By Leaps and Bounds

by Diamond, Jacqueline

  "Mom?" Otto said. "Can I wear my Mickey Mouse T-shirt?"

  "In February?" Emma shook her head. "How about your Magic Bees sweatshirt?"

  Securing his agreement, she escorted her son to his bedroom. While he went ahead to change, she glanced in to see Eric retrieving his plumber's snake from the drain.

  "Bad news, I'm afraid." He rinsed black muck off his equipment. "The problem is outside. I don't know how serious it is, but I'll have to do some digging."

  "Oh, dear." Although it sounded expensive, Emma couldn't very well leave her plumbing permanently plugged. "That's the trouble with having pipes that are older than you are."

  Eric gave her a sideways grin that lit up his face, triggering an unexpected warmth in her chest. "I like these older homes, though. They seem so sure of themselves, so solid."

  "Yes, but you don't have to pay somebody else to unclog your bathtub,'' she pointed out.

  His eyes never left hers. "I suppose that is a disadvantage. Your husband isn't the handyman type?"

  "My husband died two years ago." Seeing that he was about to apologize, Emma said, "He was a fireman. And he was pretty handy around the house."

  "A lot of women are taking do-it-yourself classes these days." Eric packed up his equipment. "Not that I recommend you try something like this yourself." As he moved toward the doorway, he paused a few feet from Emma. Although there was plenty of room for him to pass, he didn't seem in a hurry.

  She pulled her bathrobe tighter, but she wasn't eager to move, either. Seeing Eric in her home redefined all the spaces and infused the air with an unfamiliar energy. “Do you—want some coffee?"

  "No, thanks." He hesitated as if about to ask a question, then turned and strode toward the back door.

  He couldn't place her, Emma decided. She'd have to refresh his memory, but not while she looked like a specimen from Fright Night.

  It took only a few minutes to dress Otto and turn him loose in the backyard to watch Eric. Then she went to her closet and selected a pair of trendy jeans and a new yoked shirt that gathered around the hips with a buckle.

  This was silly, Emma scolded herself as she fluffed her hair and attacked it with the stiffest hair spray she could find. It didn't really matter how she looked, did it? She wasn't some adolescent still in high school.

  High school. She felt as if it had been ten decades ago instead of ten years.

  Everyone at La Habra High had been aware of Eric. Not just because he was senior class president, but because of the indefinable sparkle that filled the air whenever he came near. No one had doubted that he would be someone special when he grew up.

  He'd gone steady with Sally Monroe, the captain of the girls' basketball team. Their friends had been the school leaders, mostly well-to-do kids who went on to top-rank colleges. Sally, Emma recalled, had headed back East to Wellesley.

  Emma's boyfriend in those days, Jerry Ramis, was a camera freak who now owned a photography studio in nearby Fullerton. Their casual relationship had mostly resulted from being thrown together in the same circle of friends.

  Emma had hung out with a slightly rowdy group from blue-collar backgrounds. Looking back, she could see that although she'd enjoyed their company, she hadn't been truly close to any of her group. Even her old girlfriends had drifted away after their marriages.

  She'd rarely mentioned her ambitions. It had seemed presumptuous to imagine that she might make a career for herself in Hollywood. Yet she'd had an undeniable flair for hairstyling even then, and Emma had volunteered to fix actors' hair at the local community theater and for the school plays.

  That was when she’d discovered the change that took place in her while she worked. She became a different person: more confident, more alive. The prospect of pleasing an audience filled her with excitement.

  Emma would never forget one community theater performance of the romantic comedy Cactus Flower for a senior citizen audience. Afterward she'd watched an elderly couple emerge arm in arm, their eyes twinkling, their step light. For one dizzying moment, she'd looked past their wrinkled faces to witness the two young lovers who still lived inside. The realization that she had played a part, however small, in their enjoyment had buoyed Emma all the way home.

  So when some brave soul chose Romeo and Juliet for the senior play, Emma had volunteered as hairdresser. She couldn't remember now who'd played the title roles, but Eric had been cast as Mercutio.

