by Cindy Davis
Paige stowed the card in the back pocket of her jeans. “Thank you for the invitation. I just might take you up on it.” She ran her hands over a simple pattern with the title Bear Claw design before turning back to the sidewalk. As she did, she bumped squarely into the back of a man, causing him to drop his packages.
Amid profuse apologies, she bent to help him gather his things. When she again stood erect, she was face to face with Mr. Burton David Palmer, Post Office Box 72, Sugar Creek, Missouri.
"Well, we meet again,” he said with a smooth elegance that bespoke of culture and education.
"I'm sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going."
"I can see that. Why don't you explore that quilting class? I wager you'd enjoy it."
"You were watching me?"
His gray eyes twinkled, becoming almost teal color in the afternoon sun. “I was just about to get something to eat. Would you care to join me?"
"Only if you allow me to buy, to repay you for my clumsiness."
He hesitated a mere second before agreeing. “I saw an Armenian booth somewhere. What do you think about that?"
"I've never had Armenian food. It's not spicy, is it?"
He shrugged, “Some is, some isn't. What say we give it a try?"
* * * *
Settled on the grass with plates of yalanchi, the Armenian version of stuffed grape leaves and kofta (stuffed meatballs), he introduced himself. “I'm Burton David Palmer."
The food did a somersault in her throat and she began choking.
He reached across and pounded her on the back. “Are you all right?"
She nodded and swallowed, knowing her face was a brilliant shade of scarlet.
"My name doesn't usually garner a humorous response from people. So,” he tilted her head to meet his eyes. “Would you kindly tell me what's so funny?"
She stabbed her fork into the food before saying, “Hello, Burt, it's very nice to meet you. My name is Ernestine Yates."
Burt thought a minute, then grinned. “I get it. Burt and Ernie.” He extended a long, uncalloused hand. “Here's to a less tenuous relationship than theirs."
Burt and Paige spent the remainder of the day exploring the fair. He walked her home, his arm through hers. In front of her building, she bid him good night. “Thank you for lunch. Armenian food isn't at all what I expected. Where have you had it before?"
"The people who tended that booth have a restaurant here in the city. I go once in a while. Can I see you again?"
No! No! screamed every one of her senses, but her mouth wasn't paying attention. “Yes, I'd like that,” it said.
"You said you were new in the city. I'd love to show you around. What about tomorrow night?"
She'd agreed to meet him at seven-thirty tomorrow night and remained on the sidewalk, waving until he disappeared from view. She practically danced on the pavement. Handsome Burt, who enjoyed good food and theater, had asked her out. How much better could life get? He was distinguished and intelligent. She loved the way his temples were speckled with gray, and the way his jaw tightened when another man smiled at her. Wait, the jaw tightening hadn't been Burt, that was Chris.
Four steps further along the sidewalk, Burt had grown a handlebar mustache, and his hair had turned from black to brown. With each succeeding step, his face emoted further into Chris'.
She couldn't go out with Burt. She just couldn't.
But she did go out with Burt—several times over the next week—to the Kansas City Renaissance Fair, the Indian Arts Show, and the Greek restaurant downtown. Every time she sat in his Audi and saw that multi-gauged dashboard, she was reminded of the one in Chris’ truck with about a million gadgets, buttons, and knobs.
But Chris was gone: a heady memory of her past and something that had to be left behind.
Last night, for the first time, Paige allowed Burt to get take-out from a tiny place in the even tinier village of Sugar Creek, and take her to his home. He'd unlocked the front door of his enormous Tudor, ushered her inside, and actually said, “Ta-da!"
He placed their bags of food on an oblong Queen Anne's table set beneath an ornate mirror as he followed her gaze up the wide mahogany stairway. “I bought this place cheap back in ‘68. I've been renovating it ever since. You wouldn't believe what it looked like. I almost backed right out the door it stank so bad.” He turned around as if seeing the place for the first time also. “I don't think it came out too bad, if I do say so myself."
"What I see is very nice."
