| |
SIOBHAN
I wanted to grill Nana the minute I came home last night, but remembered how I hated my mom waiting up for me whenever I got in from a date. Which, let’s face it, didn’t happen too often these days. One of the problems living in a small town your whole life, everybody knew your past. I was probably going to have to leave the state to find a man who didn’t mind dating a former binge and purge addict. These days, though, I didn’t have the energy to care. All my interest focused on staying healthy and taking care of the body I’d so badly abused.
In Nana’s case, I did the decent thing and waited ‘til the next morning over coffee and multi-grain avocado toast before beginning the Inquisition. She sailed into the kitchen from upstairs, about forty-five minutes before sunrise, already dressed in a multi-orange-colored caftan, heavy wooden beads draped around her neck, and her long gray hair roped into a single thick braid. God, who got up this early willingly? If I didn’t have this job scheduled today, no one would beat me out of bed when it was still dark outside. I guess old people need less sleep.
“So...?” I said over the rim of my cup. “How’d it go last night? Did you have a good time?”
Her face lit up, and she looked two dozen years younger than her real age. “It was wonderful. The food was delicious and the company even more so. I’d forgotten how much fun dating can be.” She poured herself a cup of coffee before sitting in the chair across from me. The light in her eyes intensified as she leaned closer to whisper to me, as if someone might be hanging out in the backyard, eavesdropping on our conversation. “Do you know what he did?”
My stomach pitched, but I managed to calm the sudden attack of disgust with a quick sip of coffee. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
“Ha!” she cackled and gave my hand a playful slap. “Nothing libidinous, Bon-Bon. Get your mind out of the gutter. He asked...” She stole a quick glance at the window. Golly, I hoped the sparrow near the bird feeder outside didn’t fly off to tell his squirrel friends. “He asked if he could kiss me.”
“Uh-huh. And did you say yes?”
She slapped my hand harder. “You’re missing the point. He asked first! Do you have any idea how extraordinary that is? No man ever asked my permission to kiss me before. They just...leaned in and kissed me.”
I shrugged. “Times have changed, Nana.”
“I know. That’s what’s so wonderful. I mean, I suppose it’s old hat for your generation, but to me it was...” She spread her arms wide and took in a loud, deep breath. “...powerful. To have a man ask permission is so sexy, don’t you think?”
Yeah, yeah. Get to the meat of the story. “Well, what happened? Did you let him kiss you?”
Her lips tightened into a smirk. “None of your beeswax.”
I had my answer. “You did!” Now, I leaned forward. “How was it?”
“Very pleasant.”
I couldn’t stop my eyes from rolling like they did during every conversation with an adult in my pre-teen years. Very pleasant? A spring day is very pleasant. A kiss should be—
Whoa. Wait a sec. Did I really want to know if Captain Lou tongue-kissed my grandmother? Ewww. No. I stared out the window, watching the sparrow pluck suet from the feeder until the images in my head became tolerable again.
“So what’s your schedule today?” Nana’s question brought me back to the kitchen. “Busy day at the studio?”
I drained the last of my coffee. “I don’t have any appointments today so I thought I’d focus on snapping a few more shots for Justin’s new brochures. I’m headed out now—need to catch the sunrise by the lighthouse. But I should be home around noon. Why? Wanna do some Christmas shopping and maybe go to the movies later this afternoon? It’s half-price for shows before five o’clock.”
“I’ve got a better idea. How about I make us a nice dinner here? When was the last time you had my lasagna?”
God, give me strength. Nana’s lasagna was made with five different cheeses, four layers of homemade pasta, and three types of meat. I waved a hand. “Thanks, but no. That’s way too rich.”
She gave me a hard look. “You’re not in trouble again, are you, Bon-Bon?”
“No.” She cocked her head, and I repeated the denial, more adamant this time. “No, Nana! I’m okay. I just don’t eat anything that heavy for a standard Friday night dinner. Besides, that’s a lot of work for you when you’re cooking for two of us.”
