by Judy Baer
I read the paragraph on chopping onions and rechecked the cover to determine if the book was for real or if my sister had given it to me as a joke. It was for real, I decided, so we might as well try what it suggested.
I opened a loaf of bread and took out two slices. “Here.” I thrust one at Clay.
“I’m not hungry.”
“It’s not for you to eat, it’s for you to put in your mouth.”
He looked at me inquisitively. “Isn’t that pretty much the same thing?” He studied the slice of twelve grain.
“Like this.” I demonstrated by putting the slice in my mouth and holding it there, most of the bread hanging out like a shelf under my nose.
“Then what?”
I took the bread out again to speak. “The bread makes a barrier so that while you’re chopping onions, the smell won’t get in your nose.”
“You have got to be kidding.”
“That’s what the book says. I’ve got to get this salad marinating. Come on, Clay, be a sport.” Then I used a ploy that always worked on my brothers. “Or is it too hard for you?”
“Is that a challenge?” His eyes narrowed and I knew I had him.
These competitive types fall so easily.
I divided the onions in half. “The one who finishes chopping his or her onions first gets a free dinner from the loser.”
“If this doesn’t work, I’m quitting.” He stuck the bread in his mouth.
“Then chop fast.”
That’s how my brother Liam found us, chopping wildly, onions flying onto the counter and the floor. Clay and I had our mouths stuffed with bread—it turns out that just one slice isn’t enough—and racing to the finish. I’d even stuffed a little in my nostrils to keep the stench at bay.
I reached to take the bread out of my mouth but Liam held up his hand. “Don’t say a word, Molly. Whatever explanation there is for this, I don’t want to hear it. I want to play with the possibilities, to visualize just which of your brain cells has disintegrated and to consider how long it is until you are carried away in a straitjacket. I’m already imagining how I’ll tell Mom and Dad you have a bread fetish. Please don’t ruin my fun by trying to explain what you’re doing.”
Liam walked across the kitchen and picked up my stand mixer. “Mom wants to borrow this. I’ll be leaving now. You two just carry on. I’ll never breathe a word of it to anyone.” He backed out the door and I heard his whoops of laughter as he made his way to the car.
Clay whipped the bread from his mouth. “Now you’ve made fools of—” He got a full breath of the scent of onion. “These things are strong!”
“Sorry. I meant to get the mild Vidalias. I guess I got into the wrong bin.”
Clay’s eyes watered and when he thoughtlessly wiped them with his hand, he rubbed the onion juice on his hands into his eyes. With a roar, he headed for my bathroom.
I quickly threw the onions into the salad mix and sealed the bowl. I had most of the mess cleaned up when he returned to the room. He’d stuck his entire head under the shower to wash away the smell. His shoulders were wet and his dark curls spiked in every direction.
“Where do you keep your towels?” He looked as mad as the proverbial wet hen…er…rooster.
“A pipe sprung a leak in the basement and I used them to mop up. They’re all in the washing machine.” I looked around the room and grabbed the first thing I saw.
In a supreme bit of bad timing, Tony chose that moment to ring my doorbell and stick his head inside to yell, “Anybody home?” He sauntered in to find Clay sopping wet in the middle of my kitchen, drying his hair with a dish towel covered with dancing pots and pans.
He looked from me to Clay and back again. “I think I’d better not ask what’s going on.”
“Good idea.”
“Perhaps this isn’t the time to invite you to a poetry reading, either.”
“Maybe not.”
“Or mention that I have tickets to a local production of Romeo and Juliet?”
“No kidding?” I perked up. I’m a sucker for Romeo and Juliet. “Who’s putting it on?”
Clay spluttered and shook himself like Hildy does after a swim.
Tony looked at him strangely and then, to my amazement, strode across the room and planted a kiss on my lips. He lowered his eyelids and whispered just loud enough for Clay to hear, “I’ll call you later.” And he left.
I turned back to Clay, who looked more put-out than ever.