This prompted him to escort her on a tour of the downstairs while their take-out cooled in the hallway. She viewed the huge dining room, almost as large as the one in Stefano's mansion.
"I use this room once a year, on my birthday."
"Do you have a party?"
Burt's cheeks reddened through his ruddy skin. “No, I eat alone, right here.” He tapped the carved teak chair at the head of the long table, above which hung a glittering chandelier.
Was he telling the truth? Did he really spend all his time alone? That wasn't normal.
What was so different about her lifestyle?
Yes, but she was on the run. Had to be careful of every Tom, Dick, and ... Burt.
Paige acted dutifully impressed by the house. It wasn't her style, but was very tastefully and expensively decorated. She acted impressed that is, until Burt opened the door to what he called his denfry. “My library slash den slash office,” he explained.
She took in the magnificently tall ceilings, wainscoted walls, and highly polished antique desk set before an enormous picture window. The whole place had a glorious view of the city. The full moon had risen. It turned the dusky sunset and the towering silver-gray buildings into noble black silhouettes; a subject Monet would have had a devil of a time ignoring.
No, he'd never married, he told her when she asked. Yes, he thought he would someday, but wasn't in any hurry. He liked his independence.
Yes, she could call her self-imposed lifestyle ‘independence’ too. It sounded far better than escapism.
Then Burt mumbled something she had to ask him to repeat.
"I said I seem to have this habit of choosing the wrong woman."
"Bad experience?"
"One after another. I once read a book on human psychology that told why people tend to select the same person time after time."
"What was the reason?"
He laughed. “I can't recall, but I do remember exactly fitting the profile. Why don't we eat? I bet we'll have to reheat everything.” He led her down a hallway to the kitchen that had a bow window with the same vista as the one in Burt's denfry.
He showed her the huge pantry, with shelves only about a hundredth occupied by neatly stacked cans and boxes of food. He laughed. “I eat out most of the time."
The couple sat at the small table near the window. Enough moonlight poured in that Burt shut off the overhead light. They ate in silence, each lost in private thoughts, gazing at the panorama of Kansas City spread before them.
After dinner he gave Paige the tour of the upstairs. Six bedrooms, only two of which had been redecorated. Two had identical views of the city. One had a ladder and myriad tools stacked on a worktable in the center of the room.
"This is as far as I got. I can't seem to motivate myself to do the rest.” He shrugged as though it didn't matter, but she had the distinct impression it did. For a second, Paige's heart went out to him.
She quickly reeled it back in.
Paige watched the blinking lights of a passing jet, its white trail of fumes the only murkiness that marred the scene. Burt walked up behind her and placed his arms around her waist. He nuzzled his cheek against her hair.
She ducked from his touch and turned to face him. “Burt..."
"I know, you've made it perfectly clear you don't want a physical relationship. I really wish you would talk about it. Getting it out in the open would make it easier on you."
"No, it would only make it easier on you."
"
Not true. If I can't touch you...
"Would you take me home, please?"
He hesitated before saying, “Of course."
Outside, he held the car door for her. She was silent during the ride to her apartment.
"Please don't be angry,” he whispered. His eyelashes and tiny hairs on his nose glowed in the moonlight.
"I'm not angry. It's just that. Look, I've explained it to you several times—"
Burt interrupted her troubled speech. “No, you haven't. All you've said is you're recovering from a bad relationship."
"That's right. An intelligent man would surmise that—"
"Okay,” he said, his tone sharp.
She extracted herself from the car before he could come around and open the door.
After shutting her apartment door and listening for the sound of his retreating footsteps and the front door squeaking shut, Paige tiptoed downstairs and went for a walk. The city was so quiet. Only the soft thud of her footsteps could be heard as she wandered several blocks north. She stopped at the intersection where the big yellow truck had appeared. What was it—just a week ago?
