Leaves Page 9
Then Dad died one Sunday morning and it was a month before anyone had the heart to do anything on a Sunday again. Not long after that, Ryan’s mother died and he moved in with Corrina and Gardner, and that adjustment period began. By the time it was over – Deborah assumed it was over by now – the brunch was little more than a memory.
“Are these new?” Deborah asked as she examined the coffee mugs she and Corrina drank from.
“They’re great, aren’t they? I got them in Boston a couple of weeks ago.”
“Is that when you went up for that lawyer’s convention?”
“That was months ago. No, this was when we took Ryan to visit some of his old friends. Gardner got us a hotel room at the Fairmont and while Ryan hung out with his buddies we reintroduced ourselves.”
“I guess it’s tough for you two to have time alone with a teenager around, huh?”
“The teenager’s nothing, really. These days he’s often invisible. But Gardner has been working insane hours just about every night. I really feel it when I’ve been alone all day and then he doesn’t come home until nine. At least the money is really good. So how’s the menu coming for the party?”
“I think we’re okay. The treats for the kids are easy and I’m playing with a bunch of appetizers.”
“You’re not doing anything too out there with the sweets, right?”
“No, I’ve learned my lesson. No marzipan or ribboned sugar this year. Chocolate, peanut butter, marshmallow – I’m sticking to the basics.”
“You can be more adventurous with the adult stuff. Those sherried mushroom turnovers were great last year.”
“You liked those? I could do them again, I guess.”
“And those hoisin chicken tarts. People flipped over them.”
“Yeah, I guess I could make those again as well.” This was classic Corrina, telling you to take care of something and then directing every move you made. How did someone at the back end of the birth order become such a control freak?
“You should. We want everything about this party to blow people away.”
“It’ll be great, don’t worry. To tell you the truth, I’m much more concerned about dinner the night before than I am about this.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s the last formal meal I’m serving at the inn. A cocktail party is a totally different thing. But this dinner – this is what I’ve been doing for the last fifteen years. How do I sum up my entire life in this place in six courses?”
“You can’t, so don’t worry about it.”
Deborah was surprised by how dismissive Corrina sounded. “Is that really your advice?”
“You said it yourself. You can’t sum up your entire life at the inn in six courses. So don’t even try. You’ll make yourself crazy.”
This from the person micromanaging every element of the party.
“Thanks,” Deborah said thinly. “I’ll take that under advisement.”
Corrina sipped her coffee and for a short while Deborah thought they might have run out of things to say to one another. Even the party wasn’t enough of a conversation piece these days. Corrina had dispatched her instructions – had she really needed to see Deborah in person to say what she’d said? – with a few terse sentences and then their “business” was done.
“What would Dad have said?” Corrina said as Deborah examined a new handmade clock on the far wall. Corrina was certainly being acquisitive these days, wasn’t she?
“Excuse me?”
“What would Dad have said about the last dinner at the inn?”
“There wouldn’t be a last dinner at the inn if Dad was still around.”
Corrina smirked at her. Deborah couldn’t remember the exact point at which her younger sister started acting like the senior sibling, but by now she had become accustomed to such expressions. “Are you telling me you don’t have conversations with him in your head?”
Deborah smiled, some of the tension abating. “You do that too?”
“Of course I do. Whenever I need a little advice. He’s even better at it in the afterlife than he was before.” Corrina let a small grin come to her lips. “Sounds more like me.”
“You would like that.”
“So what would he say if you asked him about it?”
Deborah furrowed her brow. “He’d tell me to follow my heart. To figure out what I was trying to accomplish and then head directly toward that goal.” Deborah laughed. “Then he’d make me experiment with three dozen different dishes – all of which he’d ‘volunteer’ to taste – until I came up with exactly what I was looking for.”
Corrina nodded. “I guess you should have asked him, then, huh?”
Deborah nodded her head. “It’s not that easy. If anything, it’s worse because I can feel him in my head, but I need him in person.”
Corrina studied her mug. “I’ve been missing him a lot lately. Mom all the time still, but I really miss Dad again. I’m sure it has to do with selling the inn and with the party and everything. And maybe because I’ve been having so many conversations with him these days.”
Corrina looked her straight in the eyes at that point, and Deborah expected her to elaborate. Why was she talking to Dad so often? What did she need his advice about? Instead of taking this further though, Corrina looked down at her coffee, then out the window, and then stood up.
“Did I show you the new centerpiece I got when we were in Boston?” she said, moving toward the dining room.
Had Corrina been expecting Deborah to ask what was troubling her? They’d never needed to prompt each other in the past. Deborah took one last sip of coffee and got up to follow her sister into the dining room. She’d leave directly from there. If Corrina wanted to reach out, Deborah would be there, but she wasn’t going to chase after her.