Men. They were acting like two roosters both interested in the same hen. Chalking it up to an aberrant testosterone surge, I handed Clay another towel, this one covered with spoons and flowers.
He glared at me but didn’t look nearly so fierce with that particular towel on his head. “Poetry? Shakespeare? What gives?”
I stuck my nose in the air. “I’m far more sophisticated and interesting than you give me credit for being.”
“And Tony?”
“He has the soul of a poet. He’s the hospital poetry guru. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Shakespeare, Frost, you name it, he quotes it.”
“All this right under my nose, and I didn’t know it?” Clay appeared genuinely surprised.
“You aren’t right about everything, you know. I’m the perfect example of that.”
Before he could respond, the doorbell rang and I went to answer it.
“Ms. Molly Cassidy?” a bouquet of flowers inquired. Then a head popped from behind the colorful spray. “Flowers for you, miss.” He thrust them at me, turned and sauntered toward his delivery van, whistling. It must be a happy job, delivering flowers.
“What’s the occasion?” Clay was dry now, looking no worse for wear. He smelled only faintly of onions.
“I don’t know.” I set the vase of on the table and lifted out the card tucked in the flowers.
You are amazing, Molly. I can’t thank you enough for supporting me. I hope I can do something for you someday. Hugs,
Emily Hancock
I tried to tuck the card into my pocket but Clay grabbed it and read it aloud.
“Do you get things like this often, Molly?”
“Sometimes. Occasionally. Usually. Yes.”
“I see.”
What exactly did he see? That mothers find me valuable during labor? That I wasn’t a menace to society? Or that my insidious job was infiltrating and contaminating the hospital? I couldn’t tell if Clay wanted to congratulate or fumigate me.
To my surprise, he didn’t comment about the flowers.
Even more to my surprise he said, “It’s not poetry or Shakespeare, but there’s a film festival running at the U. And I know a great place for ribs. What do you say?
I say yes. Definitely yes.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ribs are a messy business. By the time we were done with the all-you-can-eat rib buffet, I had barbecue sauce in my hair, on my blouse, and two handprints where I’d wiped my hands on my jeans. Clay, thankfully, made sure I wiped the sauce off the tip of my nose.
“I enjoyed watching you eat more than watching that obscure movie we just saw,” he commented, as we strolled together on a sidewalk that led around one of the city’s many lakes. “You do everything with gusto, don’t you?”
“Why not? This isn’t a dress rehearsal. We only get one life this side of heaven. Might as well make the most of it.”
“Do you really believe in heaven?” Clay inquired, hands in his pockets and his gaze on an airplane overhead.
“Do I believe… Of course I believe! Don’t you?”
“I want to. I thought I did. I just haven’t seen many signs lately that it’s more than wishful thinking.” His remote, sad tone hurt my heart.
“What happened to you, Clay? What made you doubt?”
“It’s a long story. One I choose not to go into.” His voice grew flat and emotionless.
I leaned forward intently. “Eternity is too important to ignore, Clay.”
He looked down at me and his expr
ession grew soft and vulnerable in a way I’d not seen before. “You aren’t the first one who has told me that. There are a lot of faith-filled people in my family.”
“Just so you know, I’m here if you want to talk about it.”
“Why do you care?”
“I’m no doctor, but I am sure when I say that you’ll feel much better once you realize that you really can rely on God.”
“I’ll think about it. How about that?”
Maybe he was just placating me, but it was a start.
He looked puzzled. “I don’t understand why you still speak to me. I’ve given you a bad time in the hospital and I don’t plan to quit.”
“‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’”
“That’s it?”
“That’s why I tolerated you in the beginning. Now, when we aren’t at work, I actually like you a little bit. When you aren’t being an obnoxious, insufferable know-it-all, you have some latent charm.”
“Why does that backhanded, more-criticism-than-praise compliment please me?” he asked, half amused, half frustrated.
“Because it’s honest?” I ventured. “When you are accustomed to having people fawn over you and listen to and obey your every word because you are a Bradshaw, my type of candor is refreshing.”