  Their brief encounter had occurred one rainy afternoon in March when they both showed up for a dress rehearsal, only to find it had been canceled. Faced with a solid sheet of rain outside, they'd decided to wait for a break rather than get soaked.

  Emma could still smell the mustiness of the auditorium and hear the hazy thrum of rain on the roof. They'd sat side by side, their feet propped on the back of the next row of seats, sharing an orange Emma had brought with her.

  She hadn't known what to say at first, so she'd made small talk. Where was he going to college? When he said Cal Poly, Pomona—as everyone referred the nearby campus of California State Polytechnic University--she'd wondered aloud why he hadn't chosen the more prestigious University of California.

  "Because I'm going to be an architect and I like their program," Eric had said. "We need a whole new approach to housing. All the rules will be different, Emma. Not many people understand that."

  Fascinated, she'd listened as he explained that shortages of land and energy were going to change the way houses had to be designed. "We could end up with ugly, cramped places like those apartments in the old Soviet Union," he warned. “But it doesn't have to be that way."

  His dream, Eric said, involved using airy, eye-tricking lines to make smaller units seem spacious. Moreover, clustering houses around joint recreational facilities would encourage community spirit, a return to small-town neighborliness.

  "Architects help determine what societies are like," Eric had declared. "We need a vision."

  Enthralled, Emma had listened for a long time before she hesitantly confided her own dreams. She hadn't expected Eric to take much interest, but he seemed to understand instinctively that she wasn't some star-struck airhead. Nor did he dismiss hairstyling as a matter of vanity.

  "The world is shrinking," he'd said. "What we see on TV and in the movies brings us together, helps us understand each other. And images help to shape how we think."

  Looking back, she supposed his words might have sounded overly grandiose to an adult, but they had suited her eighteen-year-old idealism perfectly, and Eric's encouragement had stuck in Emma's mind. When she got sidetracked over the years, she'd allowed herself to keep on dreaming, and had gradually steered herself back on course partly because once, long ago, someone who mattered had thought that her goals mattered, too.

  "Mrs. Lindt?" Calling from the back door, Eric's deep voice echoed through the house. "Could you come here for a minute?"

  "Right away." Emma finished putting on her lipstick and hurried out. She emerged to see Otto sitting astride his tricycle, studying the plumber's tools with fascination.

  Eric gestured ruefully toward the hole he'd punched in the ground. "I've been trying to clean this thing out but I'm not having much luck." He indicated the metal coil called a snake, to which fresh earth still clung. "I'm afraid your problem is tree roots. We're going to have to dig up a section of pipe and replace it."

  The fenced yard was one of Emma's favorite features of the house, especially since a huge tree shaded most of the area in summer. Unfortunately, as Eric pointed to the line beneath which lay her drainage pipe, she could see that it ran dangerously close to the trunk. "Is this going to be expensive?" she asked tensely.

  "I could help," Otto said. "I'm a good digger."

  "I'll bet you are." Eric turned to Emma. "I'm afraid this is going to take a couple of guys with strong backs." He stopped abruptly, staring at her with an expression she couldn't read.

  He'd recognized her, all right. But what on earth was he thinking?

  Eric
Jameson had awakened that morning with the sense that he'd missed a turn somewhere.

  Maybe he owed it to having celebrated his twenty-eighth birthday yesterday. He had a nagging sense that thirty was sneaking up on him and he still lived in his parents' ranch-style house, far from achieving what he'd intended.

  Restlessly, Eric had climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom. On the way, he passed his computer, its screen displaying a graphic image of a futuristic city. It wasn't complete—he hadn't yet considered all the transportation needs and the effects of a changing climate—and, as always, he had to fight the temptation to sit down and lose himself in the program. He had real work to do and, for the present, that meant plumbing.

  In the bathroom, Eric had paused to listen to his twenty-year-old brother, Peter, snoring in the adjacent bedroom. It was hard to believe Peter had grown up so quickly.

