What I Remember Most

by Cathy Lamb

  “I know, but I have more to say. My love to express. You gotta tell me what to do, how to catch her. Like a fish. A big fish. A female fish. I need a hook. I need bait. I need a fishing pole!”

  “Dell, go fishing in a lake. Go canoeing. Go visit your grandchildren.” I once again decorated the lobby in my head. It would be infinitely better with color and a mural that filled a wall. And lighting. Better lighting is key.

  “I don’t want anything new, I want my Ewie. My Eudora.”

  “But she’s already told you how she feels.”

  “A woman can change her mind, they always do and that’s what I’m betting on. I’m a betting man, uh—” He cleared his throat. “I’m not a betting man, no betting at the casinos, gave that up ten years ago, but I think I’ve got this one in the cards. I’m betting on it! I can be a new man for her. An ace of spades. A king of hearts.”

  We chatted more about his lost love, his aching heart, his shattered soul, then I politely hung up.

  Dell is sixty. He’s a handsome man. Ex–football player. Wealthy. Tons of land. Totally smitten with Eudora.

  She told me she dumped Dell for “being a bad listener and an inability to sit still at the symphony. He also doesn’t read books. How can I relate to someone who doesn’t read?”

  I cringed at the last one.

  “Mostly it’s the bad listener part. He thinks he should be the only one who talks in a relationship? I told him, ‘All you need is a blow-up doll with no brain who nods her head and smiles at you, then spreads her legs. So go get one!’ I handed him the name of a company that sells blow-up dolls in Portland. Then!” She pointed her pointer fingers in the air. “I ordered him three. Three different races of ladies. One black, one brown, one white. I told him, ‘Here’s your United Nations. Pick a woman, because it’s not going to be me anymore!’ ”

  Eudora does not strive for political correctness.

  “Hi, Grenady.”

  “Hi, Loren.” I looked up, smiled, then went back to work. I knew what was coming.

  “So, uh, Grenady . . .” He leaned against my desk.

  “Yes . . . ?”

  “I was wondering if you would, uh . . .” Loren took a breath, gathered up his courage. He was a super nice man. Tall, thin, built like a candlestick with brown hair. He was an assistant manager for the company, underneath Sam Jenkins. I’d seen him interacting with other people. He was actually rather loud and quite affable and smart. I could see why Kade hired him, but around me he bumbled about.

  I heard Kade walking toward the lobby, but Loren was intent on his mission so didn’t notice. I hoped Kade would keep walking, back to his office, and would ignore this altogether. . . .

  “I was wondering. What are you doing this weekend, Grenady?”

  Damn. Kade heard that line and stopped. Loren didn’t even know Kade was there.

  I wanted to be polite, but I was not interested. I would run this man over like a stampeding buffalo. My personality was way too much for him. It would be like dating a shy dandelion.

  “I’m working, Loren, pretty much the whole weekend. I’m sorry.”

  He looked disappointed but undaunted. “I know you work at The Spirited Owl, but only until Saturday night, right? How about if I see you on Saturday, then take you to breakfast on Sunday?”

  My face froze. Did he think I was going to spend the night with him? I can’t stand men, I can’t. Pissants, all of them. My anger sizzled, and I stood up and reached for my stapler to use as a weapon. If he didn’t clean up his mouth, I’d clock him. “No. That would not work.”

  Loren put his palms up, waved them frantically, and blushed. “Oh, God. Grenady, not like that. No ma’am. I know you’re a lady, and I did not mean to imply that we would . . . we would . . .” He blushed further.

  “I hope not, Loren, because that answer would be no.” I was so mad I momentarily forgot about Kade. Crap.

  “Man. I’m sorry, Grenady.” Loren ran a hand through his hair. “I meant no offense. I said it wrong. What I was thinking is that I could visit with you at The Spirited Owl on Saturday night—I have friends who go on Saturday night—and then I go home to my house and you go home to your house, not together, didn’t mean that. I’m sorry you’re a lady.