“I knew there had to be a reason.” He chuckled and took my hand in his.
Why was the most dreamy walk of my life with a guy I’d fight tooth and nail the next time a client of mine delivered in his hospital? A decent romantic moment wasted—how sad. I haven’t had that many of them lately.
We walked a few minutes without speaking. The night air was velvety and the stillness was soothing.
“Have you got big plans for the weekend?” I asked eventually, breaking the silence between us.
“Not really. Noah is going to my sister’s home in Wisconsin to visit his cousin. It will be pretty quiet without him.”
“Do you get lonesome when he’s away?”
He took a long time to answer. “Sometimes I think lonesome is my default emotion. I go there no matter what happens.”
I surprised even myself when I responded, “If you don’t want to be lonesome, you can come to the Cassidy shindig. You’ll be pleading for peace and quiet within the hour.”
He stopped walking and I felt him staring at me. “Do you mean it?”
Did I? I must have.
“Sure.” I gave him my mother’s address. “Be there or be square.”
“What decade did you say you were born in?”
“Very funny.” I thought for a moment that Clay might even put his arm around me as we walked. Fortunately he has more self-control in such matters than I.
“You invited him home to meet your family? What are you, nuts?” Lissy, hands on skinny hips, glared at me. “Even Tony and I didn’t get invited to a bash until three years ago. This man is an interloper!”
“My family can take care of itself,” I reminded Lissy, “but thanks for caring. It just slipped out. I didn’t mean to do it, but he did help me with the salads. It seemed only fair.” That and I was a little moonstruck at the time. My tongue had been temporarily disconnected from my brain. “Besides, I give him two hours at the party before he runs away screaming. Just wait until Uncle Jerry pulls out the bagpipes.”
“I thought bagpipes were played by Scots.”
I sniggered. “True, but we Cassidys believe they were invented by the Irish as a joke, and the Scots just haven’t caught on yet. Jerry’s my uncle by marriage,” I reminded her, “not blood.”
She threw her hands in the air. “You’re right. Dr. Reynolds won’t last.”
I was still counting on that as I helped my mother set out food on the long tables we’d borrowed from the church basement. Tables really can groan, especially under the weight of full Crock-Pots and warming trays, chafing dishes and bowls of ice to hold salads.
“Do you think we overdid it?” Mother asked, eyeing the bounty.
“Have you forgotten the last party?”
“We’d planned for leftovers and ended up with only the butt end of a ham, three buns and a dish of stew your aunt forgot was in the oven.”
“I think the relatives starve between parties. Remember the year Liam and Uncle Jerry ate an entire ham?”
“It was a small ham, as I remember, but maybe I’ll call your father and tell him to pick up an extra….” Mom wandered off clucking to herself.
I didn’t dwell on it because something hard and heavy hit me in the back of my legs, and I nearly fell to the floor.
“Geri, quit it!”
My pig, dressed in a leprechaun costume my sister had sewn, bumped my calves for the umpteenth time demanding attention. Krissy had outdone herself this time. She’d sewn a wee green jacket with tails and buttons and even found a shiny green cardboard leprechaun hat to which she’d attached a bit of stretchy elastic. It fit perfectly to Geri’s head. Geranium doesn’t have much of a chin—she’s pretty much pork fat all the way from her bottom lip to her chest—but Krissy had managed to make it work.
I don’t normally take my pets to these things. The children tend to overfeed them. It’s a special problem with Geri because she eats anything. Because I don’t want a nauseous pig in my car on the way home, I’d made a sign to hang around her neck. Please Don’t Feed the Pig! Hopefully most of the children can read by now. Hildy, I’d left at home with a new bone. I might have left Geri there, too, but she did have the leprechaun suit to model. What’s more, she’s awfully cute nosing around under the table, a tubby Irish pig.
