Heart-strong

by Bonnie McCune

  “Can’t you find it on the team roster? Or call another parent to ask?”

  “I misplaced the roster before the end-of-season potluck. And I don’t know anyone’s full name to call Information.”

  The doorbell rang. “Ooops, too late. I’ll figure something out. Distract Scott, would you?” Rachel dashed for the door and popped out, closing it behind her before Scott could appear. She didn’t want any awkward questions about Coach Duffy and why he was here.

  The post-date wrap-up came early, shortly after ten. Rachel caught Sharon mixing a relaxing cup of cocoa just before bedtime and joined her sister at the kitchen table.

  “Why are you home already?” Sharon asked. “Did the coach turn out to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing?”

  Rachel tore open a packet of cocoa and poured the still-steaming water into her own mug. “No, he was a perfect gentleman. He seems very stable. And his name, by the way, is Ryan.”

  “Ah, very Irish.”

  “Yes, and he’s very Irish in his way with words, too.”

  “Full of the blarney?”

  “No, he comes across as sincere and down to earth. He teaches biology for Denver Public Schools.”

  “Think you’ll see him again?”

  “Yes. He’s kind of a mystery. I get the sense he’s still feeling his way after the deaths of his wife and son.”

  “What! You never told me that bit about his history.”

  “Guess I forgot. They were killed in a car accident, hit by a drunk driver.”

  “Oh, my God. How terrible.” Sharon covered her face with her hands. She’d been a rabid supporter of strong liquor control laws since she’d lost a friend to an alcohol incident as a teen. When she removed her hands, her face was shiny with tears. “The poor poor man. Yes, you have to go out with him. Anything to cheer him up.”

  “He’s really a nice guy. I could trust him. I won’t be going out with him out of pity. But...” and she paused.

  “But what?”

  “He’s just not Jim. I think I’m hooked on him.” She swirled her cocoa and stared in the mug as if brewing a witch’s spell.

  * * *

  The outing to the movie was fine, well, if Jim admitted the truth, a little boring. The plot was predictable; the happy ending, inevitable; the actors, unblemished and gorgeous. As for his date, a cloud of indecision surrounded his view of her. Not that Donna wasn’t interesting and quick. But she was predictable, too. Whereas Rachel always did and thought the unexpected. She kept him on his toes.

  Jim thought together Rachel and Donna would have made a perfect woman. He asked himself what could be wrong with dating two women simultaneously. Nothing inherent, surely, as long as he wasn’t sleeping with both, didn’t lie to them or try to pretend he was more serious than he really was. And he missed seeing Scott and his hero-worshipful attitude, kicking a ball around with him, the elementary male camaraderie. Poor kid. It was so obvious his father, whoever the guy might be, wasted no attention on him.

  He picked up the phone. Rachel’s reserved response was to be expected after his absence of several weeks, but when he included Scott in his plans, she capitulated. They wound up at a Denver Nuggets game. Rachel seemed to know as much about that sport as she did soccer, but that put no crimp in her enthusiasm.

  “Go, go, all the way,” she screamed as a player ran the wrong direction

  “Moooommmm,” Scott moaned. “He’s screwing the game up.’

  Rachel drew herself up and scrambled for a reasonable perspective. “At least he’s trying his best. That’s what’s important, right?”

  “No. Trying to win is what’s important,” said Scott.

  Jim chuckled. “You tell her, champ.”

  Rachel shot him a look from the corner of her eye that questioned his opinion, if not his basic worth, then refocused on the court. “Scott got most improved player on his team.”

  “You did? I’m not surprised.”

  “Yeah. It was pretty cool. But I wished you’d been there,” said Scott. “I got better because you practiced with me.”

  Before the silence among the trio could swell into embarrassment, Jim said, “I wish I could have been there, too. It just didn’t work out. But I’m sure everyone clapped, right?”

  “Yeah. I wanted to say thanks to you, but they didn’t give me any time for a speech.”

  “Thanks, anyway,” Jim said as he squeezed Scott around the shoulder. When Rachel beamed at him, she looked as if she was lit from within. Jim felt a surge of pride not only about Scott’s progress, but also for bringing such pleasure to his mother.

