by Mary Campisi
“Yes, you do, Aunt Jenny,” Natalie said. “You got lots and lots of stuff.”
“Well, yes, I do, but somehow, I can’t find the right thing.”
“You’ve never had this problem before,” Grace said.
Why was it that sisters loved to make those bold statements that meant so much more than the actual words that came out of their mouths? Maybe a simple pair of black pants and a matching sweater. Great, except she and Elliot weren’t going to a funeral.
“He’s taking you to dinner, not your clothes,” Grace said.
Jenny slammed a drawer shut and yanked another open. “I know that.” Hmmm. White shirt. White slacks. Too virginal. “Damn,” she said under her breath. She really was going to have to cancel. That was it. She straightened and turned around. “I can’t go.”
Grace rolled her eyes and turned to Natalie. “Honey, will you go get Mommy my slippers in the laundry room?”
“Okay. Be right back.” She hopped off the bed and ran out of the room.
“All right, Jenny,” Grace said, crossing her arms over her chest. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” Jenny pulled open the last drawer, even though she already knew what was in it: T-shirts, shorts, underwear. A few pairs of socks. She opened it anyway and peered inside. Yep. T-shirts: red, blue, white, black, and yellow. Shorts: black, blue, green, and khaki. Underwear: black, black, and…black. White socks. Nothing, all right.
“Jenny?”
Grace knew something was up. Jenny heard it in the slight dip and spill of the n when she said her name. She’d always done that, taken the middle of Jenny’s name on a roller coaster ride, ever since that time when Jenny was eight years old and Grace had found her in the backyard burying her pet salamander. His name was Spot and he was fire-orange. Jenny had let him out of his bowl one afternoon and he’d escaped. She’d crawled on her knees, looking under every chair and table, crying until her eyes were almost swollen shut. A week later she found him, shriveled up in a corner of the kitchen by the heating vent. His fire-orange color had turned coffee-brown and his skin was hard with dark lines running through it. Jenny had picked him up and wrapped him in a paper towel. Then, she put him in a baggie, zipped it shut, and ran to the far end of the property, where the weeping willows spread their arthritic, gnarled roots—the final resting place for two gerbils, a hermit crab, and three fish. It was there, in the black soil, next to the white peony bush, that she started digging.
That’s where Grace found her, shoveling away with her red and white spade, tears streaking dirt-stained cheeks. “Jenny,” she’d called, so soft and sweet, rolling her name around, like she was doing right now, making Jenny believe she could help, that everything would be all right.
“Jenny?”
Jenny sank to the floor and quietly closed the last drawer. “He’s a nice guy, Gracie. A really nice guy. Like someone you would go out with.” She pulled a hand through her hair and looked at her sister. “You know, I usually end up with the jerks. You know that.” She gave a little laugh, shrugged her shoulders. “It happens every single time.”
“It’s only dinner.” Grace eased down beside her and crossed her legs. Their knees touched. “He does seem like a very nice man. So, try to relax and enjoy yourself.”
“But that’s just it, don’t you see? I can’t relax. I mean, forget the gum and the lavender. He’ll be looking at me, watching me, studying me. And you know how I make those silly noises when I kind of slurp my spaghetti? I’ll have to order pizza or an antipasto.” She shook her head and frowned. “Even though I love linguine and calamari, I won’t order it. I can’t.” She ran a hand over her face, pulling at her cheeks and chin. “This is going to be miserable. I’m going to be miserable. “
“No. You’re going to be yourself.”
“He’ll never like that person.”
Grace’s brown eyes narrowed. “And is it important that Elliot like you, Jenny?”
It was a simple question, direct, fat-free, stripped to the bone. Was it important that Elliot like her? “I don’t know.” That was the truth. What was also the truth was that until she decided if she wanted him to like her, she didn’t want to blow it.
Grace laid a hand on Jenny’s knee and smiled. “Just be yourself.”
“I don’t know why I’m acting so weird. I guess it’s because he’s so not my type. But, there’s something about him, something I can’t quite pinpoint, that I find very,” she paused, tried to find the right word, decided on, “intriguing.”