  Eight years ago, as a sophomore at Cal Poly, Pomona, Eric had walked dreamily through a landscape of overlays, of buildings that faded when he looked at them, remodeled by his imagination. He could almost touch the future, not too far away, when his youthful visions would be translated into stunning reality.

  And then, on an April day that basked in sunshine, he received a halting call from his mother: Dad had collapsed at the hospital and been rushed to intensive care. Eric arrived to learn that his father had died half an hour earlier.

  More bad news came a few days later. Dad had let the premium lapse on his life insurance, and had lost much of the family's savings in a bad business investment. There wasn't enough money left to support their mother and Peter, let alone finance Eric's education.

  So he'd had to find a job. Fortunately Dad's brother, Irwin, owned a plumbing business and had no children of his own. He took Eric in and taught him the trade.

  When Uncle Irwin died three years later, he left the business to his nephew. Working twelve hours a day, seven days a week, Eric helped support his family and had begun saving a nest egg. He enjoyed the work, liked using his hands and helping solve people's problems, but always he looked forward to moving on to something more intellectually stimulating.

  At first, the savings had been intended for Peter's education, but Peter hated school and loved working. Reluctantly, Eric and their mother had agreed that Peter didn't have to go to college.

  And so, after eight years, the wheel had turned again. By this fall, Peter would be able to take over the business and Eric could return to university. He faced a long haul: three more years of studies, followed by a lengthy internship before he could even take the state architecture exam. By then, he'd be in his mid-thirties.

  He refused to let that faze him. This fall, his life would begin in earnest.

  Restlessly, Eric had finished washing and gone into the kitchen. Stella Jameson looked up as he came in. "You could have sent Peter out on that call," she’d said.

  "Let him sleep. He'll be working his tail off soon enough." The familiar sight of his mother puttering about in the kitchen filled Eric with an unexpected sense of peace.

  Stella Jameson loved everything about being a mother and a homemaker. Although she'd worked for the past eight years as a salesclerk at the Brea Mall, she always cooked a hearty breakfast for her sons.

  Eric regarded his mother lovingly, scarcely noticing how gray her hair had become. Any sacrifice he'd made for her these past few years was worth it.

  As she set a plate of pancakes and a cup of coffee in front of him, Stella said, "Did you hear Mary Winston is getting married?"

  "No. Who's the lucky guy?" Eric had dated Mary a few times, but nothing serious had developed.

  "I don't know." Stella sighed and sat across from him, sipping her tea.

  Eric regarded her with a twist of amusement. "Mom, you're getting that `I-want-grandchildren' glint in your eyes again."

  His mother blushed. "I'm in no hurry."

  "The heck you're not." Ever since his mother's best friend had become grandmother to twin girls, Stella had developed a fascination with little children. And eligible women.

  "It never hurts to plant an idea," she said. "In case you run into the right person and are too thickheaded to realize it."

  "She'd have to be awfully patient," Eric said. "I've got a long stretch ahead of me."

  Stella reached over with a fork and stole a bite of pancake from his plate. "I know, but Eric, you push yourself so hard. I'm proud of you, and I admire your persistence. But you need to enjoy your life, too."

  "I do." He smiled reassuringly. "Mom, for heaven's sake, I do date once in a while. And I've got you guys, and my computer."

  "A well-rounded life." His mother's tone verged on irony, which surprised him.

  “What's going on with you?''

  "Oh, nothing." Stella waved her hand. "Your birthday yesterday just stirred up some memories. Like how your dad was always postponing the day when he could relax and spend time with us."

  "I'm not Dad," Eric said automatically.

  He knew his mother was right, though. Eric didn't doubt that his father had loved him, but Harlan never made it a priority to spend time together. The only time he'd paid much attention was when Eric won some honor.

  Well, Eric wouldn't be that way when he had children. Thank goodness that was a long time off.

  He was still mulling all the ways he wasn't like his father when he arrived at the Lindt home. And then the door opened, chasing away his thoughts and leaving him unaccountably tongue-tied.