Hugh arrived early, knowing I’d be there with Mother, putting last-minute touches on the party. Of all my brothers, he’s the most thoughtful. I credit that to his delicate, artistic nature. The other boys had had their brains marinated in sports from the time they were born, and although they do have sensitive sides, they’ve been callused over by Monday-night football.
My brother Liam is the most incorrigible of all—a flirt, a tease, a handsome heartbreaker. And he’d never think to come early to help out, though the others might entertain the notion for a moment before tossing it out.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I greeted Hugh as he planted a kiss on my cheek. “Mom needs your help.”
“Why wouldn’t I be here? I’m the one without a life, remember?”
I pulled away to stare at him. “Hugh, that doesn’t sound like you.”
“No? Well, get used to it. It’s the new me.” He dropped into a chair and stared at my pig/leprechaun rooting under an area rug.
“Your date wasn’t successful last night?”
“A disaster. I took her to the new Mexican place in Uptown. She hates Mexican food. Then we went to a pop concert. Afterward she told me that she only likes heavy metal. When I dropped her off at her house, she couldn’t get out of the car fast enough. I can’t believe I read her so wrong.”
I sat down next to him and put my hand on his arm. “Sometimes women will tell a man what they think he wants to hear—that they enjoy Mexican food, for example, or easy listening—just to go out. You can’t help it if they aren’t being honest.”
His beautiful green-gold eyes looked sad. “I really thought I checked it out with her, Molly. And I blew it.”
“Maybe she blew it.” I patted him on the arm. “Why tell you Mexican food is okay if she doesn’t like it? She needs to be honest, too.”
He studied my face. “Like you?”
I thought of some of my conversations with Clay. “Maybe I’m just a little too honest sometimes. I could hold back a little bit.”
“That’s not possible for you, sis. You’re passionate by nature. Things just spill out of you.”
The doorbell chimed and Hugh opened it to find Lissy and Tony on the other side.
Lissy looked marvelous in a pair of jeans and a billowing white poet’s shirt with a broad silver and turquoise belt at the waist and dramatic silver and turquoise earrings. Hugh,
who was used to seeing her in grubs around my house, did a double take.
Tony wasn’t too shabby himself in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled partway to his elbows, collar tipped up at a rakish angle and snug, sharply pressed jeans. His black hair was just a shade too long and curled at his collar. All my female relatives will swoon at the sight of him. Fortunately, Tony is accustomed to that.
“We’re the first?” Lissy glanced at the tables of food. “Wow, look at this spread.”
The doorbell rang again. “You were first, but not for long. Make yourself at home.”
Uncle James and Aunt Sarah were the next to arrive, followed by my father’s other brothers and sisters and their spouses, their offspring and a few grandchildren. My own siblings drifted in, as well, and in the middle of the mass arrival, Clay appeared. He introduced himself to my relations with graciousness and ease.
When the relatives passed me, they all gave me nods of approval, as if I’d finally caught a fish big enough to mount.
I gritted my teeth when I saw my father’s oldest sister forging down the sidewalk.
“Here comes trouble,” I whispered to Hugh. Aunt Siobhan believes she is matriarch of the clan and has taken it upon herself to be as vocal as possible about the things she feels the family needs to remedy. Hugh and I, because we are both single, are at the top of her to-do list. An unmarried Cassidy is a defective Cassidy, in Aunt Siobhan’s mind. Sometimes I wonder how such a lady with such a lovely name—it’s pronounced Shiv-awn—got such an overbearing personality.
She entered the house as if blown in on a strong gust of wind, with Uncle Kent, a mild-mannered accountant, in tow. Her gaze took in the crowd, and I could practically see her checking names off a mental list to see who was present and who would need to be chastised on Monday for their absence. Then her eyes quit moving and became fixed on a spot somewhere over my shoulder. I turned my head to see what she was staring at.
Clay. He’d bent forward to listen attentively to my father spin out some tall tale. Occasionally he nodded thoughtfully, as if he were hearing the secrets of the universe instead of Dad’s rambling, long-winded joke.