**^^^**
Tyler couldn’t remember ever laboring over which restaurant to go to with Patrice. Early in their relationship, every place was new – places Tyler had previously thought about going with dates as he passed them or read about in the paper. Not long after that, they developed a collection of favorites, places they could go if they just felt like getting out, along with others for special occasions. Even toward the end of their relationship, they were comfortable with the old standbys and could even find a bit of an oasis in someplace new.
However, choosing a restaurant for their dinner this time was proving confounding. Did it suggest too much if he decided on someplace they used to frequent? Was he willing to risk a bad meal or bad service at someplace previously untried? Maybe he should have let Patrice pick the place; it was unlikely she would have turned this into the angst-fest he’d turned it into.
Finally, he decided on The Phoenix Grill. They had gone there many times before, but the restaurant had hired a new chef in September and the menu had changed dramatically from the last time they’d been there. It was like going somewhere new and old at the same time.
Picking Patrice up from the cottage was a bit surreal. It was so familiar – he’d lived here for nearly half a decade – that he felt entirely out of place waiting in the foyer while Patrice got her jacket. Shouldn’t he be sitting on the couch watching the news while she finished getting ready? Or maybe making sure he didn’t leave the light on in the bathroom or something like that? Tyler chose to focus on the print Patrice had put up in the hallway to replace one of the framed photographs he’d taken with him when he moved out. It was a watercolor of a daylily. A little generic for Tyler’s tastes, but it certainly brightened the spot.
Now sitting at the Phoenix sipping a margarita, any uneasiness had sloughed away. Patrice looked fabulous and she seemed genuinely glad to be here with him. They talked about work and caught each other up on the lives of their friends. Precisely the kind of thing they would have done if they were in the middle of their relationship rather than at its coda.
Tyler reached out for her hand and squeezed it. He wondered if he should keep it there or if that would make her uncomfortable. “I do too.”
Patrice took his hand in both of hers. “We were pretty good buds, huh? I mean on top of all that other stuff.”
Tyler smiled. “Yeah, we were good buds. You were kinda fun to hang out with.”
“Especially on Monday mornings.” Patrice’s shop was closed on Mondays and she and Tyler often stayed in bed until after noon, making love, holding each other, listening to music, and just replenishing. On most winter Mondays they would never leave the house, while afternoons the rest of the year were devoted to errands and other necessities to get them through the week. As a rule, though, they spent every Monday together unless a conflict couldn’t be avoided.
Tyler risked locking eyes with his former lover. “I think I really miss Mondays.”
Patrice closed her hands over his and neither said anything for a long moment. “You’re doing okay, though?”
“I’m okay. Like I said, I wish I was selling more pictures and, well, it’s been a year, you know? But I’m holding up all right.” He liked feeling his hand embraced by Patrice’s and was thankful that she didn’t have any qualms about touching him this way. “How about you?”
“Six-and-a-half on a scale of ten.”
He nodded knowingly. “What would make it better?”
Patrice squeezed his hand and then tilted her head to the side. She was gorgeous from any angle. “More of this.”
Was she saying what he thought she was saying? “More of…us?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?”
“No, why is that ridiculous?”
She shook her head. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“I think more of this would make me better, too.”
She looked right into his soul this time. If it were possible to allow her deeper, he would have. “Do you really think so?”
“Patrice, you were the definition of ‘better’ for me.”
“Until I wasn’t.”
“No. Always.”
They actually managed to finish their meals, but Tyler had no idea what he’d eaten. All he could think about was being alone with Patrice, about recapturing the best of what they were together. He recognized the feeling building up in him, the hunger for all of her, for a seamlessness between the two of them. It wasn’t that long ago that he felt it regularly.
They drove home quietly, Patrice playing with the hair on the back of Tyler’s neck while Tyler wished he’d picked a restaurant closer to the cottage. When he stopped the car, there was no question about where the evening was going. Patrice leaned over, kissed him deeply and said, “Let’s go inside.”
They embraced in the very foyer that had seemed so strange to Tyler earlier. They kissed and pawed at each other, barely remembering to close the front door first. Slowly, they sank to the floor. The bedroom was perhaps forty feet away, but it was miles further than Tyler was interested in traveling at that moment. So underneath the daylily, they explored each other, passionately and hungrily. The suppleness of Patrice’s skin, the curve of her knees, and the softness of her breasts were wonders to him, something he knew so well but thrilled to as though he’d never experienced them before. Tyler hadn’t as much as kissed a woman since he’d split with Patrice, and now he wondered if anyone else could possibly make him feel this way. In this moment, though, that wasn’t an issue. Maybe it never would be again.
Eventually they made it to bed and began making love again. Tyler couldn’t remember the last time he had been this voracious. Afterward, they lay facing each other, Tyler’s fingers running along Patrice’s back as he kissed her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her exposed shoulder.
“I am so glad I forgot what that felt like,” he said dreamily.
“What do you mean?”
“If I remembered what making love to you felt like while we were apart, I think I might have jumped off a bridge.”