“So, what does a woman who finds a man intriguing wear on a date?” Grace asked.
“Actually, it probably shouldn’t even be considered a date,” Jenny said. “He asked me if I liked Italian food and then he proceeded to name half the menu at Angelino’s. So,” she lifted her shoulders, “he was probably just looking for a dinner companion and he figured I was Italian because of my last name and assumed I would like—”
“Jenny?”
“What?”
There was a firmness in her sister’s voice when she said, “It’s a date.”
“Oh.”
“So get an outfit. One that you want to wear.”
“You think so?”
“I know so,” Grace said.
Jenny grabbed Grace’s hand and let the warmth flow to her. Even in her weakened state, Grace could still give her strength, and Jenny wanted more than anything to be able to give it back to her.
“I’ve missed you so much,” Jenny said, blinking hard.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
They were of the same blood, the same family, the same world, and yet, they were so different. And yet, they were sisters. And best friends.
* * *
“I’ll get it.” Grace went to the door while Jenny fastened a second gold hoop in her left ear. Tonight was simply dinner. So what was the big deal? Underneath that scholarly exterior, Elliot Drake was just another guy.
“Hi, Elliot. Come in.”
“Hi, Grace.” His voice was warm and sure, like a flannel shirt on a winter night. Jenny’s breath came in sharp, little rushes. Inhale, hold. Exhale, whoosh. Relax. Relax. She sprayed her new cologne, Simply Lavender, on her wrists, her neck, behind her knees, on her wrists again. Then she capped the bottle and hurried out of the bedroom.
Elliot stood in the foyer examining a photograph Jenny had taken last year of a butterfly resting on a daisy, the yellowness of its wings the same exact hue as the daisy’s center. She’d been thrilled to catch the colors and knew this would be a perfect gift for Grace, whose favorite color was yellow. She’d taken five or six shots as the butterfly opened and closed its wings, spreading its beauty one second, hiding it the next. When she loaded her gear and headed for the car, she was so busy envisioning the type of frame she’d use, the blow-up, the matting, that she almost stepped on a yellow object by the rear tire of her car. She leaned over, and there, pressed to the road, was a monarch butterfly, one wing crushed, one wing fluttering in the faint breeze.
Was it the same butterfly who moments before spread its graceful beauty on a daisy? Jenny never knew, never wanted to know. She’d thrown her gear in the trunk and sped off, but she hadn’t been able to get the vision of the crushed butterfly out of her head. And after, when she’d given Grace the framed photo of the butterfly alighting on a daisy, that wasn’t what she saw; her vision was crushed to the blacktop, one wing missing, one wing fluttering so faintly.
“Beautiful picture,” Elliot said, turning toward her. He wore an oatmeal polo shirt, almost the same color as the pillows in his office, navy pants, and brown loafers. She smiled and held her breath as his eyes worked their way from her red-and-black leopard knit top, past her calf-length black skirt with the thigh split, which he noticed, to the black, strapless sandals.
“Jenny,” he said in a tone that made her feel drowsy and wired, all at the same time. “You look…”
Damn. Here it comes. And Grace said he was taking me out and not my clothes. Je
nny shot her sister a look that told her what she thought of her advice. She should have worn the funeral attire, or maybe—
“You look wonderful.”
“What?”
His lips curved into a slow smile. “You look wonderful, Jenny.”
“Oh.” Oh. “Thank you,” she managed, certain her face was two shades darker than her top.
“I brought you something,” he said, holding out a single lavender rose wrapped in white ribbon with a tuft of baby’s breath nestled in between.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, walking toward him.
“It reminded me of you.” His fingers brushed hers as he handed her the rose. “It’s a Sterling rose. Very rare. Difficult to grow.” They were close, very close. “It requires careful handling and unlimited patience. Most people won’t waste their time on something as eccentric as the Sterling.” His voice dipped. “But for those who do, the payoff is incredible.”
