Chik~Lit for Foxy Hens

by Ervin, Sharon

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Why not? Men give their sweethearts nicknames.”

  “I’m not your sweetheart.”

  “Yeah, you are. And I’m yours, too.”

  “No. I have a husband.”

  His face softened. “He’s the main reason you need me.”

  I stared at the table. I did need someone. Fisk was willing, but at what price?

  “What’s in this for you?” I asked.

  “I’ll help out now. Later, we’ll see.” He put down a platter of steaming food, then sat and bowed his head. “Bless this food to our use and us to Thy service, Lord. And thank you for puttin’ this woman’s feet under my table.”

  I had to keep my head bowed a minute after the “Amen” to get my mercurial emotions back under control.

  Fisk served our plates, piled mine high.

  “We hit it off, Charlie and me. I told him I’d like to help him take care of you but I needed his okay.”

  I scoffed. “And what did he say?”

  “He squeezed my hand. I think he’d been frettin’ about it.”

  Was this man mentally challenged, or was I the one?

  * * *

  I drove Fisk back into town, to the convalescent center to retrieve his vehicle—not the flatbed, but a late model, fully loaded, shiny black extended-cab pickup. The man was just one surprise after another. I thanked him for everything thinking that would be the last I saw of him for a while, but he followed me right back to the hospital.

  Late in the day, Fisk came to Charlie’s room and motioned me into the hall.

  “I’ll sit a while,” he said, then wouldn’t let me object. “Ted’s in the waiting room. He’ll take you to the cafeteria. Give you a change of scenery.”

  Before I could argue, he flashed a little smile. “You might take a step outdoors while you’re down there. It rained a while ago and the air smells good. Take a deep breath. Walk around. Get the kinks out.”

  Arguing with Fisk was like going rounds with a windmill, so, I didn’t resist. I just turned on my heel and marched down the hall to find Ted.

  * * *

  Charlie died at midnight. I was there and we were alone. It was a strange experience because I was almost sure I saw his spirit separate from his body. It seemed so real that I whispered, “Good-bye, darling.”

  The nurses came, their hushed pronouncements making his death official as they jotted numbers on his chart. The most baffling part was: I honestly didn’t know what to do next. I hadn’t really planned my life beyond that point. I walked into the hallway feeling isolated, caught in limbo between worlds.

  Fisk stood in the corridor, solid flesh and bone and spirit. He didn’t say a word, just opened his arms. I walked straight into them. He rocked me gently and I felt safe with my self-appointed, ever-present guardian angel.

  “You did good,” he said finally. “Now cut him loose. Be thankful he’s free of that old diseased carcass.”

  He was right, of course, but that was more philosophical than I cared to be at the moment. I was, in fact, feeling abandoned and resentful. Charlie was free. He had left me behind to contend with bill collectors, winter in a drafty apartment and a vehicle held together by chewing gum and bailing wire. Of course, neither of us had to worry any longer about side-effects of new medications or which of his vital organs would fail next, but my future looked bleak, shadowy, promising only debt-filled gloom.

  I began to cry but, once started, I couldn’t seem to stop. I wept for lost love and hope and dried-up dreams of youth, and what suddenly seemed like wasted years.

  Fisk tried to convince me to go back to his house. I refused.

  “First thing I’m going to do is get you a decent car,” he said.

  “I’m not taking any more gifts from you, Fisk. I don’t want to feel any more obligated to you than I already do.”

  Instead of being insulted, he arched his eyebrows and studied me. When he spoke, his words sounded like a threat. “Am I going to have to make you marry me?”

  His timing seemed poor. Besides, could he possibly care that much? I had had no one to lean on, no one to bounce ideas off of, no one to validate my decisions or choices since the disease had taken the essence of Charlie from my life nearly two years before. Fisk could not possibly love me. He had never even suggested he could. I did not want to grasp at straws just because I had been lonely for so long. In the midst of all this thinking, I blurted an artificial laugh.

  “A shotgun wedding?” I nearly choked on how ridiculous that sounded.