Patrice kissed him passionately again and the thought came to mind that it might not yet be time to go to sleep. “I don’t want you to forget it again,” she said.
“No, I definitely think I’ll remember it this time.”
She nuzzled against him and he kissed her hair. Holding her was nearly as much of a pleasure as any other physical act between them. “You can stay, right?” she said.
“There’s no place else I want to be.”
Seven
Wednesday, October 13
Eighteen days before the party
Maria’s affection for James Taylor bordered on the obsessional. Since she had been a teenager, JT had been the one singer-songwriter guaranteed to affect her mood precisely the way she’d hoped. If she needed to raise her spirits, she could always turn to “Whenever I See Your Smiling Face,” or “Only One,” or his great cover of “Up on the Roof.” If she needed to feed her melancholy, there was always “Fire and Rain,” or “Millworker,” or the entire Mud Slide Slim album. If she needed a little romance, JT was there for her. If she needed a little thoughtful contemplation, JT was there for her. Her relationship with JT was one of her most reliable, really.
Still, she’d forgotten how edifying it was to play James Taylor. Clearly, she couldn’t sing like him, and no one replicated the guitar sounds he created, but the songs filled her in an entirely different way when she was able to bring them to life herself.
She was into the third verse of “Gaia,” one of JT’s most profound sociological songs, when the phone rang. Maria thought about letting the call go to voicemail as she’d done a couple of times a few hours ago when she’d first started playing, but the interruption had taken her out of the song. She might as well answer it.
As soon as she did, she wished she hadn’t. It was the credit card company calling to confirm some recent charges. Doug had gone online last night to buy them both tablet computers, which triggered the company’s alert systems. As an electronic voice asked her to confirm everything from their dinner the other night, to the produce she’d bought yesterday, to the gas Doug had obviously gotten on his way to work this morning, Maria wished she were back singing JT. She was all for fraud protection, but couldn’t they program their computers not to worry if a big electronics sale one night was followed by nothing more than a stop at the neighborhood Gulf station the next day?
Finally satisfying the machine she’d spent the last seven minutes with, Maria returned to the den and her guitar. Should she try “Gaia” again or move on? That song was all about the emotional build, and it wouldn’t feel the same if she tried to recapture that feeling so soon after she’d last gone after it. As she sat down on her stool, though, she noticed that the song on the music stand was “Something in the Way She Moves.” That was odd. The songbook was in alphabetical order, so this song was nowhere near “Gaia,” and she’d used the book so often over the years that the spine was completely broken. There was no chance that the book would have flipped to those pages because of some movement in the room.
The thought of the new song stirred a memory of Deborah from something like fifteen years ago. Deborah was having her first serious crush – Cal, or Carl, or Kurt, or something like that – and she would ask Maria to play the song incessantly while she mooned over the boy. Maria pretended to play the song grudgingly, but she was secretly tickled at the idea of providing the soundtrack to her sister’s love life. She also enjoyed the far-ranging conversations they’d have afterward, conversations that always started about the boy – Clark! That was his name – but would evolve into talks about family, friends, careers, food (of course), music (of course), or even recent movies. They could talk for an hour or more barely stopping for breath. When was the last time their conversation went for more than four minutes without trailing off?
For that matter, when was the last time Deborah mentioned a man? Had she even dated anyone since those regrettable few weeks with Tom from the hardware store? That had gone so badly that the entire family still had to drive to another town if they needed a screwdriver.
Looking down at her guitar, Maria played a few lines from “Something in the Way She Moves,” remembering how Deborah’s eyes sparkled when she used to talk about Clark. She hoped her sister got another chance to sparkle like that soon. Maybe that’s why the book had magically flipped to this song; maybe Deborah was dating someone.
The phone rang again and Maria stopped playing. She got up and checked the caller ID. It was an 800 number. There was no chance she was going to deal with a credit card company and a telemarketer on the same day. She let the phone finish its programmed five rings while she went back to the stool.
When she got there, she found the songbook page turned to “Gaia.” She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Maybe it was time to switch to a different songwriter today.
**^^^**
The small talk rarely went this deep into the meal. Whenever Maxwell had lunch with a Chamber board member, there was always time for sharing pictures, bringing everyone up to date on the family, and chatting about sports. Usually, though, by the time entrees arrived, the conversation got more intense and even confrontational. Not today, though. When the waiter came over to take coffee orders, the topic was lawn maintenance. Just three buddies chewing the fat. What was the agenda here? Were Will Champion and Mike Mills planning to ask Maxwell to go steady with them?
“So was I the only one who thought Bruce looked pretty ragged at the Columbus Day parade?” Mike said as his cappuccino arrived. He pulled the cup up to his lips and peered over it at Will.
Will moved in his chair as though Mike had kicked him under the table. “Well, I think your paper’s little exposé has him very nervous.”