Paige crossed her arms and imagined Chris’ truck looming into sight. He leaned forward for a better look. He smiled. His big hands wound the enormous steering wheel. The truck performed like an acrobat and thundered to the side of the road. It didn't stop at the curb though. The engine roared deeper and stronger, then leaped over onto the sidewalk and thundered toward her. Chris’ smiling face changed. Now it was Burt's leering grin coming at her.
The next thing Paige knew she was leaning against her closed apartment door, the raised panels biting into her spine, her breath coming in bottomless bursts.
What did the vision mean? That she wanted Chris? That she should let Burt closer? She'd never been good at dissecting dreams. She'd never been a good judge of character. Wasn't that how she ended up with Stefano in the first place? A handsome man comes along, says a few nice things, and she jumps into bed with him.
Paige leaned away from the door and slipped out of her jacket.
Letting the hot shower needles beat on her face, she made up her mind about one thing—tomorrow she'd break off her relationship with Burton David Palmer.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Twenty-three
Paige didn't know how she got in front of the quilt shop. She'd been walking and sipping hot green tea and rehearsing what she'd say to Burt later. “I can't see you any more. I'm in love with..."
Love? God no. She'd only known Chris a couple of days. Love was impossible. Particularly when all the signs pointed toward him working for Stefano. She simply could not fall in love with anyone—especially not the handsome Canadian-turned-Texan.
She knocked timidly on the quilt shop door and went inside. A light at the back burned brightly. Joy, smiling, opened the door and ushered Paige between aisles of upright bolts of fabric arranged with similar colors together: a rainbow you could actually touch, to a long narrow room behind the main shop where six other women had already gathered around a rectangular table. Each held her quilt in varying colors and styles, in different degrees of completion.
A round gray-haired woman offered Paige a cup of coffee. Paige held up her cup of tea. “I'm good, thanks."
"Hi, I'm Sonja. Welcome to our little gathering.” She held up her quilt. It was an Amish style in bright primary colors. Excellent workmanship, but the colors were too gaudy for Paige's tastes.
A buxom blonde, whom Sonja called Melanie, displayed a nearly completed project. Her handiwork wasn't on a par with the others but she had energy and zest, something Paige was beginning to feel. A sort of adrenaline coursed through her, a longing to be working on her own project, even though she hadn't handled a needle and thread since she was thirteen. Violet, her nanny, believed everyone, boys and girls alike, should be prepared for “whatever life might throw at you". She'd instructed Paige and her brother in the ways of sewing and cleaning.
Paige took to the needle like a hummingbird to flight. Joy watched with a look of satisfaction, having been responsible for discovering another quilting buff.
Paige nearly ran home to her apartment, eager to dive into her new pattern book. As she closed the door, she spied the note that had been jammed underneath. She unfolded the paper, knowing it was from Burt. Though he'd repeatedly said she needed a phone, so far she'd resisted. The note voiced a renewed apology for last night and said he hoped she'd still go out with him the following evening, to Buca Di Beppo's. Yes, she would meet him. And break the news that she couldn't see him any more.
She settled on her sofa bed and slowly turned the pattern pages, concentrating on each design, mentally matching the hundreds of bolts of material she'd seen in Joy's store to the quilts shown in glossy color in her book. A glass of merlot on the coffee table stood nearly forgotten, beads of moisture collecting on the base of the stem. Finally Paige settled back, propping several pillows between herself and the stuccoed wall. She held the book at arm's length picturing how the appliquéd rose quilt on page seventeen would look in the apartment. She visualized colonial blue combined with rose and yellow, and nodded.
Later, she sat in the dark, dressed in an oversized T-shirt, leaning against the same pillows, staring out at the twinkling sky. Three days ago she'd finally sold the van. She drew the bag of Stefano's money from the space between the wall of the kitchen sink and the cabinet. Then she switched the money from the sale of the van with an equal amount: her version of money laundering. Who knew what ability Stefano had to trace what she'd taken? Perhaps that was how he'd found her in Barstow. That in mind, she sat on the tiled floor and examined the bills. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
She should go to Minneapolis soon. It would be nice visiting with Nina, and retrieving her package. Soon. First, she needed to free herself of Stefano. If he followed her, and did something to Nina or her family, Paige couldn't live with herself.