She perched her chin on her fist. “I suppose you’re right. What can I make then?”
“Don’t go to any fuss, please. I usually grab a salad with grilled chicken or a small bowl of soup and half a sandwich.” My grandmother’s eyes narrowed as she scanned me from head-to-toe. I didn’t give her another chance to doubt me out loud. “Take a look in the fridge, Nana! Every weekend, I spend hours prepping food for myself. I’ve got half a dozen covered dishes with vegetables, whole grains, and lots of protein-rich stuff. I follow a strict eating schedule with three meals a day plus snacks. I’ve even started introducing small desserts into my day so I can get used to eating sweets again. My monthly grocery bill is almost the same as my car insurance payment because I have to buy organic. I know how much damage I did to myself. My doctor and nutritionist remind me at every visit. My stomach still tries to reject anything I put in it whenever I eat. Every day is a struggle, and my stress level is...” I raised my hand above my head. “...currently around here. So, please. Give me some credit. I’m doing the best I can!”
Through my diatribe, Nana’s expression went from suspicious to shocked to sympathetic, and I winced at my outburst, but she took it in typical Nana stride. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I worry about you, that’s all.” She dropped three heaping teaspoons of sugar in her coffee and stirred. The spoon clanking against the ceramic mug sounded like musical chastisement.
Regardless, I didn’t have time to argue. I shot to my feet and grabbed my coat off the back of my chair. “Gotta go. I want to catch the light. I’ll call you this afternoon, okay? Check if there’s a movie you want to see later.”
I raced out the door and drove to the lighthouse. Visitor parking was closed so I detoured over to the construction entrance. At the security booth, I rolled down my window, prepared to explain myself, but the burly, bald guard on duty waved me through. “Mr. Vais said you might show up one of these days. Didn’t say you’d be here so early, though.”
Did everyone want to rebuke me today? This is one of the reasons why I hate mornings. The whole world is cranky. “I won’t be long,” I replied. “I want to grab some pics of the sunrise.”
“Okay.” He pointed toward the far end of the chain link fence, at a grassy knoll where two pickup trucks and an SUV sat side by side by side. “Park over there. Stay away from the bluffs and away from the construction equipment.”
Duh. Still, I nodded my thanks and did as instructed. By the time I got my tripod and camera set up, a pink sliver lay atop the dark blue line where the Atlantic met the sky. My breath came out in short puffs and mixed with the icy air to form tiny clouds. The weatherman had predicted a mild December day, but at this time of morning, the cliffs overlooking the ocean still held a heavy frost. I could barely get my body to move, thanks to my bulky parka and gloves. I rushed to check my light meter and finish framing my shot, then clicked the shutter at least a hundred times while perched precariously at the edge of the rocky bluffs, hoping to highlight the tall grasses shadowed against the increasing sunlight.
I wished it were June, when blooming wildflowers would have been such a fabulous contrast. I wondered for a brief moment if I could hit up Pan again for something colorful to create that contrast. Then I remembered. That meant I’d have to come back and do this all again, and as I said earlier, I’m not, by nature, a morning person. Let me clarify that. The idea of leaving my nice warm bed before the sun came up and schlepping down here to crouch in frigid oceanic temperatures on slippery boulders, risking life and limb for a handful of decent photos, made me crankier than a hibernating bear getting poked with a sharp stick.
Maybe I could doctor up something back at the studio...
I was in the middle of breaking down my equipment when I spotted Justin picking his way across the rocky shoreline toward me. The sun was up at last, but the wind still sliced my cheeks. Justin kept his hands in his jacket pockets, and it amazed me he didn’t have his arms outstretched to keep his balance as he leaped from one rock to the other. I would have windmilled on each landing. When he got close, he gave me his usual greeting. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I said back.
“How’s it going?”
“Good.” I gestured to my gear. “At least, I hope so. I won’t know for sure ‘til I get these back to the studio, but I liked what I saw through the lens.”
Scintillating conversation, right? It was weird that I felt so awkward around him. Judging by the way he shuffled his feet and looked everywhere but in my eyes, my discomfort was contagious.