  * * *

  Rachel’s next date with Ryan Duffy started as a near-disaster, but ended with hysterical laughter, so loud the neighbor in the next apartment pounded on the wall. Rachel had bravely had invited him over for dinner, explaining to Sharon and Scott that from the hints he’d dropped, Ryan seemed hungry for a homemade meal.

  “But, Mom, you’re a terrible cook,” her completely candid son said. “Aunt Sharon does all the cooking around here.”

  “I can do some dishes fine. Meatball Stroganoff, chili.”

  “I vote for chili,” Scott said.

  Sharon agreed with him. “Less chance of you screwing it up. And you can let it simmer to serve it at any time.”

  Friday arrived, and Rachel prepared for her culinary feat with the same feelings that a knight readied for battle—equal parts of excitement and terror. Cans of chili beans and tomatoes seemed to have lives of their own, threatening to tumble when she stacked them. Her hands shook as she chopped onions, celery tops, cilantro and garlic. When she heated oil to begin frying the hamburger, the pan sent billows of smoke upward.

  Scott was little help. Once he set the table, returning several times to insure the silverware settings were complete and each person had a napkin, he hung around the kitchen to announce the passing of time in five minute increments. “Coach will be here in fifty-five minutes...Coach will be here in fifty minutes.” Rachel finally sent him to watch television, normally prohibited after school through dinner.

  When Sharon returned from work, she found Rachel, face tear-streaked from chopping onions, hair spiraling out of control, splotches of beans and tomatoes dotting her apron, ready to throw in the towel literally. “I’m never going to make it,” she wailed. “The kitchen’s a mess, and the chili’s barely started bubbling.”

  Sharon took the wooden spoon from Rachel’s hand and stirred the pot as she said, “No one’s eating in the kitchen. It’s all right if it’s a mess. And the chili’s doing fine. Now go get ready.”

  “Thank goodness you’ve got the calm of a clam. What would I do without you?” Rachel dashed into her room to dress for the evening.

  But chaos was only the beginning. After Rachel finished makeup and hair, she returned to the kitchen to toss a salad. Except every leaf of lettuce was limp and brown. Substitute, substitute? An assortment of raw vegetables, at the sight of which Scott moaned and groaned. Delicacies like broccoli, carrots, and cucumbers brought forth an automatic gag reflex in him.

  “I’m sure Ryan won’t respond like Scott,” Sharon said as she took the vegetable tray to the dining table.”

  “How do we know? And what about chili? Lots of people are sensitive to spices. Some respond violently to beans.”

  “And some don’t like meat. Or eggs. Or white bread. He didn’t say anything about food restrictions, did he?”

  “No. What’s that?” asked Rachel as Scott’s voice drifted into the kitchen.

  “Mom, Mom. There’s a problem in the bathroom.”

  It could only be the toilet backing up, as it did periodically from some quirk between their apartment and the one upstairs. Rachel dashed into the bathroom to find Scott, trained in emergency response, holding up the bulb in the tank to prevent an overflow. After wielding the plumber’s helper with hard-earned skill, she checked the living room for last-minute messes. Good thing she did, for Scott had left several shoeboxes of Legos poure
d out on the floor, one of which she stumbled over, wrenching her ankle.

  Ryan would be here in a few minutes. Time to open the wine. But not for the routine to go smoothly, for Rachel knocked the open bottle of Chianti over as she reached for glasses, spewing dark ruby liquid on the counter, staining a tea towel and Rachel’s apron, and pooling on the floor. Then, sure enough, the doorbell rang before she finished sponging the mess.

  “I’ll get it,” yelled Scott as he stampeded to the entry.

  Quickly rinsing her hands and removing her apron, Rachel followed, giving Ryan a quick peck on the cheek that ranked somewhere between a casual ‘hello’ and a schmaltzy greeting. Amid chit-chat about the weather and the upcoming Christmas holiday, she ushered him into the living room, urged him to the couch next to Scott, and offered a glass of wine. Sharon, who had tried to duck out of the dinner in the interest of Rachel’s budding romance, appeared at last and rescued the conversation, which had dwindled to reminiscences about holiday window decorations in days gone by.