  “No, I don’t mean I’m sorry you’re a lady.” His cheeks were pink. “I’m glad you’re a lady. I meant on Sunday morning, maybe ten o’clock, I could pick you up and take you to breakfast at Claudine’s Cafe, and we could eat and then I would drive you home and I would go home. Separately. You’re a lady. I have messed this up.”

  “Loren, I appreciate you asking me, but I’m not dating right now, and I wouldn’t date you because we work together, but thank you anyhow. Hello, Kade.”

  Kade was not amused. In fact, his jaw was tight.

  Loren whipped around, voice stricken. “Hey, Kade.”

  “Loren. How’s the armoire going for the Hearn family?”

  “Almost perfect. I’m following your design exactly perfect. Have the scrolls on the sides done perfect.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’ll come and see it in a minute.”

  “Right. Okay. I’m getting back to work right now, on a short break here, back to work, and I’ll see you in a minute, Kade.” He turned back to me, briefly. “Thank you anyhow, Grenady. I’m sorry for the”—he waved a hand, blushed deeper—“misunderstanding. My fault.”

  “Sure. It’s fine. No problem.” Poor man. When Loren walked by, Kade thumped him on the back, guy-style.

  Kade and I were now alone in the lobby. I felt nervous, as I always did around mafia man Kade. He was wearing a dark green button-down shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots.

  “How are you, Grenady?”

  “Fine. Thank you. How are you?” I wanted to say, “I didn’t encourage that. I’m not trying to date your employees. I don’t flirt, I won’t cause trouble,” but I didn’t. I kept my mouth shut. I have learned not to try to explain myself.

  “How have the last couple of weeks been?”

  “Great.” I smiled. They had been great. I had received my first check that afternoon, the job was fun, and I talked to people all day, most of whom were friendly and happy to talk to me about furniture. “I like the people here. None of them are drunk or falling off barstools or ordering too much vodka. Plus, I love the furniture, like my desk. Thank you for hiring me.”

  “You’re welcome.” He smiled slightly. “Let me know if you have any ideas for our lobby. I’ve always found it boring, but interior design isn’t my thing. Furniture is, but not all the”—he waved a hand in the air in a circle—“other stuff. I know you’re an artist. ”

  “You mean, you want me to redecorate the lobby?”

  “Yes. If you can. Let me know what we should do.”

  “Oh. Well. As a matter of fact—” I stopped. I didn’t want to sound like I was being critical.

  “As a matter of fact?” He waited. He did not look impatient.

  “I’ve already figured out what we should do.”

  He blinked, and I could tell he was surprised.

  “What should we do?”

  I found myself getting animated. I love colors. Love art. Love transforming a room. When I was done telling him my thoughts, he smiled. “Have at it, Grenady.”

  “Are you sure?” My voice squeaked like a nut-stuffed squirrel.

  “Yes. Tell me how much money you need, what you need to buy, and we’ll get it. I’ll pay you extra to do it.”

  “That’s not necessary at all. You don’t have to pay me extra. I figured it all out while I was sitting here on your dime, so I’ll arrange for what I need and get some paint and an electrician in here, and I’ll get it done.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I smiled. He smiled back. There was something in his eyes I couldn’t quite read, but that was typical. He was a private, reserved man. If he had smiled at me in a slightly flirty way before he offered me this job, the flirty smile was now gone. He treated me like h
e treated all his employees. Respectfully. Professionally. He was The Boss.

  He turned and left, and once he was down the hallway, I sunk back into my chair and fanned my hot face with papers and absolutely did not think about stripping off his clothes and running my hands through his chest hair.

  No, I did not.

  I met Covey at a law firm party.

  I had made a huge mural for the firm, and the attorneys loved it. It was an eight-by-five-foot scene of the countryside with a red barn in the background. I had dried wheat for part of it. I used tiny black pieces of wood to outline the barn. I put a gold rooster on the top of the barn for a weather vane. I put white feathers on the chickens. I found two miniature, old-fashioned bikes and attached them, too. I think they wanted something natural and serene to hide the fact that they were sharks.

  They invited me to come to their party, and I went for potential clients. I met Covey there. This was the firm Goldman and Skiller, that represented Covey whenever he was sued, I later learned, which was often, so they loved him.