  His eyes narrowed. “I may use something besides a shotgun.”

  Curious but unable and unwilling to ask, I got into my Taurus, slammed the door to demonstrate determination, then putt-putted back to my dismal little apartment. I had known true love. Charlie had said the words often and backed them convincingly. Still, I didn’t know who I was kidding. It took everything I had to walk away from Fisk. His warmth and attention was addictive, particularly when I was so needy, when my grief was so raw.

  As I brushed my teeth before bed, I decided that what I really wanted was do-overs. I wanted to rewind my life back to age twenty-five and take paths other than the ones I had chosen. I had loved Charlie but, looking back, I wondered if maybe we had simply selected each other by default. Like choosing up sides for teams in grade school, we had picked each other as the best options still available after the really good players were taken.

  If I had waited a little longer, Fisk Reed might have wandered onto the sidelines of my playing field and swept me right off my feet. I stared at my reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. No, that wouldn’t have happened. At twenty-five, I was ambitious. I was lured by a glamorous career and prestige. Fisk was a rube. In those days, I was into fashion and chic clubs. I would never have looked twice at a guy in bib overalls and work boots. Charlie was trim and fastidious, a snappy dresser who held three college degrees, a B.S., a masters, and a Ph.D. I was something of an academic snob, then. A prima donna. I guess that’s why, when my comeuppance came, the blow dropped me like a knockout punch. A finisher. Throw in the towel. Take her off the fire, Jan’s done.

  * * *

  For a new widow, I guess I slept pretty well that night, back in my own bed. I took a couple of p.m. aspirin and woke up at eight feeling sluggish. My mouth felt like I had been eating talcum powder. Marlene had given me an indefinite leave of absence, so my job was safe for a while.

  I called the funeral home. They said to come whenever I liked and they would help me make the arrangements.

  With that call, I began to learn that morticians speak a language of their own and they do so in barely audible tones. The good thing is: they are well endowed with patience. The guy on the phone wasn’t the least bit concerned about how I planned to pay the five-thousand six hundred-eighty-two dollars and forty-seven cents—more or less, depending on the coffin I chose.

  I hung up. Because I had been too tired to bathe the night before, I shampooed and showered, ever mindful of my apartment’s limited supply of hot water.

  Pieces of bread left in the loaf were molded. There were only condiments in the fridge. No eggs. Not even a wilted stem of celery, which was okay, as I didn’t much like wilted stems for breakfast.

  I scrounged for money and came up with seven dollars—all ones—and change. Luckily I only had to buy breakfast for me. Tears tracked down my fresh make-up and I cried harder. Breakfast for one. From now on. The thought made me miserable. How had my priorities gotten so far out of whack.

  “Get over it,” I said, swiping at the tears. “Think positive. You’ve got seven dollars for breakfast. Enjoy it. This could be the best moment of your whole day.”

  I was dwelling on that thought as I slipped out of my apartment into the hall, turned the key in the dead bolt and pivoted to find... Fisk. He carried an expensive-looking coat over his arm, black cashmere with a fur collar, too feminine for a guy like him.

  My face must have registered disappo
intment, judging by the way his pleasant expression dissolved. I didn’t want him to think I was sorry to see him which, of course, I wasn’t.

  “Hi. I’m going out for breakfast. I’d love to have you join me, but you’ll have to pay for your own because I’ve only got seven dollars and thirty-seven cents.” I sucked back a sob. I have no tolerance for crybabies who go around feeling sorry for themselves. I hated that I had become one.

  “Here.” He opened the coat.

  Wearing a thin blazer, I longed for the promised warmth of that rich garment, which still had tags dangling from a sleeve, but I couldn’t accept such a lavish, personal gift.

  “Fisk, you’re not going to bribe me with a coat. If that’s your plan to convince me to marry you, it won’t work.”

  I didn’t trust his slightly crooked grin. “It’s yours.” He shook it, indicating I should put my arms into the sleeves. After a long minute’s soul searching, I did. I wasn’t selling out for a coat, but if I were going to, that one would have almost been worth it. It was gorgeous. Why should I argue? The man said it was mine and the early morning temperature had leveled off at twenty degrees.

