer to being a family.
Shortly after their one-year anniversary, looking back at their whirlwind courtship, Marie wondered more than once if she should have given the relationship more time to evolve before getting married. They had met in September, and by early December, they were making plans to spend their first night together. The Rosas, who closed their restaurant on many of the holidays for entertaining family and close friends, had invited them to their Christmas Eve dinner party.
“How would you feel about spending the night together on Christmas Eve?” he had asked. “You could have my bed, and I could sleep on the sofa.”
She accepted his offer, but as the evening grew nearer, the more nervous she became. She wanted to go with her heart, but her head kept tugging her in the other direction.
When Christmas Eve finally did arrive, Richard sensed her uneasiness and did his best to make her comfortable. “Why don’t you get settled in my room while I take a quick shower?” he suggested.
“Richard, are you sure you want to sleep on the sofa?”
“No, I’d rather sleep in here.” He shot her a playful grin.
“I meant
I
could sleep on the sofa just as easily.”
“Oh,
that’s
what you meant,” he chuckled. He sat down beside her on his bed. “Okay, I’ll behave.” He kissed her lightly, and then more deeply. “If you need anything, I’ll be right in there, in the shower. Just shout. I’ll come running right out if you need me,” he said as he got up off the bed. She threw a pillow at him.
Marie changed clothes and retreated to the living room. When the rush of water in the shower suddenly stopped, she could hear him rattling around his bedroom. He emerged wearing only his trousers. She tried not to stare at his strong hairy chest. In his right hand he held up a blue shirt and blue and grey striped tie. In his left were a grey pinstriped shirt and solid black tie. He tilted his head toward her. “Which one?”
She was wearing a black dress with a grey cummerbund-style belt. “I like them both, but if you wear the grey shirt, it might look like we dressed to match each other.” While she kind of liked the idea, she thought that might not be something a man’s man would do.
“Okay.” He hummed an aria from
Camille
while he finished dressing. He surprised her every time he did something like that. He had no formal training in the fine arts, yet could hum that tune. He hadn’t attended college, but had read books that no high school kid would have ever read. He owned an original Tchelitchew and could talk about the artist. And he could recite poetry.
Richard entered the living room in the grey pinstriped shirt and black tie. A slow smile quickly came to her lips and then to his.
That was sweet.
“I’ll get us a couple of drinks, and then I’ll introduce you around,” he said when they arrived at Rosa’s. She waited outside the bar area and watched him as he shook one hand after another, putting his arm around the men, or slapping them on their backs.
While Richard made his rounds, a short jowly man, somewhere in his fifties with massive shoulders and a stomach to match, approached Marie. Unlike every other man in the room, he wore no tie. His shirt lay rumpled beneath his cheap, ill-fitting suit coat, and his pants had long since lost their crease.
“Godalite?” He winked at Marie with a red-rimmed eye and held up a cigar with his sausage-like fingers. Her eyes rolled toward the thick tufts of hair growing out of his ears and the shimmering beads of perspiration on his temples. “I’m sorry, I don’t,” she responded, taking a step back from him. Her eyes darted in the direction of where she had last seen Richard.
“Hey, Guido! Stop harassing my girl!” Richard returned from the bar with a glass of red wine in one hand and something on the rocks in the other.
“I ain’t harassin’ her, Med Man. I was just lookin’ for a light. Whatsamatta? Can’t I even
talk
to your new boo?”
Richard made quick introductions and then briskly took Marie’s elbow and headed into the main dining room.
“Why did he call you Med Man?”
“I don’t know. Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s crazy.”