Paige sighed. Would she ever be free of him?
The following morning, she ate at the deli down the street, seated on a stool at a tall table facing the intersection. Propped under the table was the plastic bag holding her new purchases: fabrics and quilting supplies. Paige was anxious to begin working on her project but had one more stop before heading home, an interview at the University of Michigan Library for a position as the librarian's assistant.
She wore a trim navy pantsuit, white silk blouse and a new pair of Manolo Blahniks that pinched each big toe but, the heck with that, they looked great. The gossamer corner of a red silk handkerchief peeked from her left breast pocket.
Paige watched the people scurrying past and wondered where each was going. To work, probably. That guy in the three-piece suit had to be a lawyer. A woman who stopped in front of the window to answer a cell phone jammed up the crowd behind her. She turned to scowl at a dark-haired man who crashed into her. Paige could tell he was apologizing because he nodded and pointed a lot. There was a cigarette in his hand—between the second and third fingers.
Chris!
Paige shot off the stool. Her left toe snagged on the heel of her right and she nearly toppled on her face. She righted herself and sprinted to the sidewalk. The man in the suit was still there. The woman on the cell phone was still there. Chris was gone. She cast about wildly, searching the workday crowd for his head. She elbowed through the crowd for a half-block in each direction, but found no sign of the dark-haired man.
Paige retraced her steps to the deli to collect her things.
So, Chris was in town. That meant he was searching for her, didn't it? Trouble was: should she run from him or to him?
* * * *
The tall raised panel doors of the library banged shut behind her. The aroma, like that in a bookstore, usually brought feelings of nostalgia. Today it only made her sad and lonely. She stiffened her spine and stepped up to the closed office door of the librarian, Mrs. Agatha Zrony. Since she'd anticipated a round gray-haired woman in wire rimmed spectacles and po
lyester suit with a personality to match, Paige was not disappointed. The woman was the stereotype that her name and profession dictated. She motioned Paige to a seat in one of the leather chairs primly set before an enormous desk, then raised battleship green eyes to meet Paige's. Her eyebrows lifted as though she had formed her own opinion of someone bearing the name Ernestine Yates.
"Miss—er, Ms. Yates. Tell me why I should forego interviewing the remainder of these candidates...” She waved a sheaf of employment applications in the air, “...and hire someone such as yourself."
The old Paige wouldn't have hesitated to put the woman in her proper place. The new Paige pulled in a breath and replied, “I'm an avid reader. I know the Dewey decimal system inside and out. I'm prompt. I love working with people and I'm a hard worker. I also am good at fending off unwanted salespeople and am very good at accepting blame for things which aren't of my doing.” And that was no understatement.
Agatha Zrony gazed at Paige for ten seconds. Those ten seconds stretched into twenty while Paige pondered thoughts of escaping. Ten more seconds passed. Whether waiting for Paige to rescind her statement or formulating her own reply, Paige didn't know or care.
Gradually, a Mona Lisa-type grin crept over the wrinkled face. “I do believe I've just hired myself an assistant. I think we'll get along famously. Call me Agatha."
Paige half-stood and extended a hand across the desk. Agatha pumped it enthusiastically. “You can start tomorrow at 8:00 a.m."
In the hallway, Paige sighed. Eight a.m. was an hour as foreign to her as space exploration. But the job would relieve the boredom—not loneliness, certainly not loneliness—that she'd been suffering of late.
* * * *
After a wonderful Italian dinner at Buca Di Beppo's, Burt took Paige's elbow and steered her away from his Audi. They walked, hand in hand, the several blocks to Loose Park where he led her to the same bench from which she'd fed the ducks a few weeks ago. Her mind was awhirl with what she'd say later—to let him down gently. All through dinner he'd watched her with a look that shouted, I know what you're thinking and I'll do anything to stop it from happening.