  Grinning, Fisk tugged the collar up around my face and cut off the tags with his pocketknife as I wriggled into the coat’s warmth.

  I didn’t want to talk. I felt heroic just breathing in and out without breaking down. As usual, Fisk didn’t insist on conversation. He just guided me to his pickup and helped me in.

  The theory is, no one can ruin breakfast, implying that any restaurant can turn out decent bacon and eggs. I don’t remember what I ordered or ate or what we said. If Fisk didn’t pay, we walked the ticket.

  Later, when I couldn’t remember those next couple of hours of my first day as Charlie’s widow, I took comfort in only one thought: Fisk was there and I had a warm coat. Both facts provided psychological comfort.

  After we ate, I directed us to the funeral home. Decisions had to be made. During a brief phone call, Ted agreed to meet us there. He spoke in quiet, reasonable tones but, for some reason, I could not assimilate what he said. Bewildered, I looked to Fisk, who answered Ted’s questions without missing a beat.

  We chose a casket, music for the service and pallbearers.

  Tears kept blurring my vision, but I smiled, too, as I dabbed my eyes and nose with Fisk’s endless supply of tissues. My emotions waffled as we neared what I considered the worst possible moment and the funeral director, Mr. Dodge, finally asked, in his soft drone, if I was ready to view the body.

  Here it was. The moment I had most dreaded. The confrontation.

  No, I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to see Charlie in makeup all decked out in his best suit. That shell of a body wasn’t Charlie to me. I wanted to remember the old Charlie, running, coaxing our kite into a summertime sky, or raking fingers through his hair trying to contain his temper in rush hour traffic, or bracing himself over me when we made love. I did not want a forever-mental image of him stiff and surreal in his coffin.

  “Why don’t we do it closed coffin?” Fisk asked. I looked up at him, astonished, as did Ted and Mr. Dodge.

  Dodge spoke first. “Our cosmetologist does outstanding work and it’s such a blessing to her when friends and relatives who knew the deceased compliment her effort.”

  Fisk’s usually warm expression cooled as he turned unbelieving eyes on Dodge. The mortician took a judicious step back.

  “Of course, some denominations prefer closed coffins,” Dodge said. “We have no quarrel with a client’s religious preferences. No, sir, none whatsoever. We are here to assist our patrons and friends during their time of need. Closed coffin it is.”

  I took a long, steadying breath.

  As we left the mortuary, I still had one important purchase to make and wanted to get all the grisly stuff out of the way. I told Ted and Fisk I was going to the monument company.

  Ted apologized, but he had an appointment with clients. “I leave you in Fisk’s capable hands.” He patted my shoulder, then walked to his car. He looked relieved. He probably felt he had done more than was required already. And I supposed he probably had.

  “Don’t you have something else to do?” I asked Fisk.

  “No.”

  Riding side by side in the pickup, I felt an abiding tenderness for this man, for his depth of compassion. Obviously, the man was a saint.

  But those sentiments evaporated less than an hour later when I told the proprietor of the small monument company I wanted a double headstone.

  “No.” Fisk’s voice was autocratic.

  “Yes,” I countered, and I felt some of my old vitality return. “I can have Charlie’s name cut into one side with his date of birth and death, and mine into the other side with my birth date. After I’m gone, my survivors will only have to add my date of death.”

  “You’re not going to be buried beside Charlie.”

  “I most certainly am.”

  The proprietor looked embarrassed and suddenly appeared fascinated by an oversized piece of uncut granite several yards away.

  “You pick any single marker you want for Charlie’s grave,” Fisk said, “and I’ll buy it. But no doubles.”

  My temper spiked. “This is none of your business and I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.” I hesitated before I added, “And you are not paying for anything.”

  He looked taken aback but only for a minute. “You are my business, and you are going to stay my business until the day you come shopping for that double headstone for us.”

  I could see my reflection in those blue, blue eyes, as if my future were imprinted there stretching on and on, far into time.