  Just as introductions were being made, a high-pitched siren broke in, vibrating through the entire apartment.

  “What the—?” gasped Rachel.

  “The smoke alarm,” Scott announced. “A fire.”

  His pronouncement was premature only by seconds, as a black cloud crept at ceiling level from the kitchen into the living room.

  “Dinner!” Sharon and Rachel cried simultaneously as they ran from the room.

  A short time later, someone switched the alarm off. Rachel returned to the living room, her face a study in humiliation, and flicked on the ceiling fan. “The chili burned. Fortunately only on the very bottom. Sharon’s going to rescue the meal. Unlike me, who invited you here under false pretenses, she’s a great cook. I’ve taken loads of cooking classes at the community center, but I’m still a bomb.”

  Sharon stuck her head around the kitchen door frame. “Don’t believe her. She’s certainly adequate. This was a perfect storm of kitchen disasters.”

  “Yeah,” piped up Scott. “And part of it was Mom trying to cook for company.”

  This was when the adults broke into suppressed chuckles, then laughter, which quickly became so loud it reverberated throughout the apartment. As everyone took a place at the table, still chortling, Rachel thought, “Nothing like a shared laugh to make us all comfortable.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jim considered long and hard who to invite to the Center for Dispute Resolution’s holiday party. No question about attending, this crucial event could make or break his career at the organization since those hard-to-define people skills were part of the package upon which evaluations for promotion were made. He discussed the matter with his mother in Iowa by phone, more because she had very little to talk about than that he actually wanted her opinion.

  “Rachel would be fun to take,” he said, “but she can’t control her tongue. She might be a trifle indiscrete and repeat a comment I’ve made about the boss.”

  The huge sigh from the other end of the phone line was a distinguishing attribute of his mother’s pronouncements. “Jim, Jim, Jim, how often have I warned you about that? Never reveal your opinion about someone at work. Whether good or bad, it can rebound to your detriment.”

  “Yes, Mom,” he said, wondering how long his mother was going to favor her adult son with lectures. He should have known better than to bring the subject up, but to find topics of conversation was a real challenge since she had no interests outside her home and family and was having trouble getting around. She’d broken her hip slipping on a banana peel in the traditional fashion when preparing garbage for her compost pile. “Anyway, I’ll probably take Donna.”

  “She’s the blonde, right? The computer programmer? You can’t go wrong with a professional woman. Sounds perfect to me.”

  As Jim ended the discussion and began to dial Donna’s number, he felt a twinge of indignation. Just because Rachel was a little hurly-burly didn’t mean she wasn’t thoroughly professional in her approach to her job and motherhood. Still, Donna would fit in better with his co-workers. He could see her now, wearing a sleek cocktail dress and stilettos. He’d be the envy of all the men, even if she looked more like a store mannequin than a living, breathing woman.

  * * *

  As for Rachel, she, too, was attending a holiday party—Ryan’s. The high school where he taught always had a teacher appreciation event, and this one featured a quartet of the staff who functioned as a soft-rock group after hours, as well as the principal’s baked brie and pastry appetizer, shrimp and cocktail dip, and assorted cookies. Rachel hoped the cookies would be homemade, although she knew this was unlikely given the busy lives of most adults. Homemade always tasted better.

  Dallying over her hair style, if a swathe of curls confined by a clippie could be labeled such, Rachel entered the living room, mentally blessing Sharon for serving as hostess for Ryan. They appeared to be getting along swimmingly, for Sharon was laughing her head off while Ryan bent forward to finish telling an anecdote.

  “And that’s when the gym teacher swore he’d never inspect the lockers again,” said Ryan. “But the district absolutely requires it. No escape.” Finally he looked toward Rachel. “Oh, hi, Rachel. Ready?”

  “Yes.” Rachel drew on her jacket and preceded Ryan to the door. Something made her look back toward the living room where she saw Sharon staring after them. Her sister raised one hand and wriggled her fingers in farewell just the tiniest bit.