“I’m sure they’ll be terrific. You’re a great artist.” I snorted, and he finally met my gaze. “What? You are. Don’t you believe me?”
“I’m an okay photographer,” I told him with a shrug. I wasn’t being humble to play some kind of game. Compliments of any kind always unnerved me—a leftover issue from my bulimic days when I was never thin enough, pretty enough, good enough.
“You’re more than okay. You’re super talented. You’ve got a great eye. I noticed that right away. Creatives like us are weird, but in a good way. We see what isn’t there. We fill in the blanks in peoples’ lives. We can take a whole lotta nothing and create magic. That’s a gift.” He turned to focus his gaze on a group of piping plovers that skittered over the shoreline on their bright orange legs, dipping their nubby beaks into the sand in search of breakfast. “I’ll...umm...let you get back to it.”
“Great. Thanks.”
He started to walk away, then craned his neck over his shoulder to ask, “When should I stop by to see what magic you’ve come up with for me?”
“I’ll call you,” I told him.
“Okay, then. I’ll wait to hear from you.”
“Uh-huh.”
I watched him walk away, hands still stuffed in his pockets, and wondered if he actually came over here to give me that pretty speech about creatives and magic. And if he did, why? I felt as dumb as I did when reading Beowulf in junior high school. I knew I was supposed to get something out of it, but every word flew miles over my head.
An hour later in my studio, I stared critically at the first batch of photos. What caught my eye weren’t the lighthouse shots I took earlier or the waterfall pics from Coffield’s Wharf. Nope. What I stared at with so much keen interest were images of Justin I snapped yesterday afternoon. Despite the fact I’d been trying to throw him off his game at the time, in every photo, I noticed his easygoing smile, the way one curl of hair fell over his forehead, his relaxed attitude. There was something so welcoming about Justin, something in his humor, in the way he considered me and our relationship. Not that kind of relationship! Strictly professional, but still...
With Justin, I wasn’t Barf Bag Bendlow. I was Siobhan, an artist who created magic out of a whole lotta nothing. A smile lifted my lips and my mood, and I wore that smile until I returned home later in the afternoon.
♥♥♥♥
ALTHEA
After Siobhan left, I practiced my yoga in the living room in the nude, the way God intended. The beach allowed me to watch the dawn break while I did my sun salutations, but being in the house gave my skin the freedom to feel the air as I moved from one pose to the next.
Revitalized and ready to start my day, I slipped into my caftan again and let my mind wander to my earlier conversation with my granddaughter. Velma watched as I stowed my mat in the hall closet.
“I don’t care what Bon-Bon said,” I told my kitten. “I’m going to make a nice dinner tonight. And I’ll invite Jimmy to join us.”
My lasagna would have been the perfect meal to serve to a hungry man, but if she couldn’t tolerate anything too rich, serving such a hearty pasta dish could backfire big time. So, what could I make that was filling enough for a big guy like Jimmy, but wouldn’t adversely affect my granddaughter’s sensitive stomach?
I headed into the home office my late son, Tim, had built for his business, and turned on the computer on the desk. After it booted up, I researched post-bulimic meal plans, but gave up after clicking on a dozen links. I couldn’t see Jimmy opting to come over for broiled salmon steaks or black bean burgers. I’d have to improvise. Maybe I could slim down the lasagna? I dove back into my internet search for a few recipes, but none of them appealed. Cottage cheese and tofu meat substitute? Please. My grandmother would roll over in her Sicilian grave!
Okay, back to square one. Another few minutes of searching gave me a better plan. I could serve a three-course meal: salad (which would appease Siobhan’s request to keep it simple), followed by a nice pot roast with root vegetables, and a light chocolate mousse for dessert. Filling enough for a man like Jimmy, yet my granddaughter could eat smaller amounts and still be involved in the meal.
Yes! I fist-pumped the air and spun the chair until I got dizzy. Toss in some homemade biscuits, and I had the ideal—no, wait!