  It was the inquisitive brown eyes that did him in. Emma Lindt had a small, intelligent face and a curious gaze that pierced the wall he maintained between himself and most people.

  He found himself strikingly aware of her quick, graceful movements and of the delicate shoulders briefly visible under her oversize bathrobe. Most of all, Eric kept feeling that he knew her from somewhere, that he had lost her and shouldn't take the chance of losing her again.

  But it wasn't until now, when he saw her with her hair tumbling free and her eyebrows darkened to quizzical peaks, that he placed her at last. Emma Conrad!

  He'd thought about her occasionally these past ten years, wishing he hadn't let the opportunity pass to get to know her better. At the time, though, he'd been so focused on heading to college that he hadn't been about to start a new relationship.

  And then, after his father's death, something else had held Eric back. He didn't want to be the old schoolmate who never made it. Yet he realized now that inside, he'd been hoping to see her again.

  Only apparently life hadn't worked out the way she'd expected, either. While running into her was a pleasure, he couldn't help wishing she'd achieved more of her own ambitions.

  "Hi." She gave an embarrassed shrug. "Sorry I didn't identify myself earlier, but I wasn't expecting you."

  "I wasn't exactly expecting you, either." Since their high school days, her pixyish quality had mellowed, Eric realized. She held herself with the confidence of a woman—and he found himself yearning to explore all the ways in which she'd become a woman.

  Climbing off his trike, Otto moved protectively alongside his mother. "This is my mommy," he announced, as if the fact weren't obvious.

  "And she belongs to you, right?" Eric's eyes met Emma's. "Your little man knows how to protect his territory. I don't blame him."

  He wasn't sure why he'd said that. Eric didn't usually flirt, but with Emma, he didn't feel as if he were indulging in anything as superficial as flirting. More as if he wanted to get close to her, to watch the sunlight reflect off her expressive eyes and find out what she was thinking and where she had been all these years.

  "Otto." Emma knelt beside her son and gave him a hug. "Eric and I are old friends. We went to high school together."

  "When is he gonna fix the tub?" Otto said, unappeased.

  Emma regarded Eric apologetically. "I'm sorry. You were saying something about men with strong backs."

  "I'm afraid so."

  “How much will that cost?”

  Reluctantly,
he pulled out his calculator and worked out an estimate. When he named it, Emma flinched, then tried to disguise her reaction with a shrug. "I guess that's the price we pay for having a tree."

  She's a widow with a little boy—money must be tight, he thought. Darn it, he didn't want to be the cause of her distress. "I'll tell you what," Eric said. "I have to charge for materials and what I have to pay my guys, but that should knock it down to..." The figure he named was little more than half his previous amount.

  "I don't want charity." Emma lifted her chin.

  "Why not?" Otto piped in.

  "Because we pay for what we get," she told him sternly.

  Eric tucked his calculator into his pocket. "I wouldn't feel right, charging you full price."

  "It's not as if—I mean, we didn't know each other that well," Emma pointed out. "You certainly don't owe me anything."

  "No, I don't," Eric agreed. "But put yourself in my position. Wouldn't you want to give an old friend a break? Listen, you've got to have this work done. Why don't I go ahead and get some guys to dig up your pipe, and we'll worry about the price later?"

  "Okay," Emma said slowly.

  He wanted to reassure her further, but Eric sensed that might simply get her back up. He didn't often feel like rescuing damsels in distress—anyway these days most damsels were plenty capable of rescuing themselves. But with Emma, he felt a boyish urge to make a grand gesture.

  "I'll be back in a couple of hours." Eric collected his tools before she could change her mind. "See you later, Otto."

  "See ya."

  Eric swung around the side of the house and exited through the gate, noticing that the hinges squeaked and the latch was coming loose. She needed a man around here, or at least a good tool kit.

  Not that he was in the market for any serious involvement. Neither was she, most likely; Emma had plenty to keep her busy, with that cute little imp of a boy.