  He was nine years older than me and had been divorced for five years. He was a well-known investor. I had even heard of him. He was charming, brilliant, articulate, and dryly amusing. He was also complimentary about my work and my appearance. He seemed relaxed, calm, sophisticated.

  He asked me out to dinner. I said no. He was higher up on the social pecking order than me, and I didn’t like the power difference. He seemed smart, and I didn’t think I was smart. He was educated. I was not. He asked me to take a ride on a boat with him. He asked me to attend a sporting event with him. I said no and no.

  Later I realized how much he liked my telling him no. He sensed my rigid resistance, my lack of ability to commit to someone, my lack of trust, so he had a chase on his hands. He had to conquer and tame me. He had to own me.

  He commissioned a mural for his office. I had to put him off for three months because I was busy with other murals. That did not please him at all. I could tell in the stillness of his face, the tightening of his mouth. He tried to buy me off my other clients, offered me twice as much. I was flattered then; now I know that Covey couldn’t stand it that I was doing anything for anyone else. He had to be first. Three months later, I started his mural. He was not pleased at the wait.

  I said, “Too bad.”

  He laughed. It covered his anger.

  Falling in love was not comfortable for me. I was not a virgin, but neither had I ever “made love” with a man. I had “had sex.” Having sex and making love are two totally different things. I liked sex well enough, but there was always something missing. That would be the love part.

  I had held back on falling in love. That would have involved trust, and that I could not do. I didn’t trust anyone, especially men. When they wanted to get closer, to be committed, I skated right on out of there. But Covey wouldn’t let me skate away; he chased me.

  He made me feel safe, protected, and loved in the relationship. He called all the time, sent flowers, constantly showed me he cared about me.

  And he included me. That would be the word. From the start, he included me.

  He was never embarrassed about me, as I had been embarrassed about myself for so long. He wasn’t ashamed of me, as I had been ashamed of myself. He didn’t want to hide me, as I had wanted to hide. Quite the opposite. He put me on his arm, smiled, and off we went to fancy dinners and trips, skiing and boating. He introduced me to his friends at his country club and the golf club, and they were soon commissioning paintings and collages from me, too.

  I borrowed his confidence. I borrowed his easygoing manner. I smiled brightly like him. I learned to control my temper and improve the way I spoke. I didn’t swear like a horse thief anymore. I didn’t leap into a fight.

  But even that side of me, Covey liked. He told me, “I love the rough rider side of you, sweetheart, that ball breaker, but can it when we’re at the governor’s mansion for another one of those endless charity events, will you? Now hop on top of me, you gun-slinging, deer-hunting, target-shooting, red-necked Amazon woman.”

  He did not ask many questions about my past. Initially I saw this as sensitive. He could tell I didn’t want to talk about my childhood much, the lack of any family. I gave him only the barest bones. I thought he was respecting my silence and privacy.

  The truth was, he didn’t want to go that deep with me. I was sexy, curvy, mysterious, independent, ran from commitment, challenged him by being a smart aleck, and had a tough side. He didn’t see me as intellectual, as bright, so I was no threat to him. I was an artist, which he later told me he thought was an “adorable hobby, sweet cakes. Let’s get naked and use your paintbrushes on each other.”

  He didn’t want to know who his Dina Hamilton had been when she was Dina Wild, and he especially didn’t want to know Grenadine Scotch Wild.

  Oh no. He didn’t want to know Grenadine Scotch Wild at all.

  22

  He had to study the original nursery rhyme for two days. He sang it repeatedly, as loud as he could.

  Pat-a-cake

  Pat-a-cake

  Baker’s man.

  Bake me a cake as fast as you can.

  Pat it and prick it and mark it with a B

  And put it in the oven for baby and me.

  He pulled out three hairs, then tipped his head back and balanced all three on his nose. He licked them. The licking gave him an idea.

  Pat-a-cake

  Pat-a-cake

  I’m the baker’s man.

  I’ll bake a person cake as fast as I can.

  I’ll knife it, beat it, and mark it with a kiss

  And put it under a rock where I’ll take a piss.