Would my matchmaking be too obvious if it was just the three of us? Well, I could fix that. I’d invite Lou. That would look a lot less suspicious to Siobhan, especially if I made it seem like I was simply doing my part to feed the unfortunate single men in town, those who didn’t have a woman to take care of them. Siobhan would buy it. I’d already established a habit of picking up strays, going way back. In fact, I remembered the squirrel I brought into the apartment after my miscarriage.
I guess losing the baby had opened up a hole in me that desperately needed filling. Trixie, the aforementioned baby squirrel, had fallen out of a tree in the Rugermans’ backyard. The poor thing had a broken leg when I came upon her early one morning. I brought her inside and set her leg with a clothespin and some surgical tape. Rudimentary, but I thought it would work. I found an old birdcage at a local garage sale and kept her in it while she healed. For a time, Trixie’s presence made me feel a lot less alone. Caring for her, cleaning up after her, feeding her, talking to her, performing all the tasks I would have with my baby eased my sorrow.
My only other companion in those days was Lou. He’d bring me leftovers because I couldn’t bring myself to cook. After dinner, he’d sit on my couch and watch TV with me. As I’ve already said, we never discussed the miscarriage, and he never asked me out again, though I often tried to get him to expand his social circle beyond me.
“You should be hanging out with people your own age,” I said one evening while he fed Trixie crushed walnuts I’d swiped from the returns area at work.
“I get more than enough time with them at school,” he said with a grimace.
I turned on the television and switched the channel to CBS. In those days, kids, we didn’t have remote controls. We actually had to change channels and increase or decrease the volume by getting up and walking to the television. Shudder. As Archie Bunker sang the opening line of the All in the Family theme song, I settled on the lumpy couch beside Lou and handed him the bowl of popcorn I’d cooked up.
“You’re an old soul, Lou,” I said with a sad smile. “I get that. But don’t let your rush to catch up to your soul take away your youth while you’ve got it.”
“And you shouldn’t always interfere in everybody’s life, but you can’t help yourself. You’ve just gotta shake things up, don’t you?” He ran a hand down Trixie’s back. “You know, my mom’s gonna have a conniption if she finds out you’re keeping a squirrel down here.”
I dug into the popcorn bowl. “I’ll let her go eventually. When she’s stronger and the leg is healed.”
Eventually, as predicted, Lorraine Rugerman found out about Trixie and had a hissy-fit, screeching about rabies and fleas and other parasites Trixie might have brought into her house. I had to let Trixie go, but because she couldn’t be released back into the wild thanks to months in captivity and a fractured leg that hadn’t healed properly (who knew half a clothespin didn’t make a sufficient splint?), I brought her to a local wildlife sanctuary where she lived out her days in relative comfort.
Since the sanctuary was open to the public, I’d visit her on weekends to check on her care. I always thought she recognized me, but then again, maybe she climbed up the side of the chain link fence and stuck out her paw for treats with everyone who stopped to say hello to her. I do know she delighted the crowds there for over a decade before she died. I like to think I bought her years she wouldn’t have otherwise lived. A squirrel in the wild barely made it two years, much less ten.
Velma meowed, reminding me I had new little ones to care for and I hadn’t fed them yet. “Impatient demons, aren’t you?” I admonished. Shameless, the gray kitten meowed even more pitifully then wended herself around my legs. I glanced at the clock to check the time. “Okay, chill, sweetie. Let Mommy make a phone call first.”
Lou would be up and getting ready to head to the dock by now, but I didn’t have a personal phone number for him. Clearly, we were both out of practice with this dating stuff.
“I’ll have to call him at work,” I told Velma as I scooped her up and set her on my lap.
She nuzzled the palm of my hand and kneaded my thighs with painful pumps of her teeny claws.
“Easy,” I said on a sharp intake of breath and lifted her slightly to disengage her from my caftan. I loved the color of this particular garment, a ripe tangerine that reminded me of sunshine and citrus, the antithesis of a gray December day. I didn’t want pulls in the fabric. One of the best perks of growing old is the power in not caring what anyone thought about my clothes, my hairstyle, or how I spent my time and money.