Jenny swallowed, unable to find a single word in her expansive vocabulary to respond. A burst of emotion pounded against her ribcage, hard and strong, but it had no name. Elliot’s words weren’t laced with the usual carefully hidden sexual innuendoes of a first date. These were so much deeper, almost ethereal, saturating her brain, touching her soul.
He’d said the rose reminded him of her. Very rare. Very difficult to grow. But the payoff is incredible. That’s what he’d said.
How? she wanted to ask him. Tell me how it’s incredible. Tell me more. Tell me everything.
Instead, she fumbled through a simple “Thank you.” His smile deepened and Jenny felt something pulse deep inside. She looked away.
“Our reservations are for seven-thirty,” he said. “Ready?”
“Uh…sure.” She took a quick sniff of the rose and handed it to Grace. “Would you mind?”
“Of course not. Have a great time.”
Jenny didn’t miss the way her sister’s eyes shimmered when she looked at her. Jenny gave Grace a quick hug and followed Elliot out the door.
She’d taken less than five steps when she stopped and stared at the vehicle parked in the driveway. “Elliot?”
“Hmmm?”
“What is that?” Jenny pointed to the black-and-silver motorcycle parked in the driveway.
“It’s a Harley Davidson. Soft tail.”
“I know it’s a Harley Davidson,” she said. Of course, she knew. She’d had a boyfriend a long time ago who owned one. But Elliot? What was he doing with one? He was a psychologist, for heaven’s sake. He shouldn’t be riding one. She pictured him behind the wheel of something reliable, secure, like a Buick, or maybe an Oldsmobile.
“Have you ever been on one?”
“Yes. Several times,” she said, eyeing the black monster.
“I thought it would be a great night for a ride.” He looked at her outfit and frowned. “I think you could ride like that, but if you’re uncomfortable, you can change.”
“Elliot?” She tried to keep her voice casual. “What are you doing with a motorcycle?”
He grinned. “Riding it whenever I can.”
She shot a quick glance at the Harley emblem on the side of the bike. He didn’t look like the biker type; maybe if it were something tamer, say a BMW or a Honda, then it would seem more plausible. “I just hadn’t pictured you with something so,” she paused, searching for a word that fit her confusion, “unconventional.”
His lips twitched. “Sometimes, I like unconventional.”
“I guess,” she said, frowning. Elliot Drake on a Harley? That was almost like seeing Mother Teresa in a miniskirt. The visual didn’t work. At least not for her. They say there are always two sides to people—the one they let the world see and the one who’s hiding underneath.
“Jenny, if it makes you that uncomfortable, I’ll go home and get the car.”
“What kind is it?” Buick or Olds? She’d bet the Buick.
“A Volvo station wagon.”
Wrong, but right. Volvos reminded her of staid, comfortable men and women who wore oxford shirts with tiny stripes and scuffed loafers without socks. They had portfolios and brokers. And real estate. And interchangeable first and last names like Elliot Drake. Or Drake Elliot. Elliot was a Volvo man.
So, what in the heck was he doing with a Harley?
“If you’re uncomfortable with the bike,” he said again, “we’ll stop by my house and I’ll get the wagon.”
“I’m not uncomfortable with the bike,” she said, avoiding his gaze.
“Okay then, what is it?”
“I’m uncomfortable with seeing you and the bike. The Harley,” she corrected. “Together.” There. She’d said it.
“Doesn’t fit my image?”
Now they were getting somewhere. She’d been wondering when he’d start using psychology to figure this out. “No.” She let out a shaky laugh. “It doesn’t.”
“Because guys who have Harleys are all long-hairs who wear black leather?”
“Pretty much.”
“Lots of braided ponytails and bushy beards?”
“Right.”
“And most have a road map of tattoos running up and down their beefy arms?”
“Most.” Except for Ronnie, who’d been afraid of needles. She’d never told anybody, even after they broke up. It was better to let everyone believe what he’d told them; he didn’t want anything to mess up the natural lines of his biceps.
“They travel in groups with tough-looking blondes hugging their waists?”
Jenny laughed and looked at him. “Sometimes.”
He was watching her and he wasn’t smiling. “Their mouths are dirtier than an outhouse after a camping weekend?”