  Brilliant! He was brilliant! He bit off part of his pencil and chewed on it. It made him giggle. He was a giggler! And a poet!

  23

  On my first day at Hendricks’, Rozlyn came and grabbed me at my desk, as I was too shy to walk into the employees’ lounge, stand around, and not know where to sit. It would be like the torture of the school cafeteria all over again. “Get on in here, Grenady,” she said. “Come meet Eudora—she’s my idol—and Marilyn, who I can barely stand. When I’m having menopausal rage problems I want to smack her.”

  Eudora stood and shook my hand, smiled, and said, “It’s a pleasure. Don’t forward Dell’s calls to me. I went out on three dates with him and now I can’t shake him off. I may have to shoot him.” I agreed not to forward the calls. She said something I couldn’t understand.

  “Pardon?”

  “I said, in Russian, I would put him in the gulag if I could, no vodka.”

  “I’m Marilyn.” Marilyn stuck out a limp-fish hand, and I shook it. She did not bother to stand. I knew her already. She was in sales. I had said hello to her that morning. She had stopped when she saw me behind my desk, eyed me up and down, and a sour and hard expression settled on her face like a rock. I knew she didn’t like me.

  “Marilyn is in a bad mood often,” Rozlyn said. “I would like to blame her hormones, but I think it’s her personality.”

  “That’s true,” Eudora echoed, crossing her thin legs and swinging a black heel with a red sole. “She’s naturally petty.”

  “I am sometimes because of a stressful life.” Marilyn sighed before going off on a bunch of piddly complaints about how she was so “overwhelmed” with work at Kade’s, her home and garden, her husband. Then she smiled at me, but it was a mean smile, one poised for attack. “You”—she pointed at me with her fork—“are a wife’s nightmare.”

  “Gee. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” She tilted her head, examining me as one would a specimen. She smiled again, tight and derisive. “Your contacts are such a bright green! Do you like them like that?”

  “I’m not wearing contacts.”

  I could tell she was surprised.

  “She has gorgeous eyes,” Eudora said. “Do try to be pleasant, Marilyn, no matter how bad it hurts you.”

  “Shut up, Marilyn,
” Rozlyn said. “Get your personality disorder under control.”

  “I’m sorry! I didn’t know they were real.”

  “Most people’s eyes are real,” I drawled. “Although there could be people running around with fake eyes. The ones you take in and out of your eye socket. Pop in, pop out. But these are both mine.”

  Rozlyn and Eudora snickered. Marilyn blushed.

  A few days later, Marilyn was at it again. I could tell she had planned how to torpedo me. “I used to own a hair salon, so I know about hair. You do have thick hair, that’s a plus, but have you ever thought about cutting your hair shorter, perhaps to your chin, so it’s more . . . how shall I say it? Controlled. A better fit for your age.”

  “No. I don’t need controlled hair.” I let my eyes drift over her mop ever so slowly. “I don’t want hair that is flat and sticks to my head like a sick gopher.” I coughed twice, like a sick gopher.

  Rozlyn said, “Shut up, Marilyn. You’re jealous. Tell Mildred, your meanest personality, to go back inside your head and be quiet.”

  Eudora said, “Your hair does resemble a sick gopher, Marilyn.”

  “Let’s not get offended, dear.” Marilyn patted my hand, ignoring the other two. The word dear was so condescending. “I’m simply suggesting that you don’t need to flash it.”

  I put down my sandwich and faced that pudgy and jealous witch, my temper triggered. “What, exactly, do you mean by that?”

  I knew her type. Throw mean comments, a slight jab, a fake smile, pretend you are trying to help someone improve one of their glaring flaws.

  “I mean that some men lust over women like you, and you have to ask yourself if you want that kind of attention.”

  “What do you mean that kind of attention? And what do you mean, women like me?”

  “You have an image that says . . .” Marilyn waved a hand. “I’m available. Anytime.”

  Rozlyn slammed a hand down on the table. “Damn it, Marilyn. She does not, and why are you so disagreeable? You’re like killer gas.”

  “Vicious and silly woman,” Eudora said. “That is enough.”