Archie always cared too much about appearances, particularly mine—as if my being seen getting the mail without perfectly coiffed hair, the right outfit, and supermodel makeup reflected poorly on his ability to replace the brake pads in a 1982 Buick Riviera. Don’t get me wrong. Archie was the love of my life, and during our marriage, I never thought about his obsession with my appearance, my behavior, or how others perceived me. Oh, sure. We butted heads about a lot of things beyond family finances and the differences in our approach to childrearing. Name a hot-button topic of today, and I’ll tell you how we fought about it throughout the years of our marriage: politics, social issues, the ERA, religion.
The Archie who came home from Vietnam was not the wide-eyed innocent I married. He was harder, harsher, and often, a stranger. Still, we made it work for forty years before he was taken from me, and I wouldn’t trade our time together for anything.
One last time this morning, I surfed the ‘net, this time for the contact info to Captain Lou’s fishing fleet’s main office. Once I found the phone number, I wrote it on a yellow sticky note to keep for future reference. Later, I’d program it into my cell. For now, I used the phone on Tim’s desk to call.
After two rings, a tired feminine voice answered. “It’s a great day for fishing here at Captain Lou’s. How can I help you?”
“Umm...hi. Is Lou in yet?”
“He’s onboard the Kristen Star, getting ready to take a party out. Can I help you with something?”
“No, I really need to talk to him. Could you please tell him Althea Bendlow is on the phone, and it’s important?”
The woman on the other end did nothing to hide her impatience with me, exhaling a huge sigh full of umbrage because I wouldn’t accept her as liaison. “Fine. Hold, please.”
Music filled the receiver, Ravel’s Une Barque Sur l’Ocean. Maybe that was why I liked Lou so much. He was as full of contradictions as I was. One minute, he was the burly, rough-hewn sea captain with a full day’s scruff on his chin and cheeks. The next, he showed a fondness for classical music and injured squirrels. While I pondered his qualities and quirks, the music stopped, a fumble came through the earpiece, and his voice boomed at me. “Thea? Is everything okay, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart? When had I graduated from dollface? And why? Was the new endearment for my benefit or the snippy receptionist? I didn’t know but rolled with it. “Nothing, darling. I was hoping you were free for dinner tonight. I’m making pot roast.”
“It depends. My last run gets back to port here at five. By the time I get the boat cleaned and drive home for a quick shower, the earliest I’d be at your place is six-thirty. Is that too late for you?”
“Six-thirty would be perfect.” To be honest, I would’ve preferred to serve dinner earlier, but the beauty of a pot roast was the longer it cooked, the more tender the meat and vegetables became. So I’d let Siobhan take me Christmas shopping, maybe agree to see a movie, and spring the dinner idea on her last minute when it would be too late for her to argue.
“Great,” Lou replied. “I’ll see you around six-thirty. Can I bring you something? Dessert? A bottle of wine?”
I wasn’t sure if Siobhan’s condition allowed for alcohol and didn’t want to discover the truth the hard way. “Just bring yourself,” I told him. “My granddaughter and one of our neighbors will be joining us.”
“Siobhan and Jimmy?” he guessed. “Are they an item?”
“Not yet.” A knowing smirk stretched my lips, and I didn’t try to hide it. No one was around to see me except Velma. “But I’m hoping to get things moving in that direction.”
He chuckled. “Good old Thea. Still upsetting the balance in everyone else’s life, huh?”
The comment got my back up, and I stroked Velma’s thick fur until I could speak with passion but no rancor. “My granddaughter deserves to be happy. If she has to fall to find that happiness, I’ll push her over the cliff to make it happen.”
His chuckles grew to guffaws. “I believe you would. So long, sweetheart. I’ll see you tonight.”
I hung up, licked my finger, and made an invisible checkmark in the air. One down, one to go. I’d wait an hour or two before convincing Jimmy. He’d balk, but I wouldn’t take no for an answer.