  It was while they were going through the buffet line that Rachel realized something was wrong with this picture. Wasn’t the setting—the walls bore homemade decorations crafted with care, a pine tree in the corner blinked its lights appropriately. Wasn’t the food—the spread was hearty and huge. Wasn’t the music—the amateur quartet knew its repertoire and hit all the notes correctly. That left—the company.

  Was she crazy? Rachel had spent a pleasant quarter-hour discussing her son with one of Ryan’s co-workers, avoiding overt bragging but managing to work in mention of his recent soccer trophy. She’d danced a raucous time or two with Ryan as the entire crowd attempted country line dances. Their culinary voyage got off to a great start, but as they sat to consume the delicacies, conversation lagged. Rachel managed to raise a reaction in Ryan when she mentioned how much better Sharon’s brownies were than the ones someone had brought to the party, and Ryan had enthusiastically agreed, mentioning several meals Sharon had prepared for everyone. But then the discussion petered out. After running through a mental list of topics and rejecting them (sports—no, she didn’t know enough; films—no, hadn’t seen many; weather—no, too boring), she pleaded a headache and asked Ryan to take her home early.

  In the customary post-date analysis, Rachel wailed. “What’s wrong? He’s such a nice guy. Why can’t I feel about him the way I feel about Jim?”

  Sharon didn’t respond. She sat fiddling with the spoon in her mug of hot chocolate. She looked up only when Rachel continued.

  “I can’t stop thinking about Jim. He and I get along so well. I hate that I see him just every few weeks.”

  Sharon licked her spoon and reinserted it in the mug. “Maybe you’re in love with him. Maybe you need to go for broke and see what happens.”

  “I don’t know if I trust him enough.”

  “The only way you’ll find out is to take a risk. But be fair to Ryan. If nothing’s going to come of that relationship, let him down easy.”

  “Hmmm. I think you’re right. That’s just what I’ll do.”

  * * *

  While the holiday party wasn’t a total waste, it certainly didn’t approach the heights of pleasure Jim had hoped for. Donna was skilled at small talk, didn’t consume too much alcohol or get tipsy, and impressed the office techie with her knowledge of computers. On the other hand, her dress and demeanor were so close to perfection, Jim hesitated to touch her. With her wasp waist and fully formed torso, topped by flawless blonde updo, she resembled nothing so much as a live Barbie do
ll. And she felt like one, too, when he kissed her at her exquisitely decorated front door, complete with twinkling lights and geometrically perfect, if artificial, wreath.

  He kept wondering what Christmas at Rachel’s apartment would be like. He imagined Scott would be wild with excitement, ripping ribbons and paper without waiting for adult approval. Rachel would be almost as uncontrollable, her curls flopping like Raggedy Anne’s, but she’d be thrusting presents in all directions, sure that she’d made faultless selections. In Sharon’s case, nothing would stop her from tidying as the morning went along. Maybe they’d sing carols along with classic recordings.

  Since he wouldn’t make it to Iowa this year for the holiday, Rachel’s place would be the most home-like he could think of. He was sure she’d invite him, given the opportunity. He reached for the phone.

  * * *

  “Is this going to be awkward?” Rachel asked Sharon on Christmas morning. “With both Ryan and Jim here?”

  “I don’t think it need be,” Sharon answered. “You’ve told them that you’ve invited a number of guests, right? That they’re not your date?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. I said we host a holiday open house every year for anyone we know in town who’s at loose ends.”

  Sharon returned to her careful arrangement of snickerdoodles, iced sugar cookies, and the perennial favorite chocolate chip on a holiday platter that featured awkward snowmen falling down snowbanks. “Have you been up front with Ryan about how you feel?”

  “Weelll, I’ve hinted.”

  Sharon slapped down the tray so hard, the cookies bounced. “That’s not fair, Rachel. He’s a nice guy. You need to tell him.”

  “I will. I promise. Today. I thought it would be easier with other people around. Although I’ll make sure we don’t have an audience when I bring the topic up.”

  “Be tactful with him.”