  I had loved Charlie, but our bond had been calm, predictable. Fisk emanated raw power. In his arms, I had found passion I hadn’t known before. I shivered with apprehension and a titillating excitement, felt as if I had been alerted to an oncoming locomotive and there was no way to avoid its running smooth over me.

  In spite of his imposing presence and the spark in his eyes, Fisk’s voice was quiet.

  “It might confuse people—our kids, someday—to see their mama’s name on a tombstone when they go with you to put flowers on Charlie’s grave.”

  “Fisk, I’m too old to have children.”

  “I figured you were.”

  I stared at him. Fisk had a generous heart and a big home and maybe a premonition of children who might wander into our future. As usual, he assumed too much, but something in his manner or words induced—or maybe seduced—me. I argued a moment or two longer, but my heart wasn’t in it. Eventually, I gave way and bought the single marker. I knew Charlie would understand. He’d met Fisk. He knew what I was up against.

  Chapter Six

  Out of a sense of loyalty to Charlie, I staunchly refused most of the gifts Fisk showered on me the next couple of weeks, except for the really practical ones—the coat, an overstuffed chair to accommodate him when he visited my apartment, but which I usually ended up occupying, an omelet pan, and incidental groceries which he often turned into meals.

  We struggled getting through the holidays, but with two, things are easier.

  I continued to refuse to marry Fisk, who continued his campaign. Not that I didn’t want to marry him. He had to be the most generous, thoughtful, best-looking, most manly man I had ever known. But he didn’t make any moves on me, which was disappointing and puzzling. After two years without male affection, I would have welcomed some...well...some sexual interest. Of course, there was also the biggie. He never said he loved me.

  Also, I had no intention of marrying anyone until I had paid all of Charlie’s bills.

  Still, in those rare times when Fisk was not within throwing distance physically, he was never far from my thoughts. I tried not to brighten too noticeably when he appeared at the treasurer’s office.

  “Jan, look what just walked in,” one of the girls teased loudly before noon one day. Fisk was an office favorite. “What does that look like to you?” Obviously she thought
he was a hunk.

  I didn’t want them to get under my skin, at the same time, I didn’t want to be maudlin. “Looks like a free lunch to me,” I said.

  By keeping things light, I helped my coworkers get beyond their respectful tones and long faces. Grief is a private thing. When I felt a sinking spell coming, I went to the powder room in Marlene’s office to regain control.

  Things were becoming comfortable when a serpent slithered into my new life quite unexpectedly.

  I arrived at my apartment that Friday evening to find it the source of tantalizing smells in the hallways. Fisk was cooking parmesan chicken. A loaf of Italian bread oozed butter from its foil wrap and a huge salad sat nearby. The aroma and Fisk’s smile were powerful aphrodisiacs.

  He took my coat and hung it in the tiny closet, then steadied me as I stepped out of my heels and into my scuffs. He looked like a man with a secret.

  “Don’t you have work to do on your ranch or does that place run itself?” I sounded snippy and probably ungrateful. We had not yet slept together and the frustration was hard on both of us. I was afraid if we had sex, I would feel committed and, pardon the pun, stuck. But the choice wasn’t mine. He hadn’t made any overtures.

  “It’s our slow time of year. I hire men to feed the stock so I can take care of you.”

  I hackled. “What am I, your prize heifer? Is that how you think of me?”

  “Not exactly.” He brushed a thumb over my lips and I raised my chin for the rare kiss. It began innocently enough, then intensified. Heat overcame my fatigue.

  There we were, alone, with nothing planned, except maybe to enjoy each other. I was a healthy, mature woman. I enjoyed sex and had done without for a long, long time. Besides that, Fisk was the sexiest man I had ever known.

  He abandoned the kiss to open a bottle of White Zinfandel. He had long-since forgiven me for having no palette for wines and indulged me by serving the only one I liked. He poured us each a glass, then gently tapped his to mine, making the crystal chime its approval. “To mutual pleasure.” The words gave the chime an anticipatory ring. He kissed me again and I responded as nature intended.