She scrunched up her nose. “How visual.” She shook her head, flicked a chunk of hair off her shoulder. “Not all are that way. Some are really nice. They’re just into their bikes.” Ronnie was like that. He’d loved being part of the group, loved the freedom of hopping on his bike with nothing but a pair of underwear and an extra T-shirt in his backpack as he took off down the highway, part of a caravan, like a winding centipede inching along the open road. He’d loved the feel of the bike purring under him. Loved it so much…almost as much as he loved her. And Jenny, well, she’d loved his friends, she’d only liked Ronnie…
“And you don’t think someone like me could get into a bike like this?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. His polo shirt pulled over his biceps and Jenny thought she saw a thin line of black underneath his right sleeve. A tattoo? Of course not. Of course not.
What could she say? The truth? No, I really don’t think so. You seem more suited to something with doors and automatic windows. The deluxe edition package, maybe. Plush seats, climate control, CD changer. Even she wasn’t that bold, so she simply shrugged. “I can picture you in a Volvo,” she said, skirting the question.
A faint smile stole across his lips. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you about judging a book by its cover?”
15
“My mother says real Italians do not use a spoon to twirl their spaghetti,” Jenny said, turning her fork sans spoon, three full rotations. A mountain of linguine clung to the fork, extra sauce dripping back onto her white plate.
Elliot paused and looked at the spoon in his left hand. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m not Italian,” he said and proceeded to wrap spaghetti around his fork with the assistance of a spoon.
“You are lucky. Your non-Italian orientation would exclude you from my mother’s tongue. But she would spend the rest of the evening persuading you to put down your spoon and ‘do it like an Italian.’”
That made him laugh. “What else does your mother say?”
Jenny finished chewing and thought about his question. Hmm. It was a loaded cannon, aimed and ready to explode. On her, if she weren’t careful. What to say about her mother? What not to say about her mother was the more appropriate question. Words alone could never describe her or their relationship. She tore off a chunk of bread, dipped it in the
plate of olive oil and crushed black pepper and watched the bread turn pale gold. Straight to the arteries, no pit stops. Of course, olive oil was supposed to be healthy, but probably two to three tablespoonfuls, not two to three cupfuls. She flicked her wrist, shook off a few droplets. “My mother says a lot of things.” Jenny concentrated on the specks of black pepper that clung to her bread. “She never stops saying a lot of things. There’s always some lesson, built in, just like automatic sprinklers that come on at the same time every day whether you need them to or not.”
Elliot reached across the table and touched the back of her hand. “It sounds like your mother isn’t your favorite subject.”
She kept her eyes on the hunk of half-soaked bread. “No, she’s not.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” His voice was warm and soothing, like chamomile tea on a rainy night.
“No.” What was there to talk about? Their story was crammed with chapter after chapter of disjointed miscommunication, filled with bitter accusations and crushing disappointments.
“Okay,” he said. “But if you ever do—”
“Did Grace tell you anything about me and my mother?” She wouldn’t put it past her sister to try and weasel in a thought or two about Jenny during her session with Elliot. Grace, the do-gooder, always making sure everyone else was taken care of, busy mending those fences with her double-duty wire.
“No. She didn’t say anything.”
He seemed sincere, but then again, he was a psychologist, so he would know what “sincere” looked like, even if he weren’t, wouldn’t he? She tore into a piece of oil-saturated bread, dipped the crust in more olive oil, swirled it around and thought of death by hardening of the arteries. At the moment, it was preferable to another altercation with Virginia Romano.
“Why don’t we change the subject?”
She nodded, chewing. Changing the subject was a great idea. Only, she knew that Elliot would not forget these past few minutes. He was a psychologist. It was his job to analyze behavior. He’d probably catalog her reaction and responses about her mother and when he got back to his office, maybe he’d pull out his big, black medical book and flip through diagnoses until he found one that suited Jenny. Schizophrenic? Psychotic? Paranoid? Those were the only three psychology-related medical terms she knew, but she was sure he already had something in mind.
