A Thing of Beauty

by Lisa Samson

  His shirt feels soft and worn under my fingers and along the length of my arm. But the freshly laundered smell reaches my nostrils as I lay my head against his chest. The warmth of him infuses into me and I’m ready, it seems. Ready for what?

  Well, to get in the truck at the very least.

  I laugh. Just a little.

  “What is it?” he asks, gently depositing me on the red vinyl seat.

  “I’m happy,” I say.

  It isn’t an overwhelming euphoria as if I’m tripping without the necessary substances. It just simply is.

  “Good.”

  He swings around to his side, hops in, then pulls us away from the house and into the night streets of a city sleeping beneath a clear sky and a sweet breeze coming down off the mountains a hundred miles away. Or maybe a thousand miles. Maybe a million. It doesn’t matter, does it?

  “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” I ask, thinking I should put the seat belt on, but knowing I’m safe.

  He looks over at me and smiles the widest grin I’ve seen on him to date. “It’s all beautiful,” he says. “Every bit of it, yes?”

  He lets us in the front door of the house, then flips on the light. I gasp. He’s cleared the entry hall of its clutter, swept it clean, and replaced every single light in the chandelier. The sparkling, winking chandelier is now burning bright, throwing a pure and white light around the white room, bouncing it off the marble floors in a way that speaks of a healing sun.

  “Josia!”

  “Welcome home, Fia. I hope you don’t mind. It’s the only place I took the liberty to work on without your permission, but only because I was positive this was what you’d want.”

  “It is!”

  “And I wanted you to have a proper homecoming.”

  I turn to him and hug him, his blacksmith arms coming around to hold me tightly. So much comfort here.

  What is Josia to me? A friend? A father? A brother? The one who will always be there no matter what?

  Yes, yes, yes, to all of these.

  “I don’t understand,” I whisper. “How can this even be?”

  “I don’t sleep much, if you want to know the truth.”

  I laugh. Let him answer the wrong question. It’s okay.

  “And when you don’t sleep,” he continues, “you can be there for people in a way others can’t.”

  Oh, so he did understand.

  I pull away from him. “So where to next? I have a feeling this isn’t it.”

  “Oh, heavens, no! Come on back to the kitchen.” He pockets his keys, curves his arm through mine, and we proceed down the hallway—the hallway I’ve walked down so many times without thinking about it, the hallway that was dreary and sometimes dank, the hallway that led to more piles of wasted thoughts and maladjusted intentions now unrolled before my feet with more anticipation than any red carpet could previously hope to have afforded.

  “They say the kitchen is the heartbeat of a home,” Josia says, stopping three feet shy of the doorway. “Close your eyes, Fia, if you don’t mind.”

  I don’t. So I do.

  He gently steps with me, leading me to the threshold. “Good. Open your eyes.”

  Twenty-Two

  I remember when I was a younger woman shooting a picture in England about a family that set out to the East Indies when their son was falsely accused of murder. They left under the cover of night from Dover, and there we filmed the scenes, the chalky white cliffs every bit as inspiring as I had imagined ahead of time.

  On a day my name failed to appear on the shooting schedule, I sauntered over to Canterbury to take stock of the town, a place so old that nails holding some of the buildings together were in place well before my mother’s family came to America. And they came over on the Mayflower.

  I kid you not.

  I wandered the narrow, cobbled streets of the town, stopping for lunch in a little place that looked as if it hadn’t changed since the days of Queen Elizabeth I. I ordered what the menu described as cheesy biscuits, whereupon I received six little diamond-shaped cheese crackers on a plate. I don’t think I’ve ever been more disappointed in my life.

  Having expected a fuller tummy, I set back out into the street still yearning for biscuits dripping with butter and melted cheese, and before long came upon the cathedral. Canterbury Cathedral, where Archbishop Thomas à Becket was murdered by the machinations of Henry the VIII.

  What I didn’t expect walking into the great stone building was the fullness of the knowledge that I had wandered into the most beautiful building I had ever been in, or ever would be in.

  Sometimes you just know.

  And I know now, without a doubt, that I am in the most beautiful room I will ever inhabit for my own.

  As white and colorless as the entry hall is, this room is equally as colorful and warm. And alive!

  Handmade cabinet fronts in warm woods gleam with a satiny finish.

  “The crib ends!” he says, and I clap.

  The countertops covered in mosaics depict space and planets and earth and nature. All four corners of the globe. All of space and time, it seems.

  “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life,” I marvel.

  “I used the tile you’ve collected. And my goodness! You arranged things according to color in each room? That made things so much easier, so thank you.”

  I gaze at him, incredulity taking two of its fingers and prying open my mouth.

  “And it only gets better from here, Fia,” he says. “I’ve got plans and I hope you’ll help me.”

  I remember the card he handed me, reach down into my purse, and pull it out. “Will you show me how to be a blacksmith too?”

  His eyes sparkle. “I can’t think of anything I’d like more. Let’s sit down and get the weight off that leg.”

  Between the two windows looking out over the backyard, a small table forged of black iron with three matching chairs rests on the kitchen floor, once a battered linoleum, now painted wood. A candle burns in the center of an iron medallion depicting the sun and moon, matching the sun he made for me weeks earlier. “And you’ll teach me how to make chairs and tables and lawn ornaments?”

  “Of course. Whatever your head can dream up and my skills can help you achieve, we’ll do together.”

  “How about a cup of tea?” I ask, gesturing toward one of the chairs. “Have a seat.”

  He smiles, and a look of satisfaction travels from the edges of his mouth up to the corners of his eyes and fills them with happiness.

  We sit together, drinking tea and saying little as we watch the sun rise outside the windows, healing a garden I’ve left for far too long, a garden I want to make beautiful with every piece of my heart.

  “One more surprise,” he says. “Hang on.”

  I swear the man must be able to suspend time. How can a person get so much done in just a few days?

  He returns from his bedroom with a pristine ivory coat hanging from his fingers by the collar. “I repaired this for you. I hope you don’t mind. I found it crumpled on the floor when I went down in the basement to see if there was any paint down there I could use for the floor. And then I saw the buttons on the table there, put two and two together—”

  I can’t believe my eyes. “Lila’s coat,” I whisper, gently taking it from his grasp.

  “I had to modify it a little bit. I wanted to use the buttons exactly like you left them on the bench. Now, if you don’t like what—”

  “I love it!” I stand up and hold the garment to my heart. “I love it so much!”

  The tears fall, and he puts his arms around me and holds me close.

  “I love you, Fia,” he says. “You are wonderful.”

  “Just as I am?” I ask, looking up to search his eyes.

  “Just as you are. Every single day.”

  He drops me off back at Jack’s just before six thirty, gives me a little hug at the door, and says to call him anytime. It really is fine and he enjoyed my company.
/>   I’m glad I took him at his word.

  “When do you think you’ll be coming back home?” he asks. “And is there anything else you want me to do?”

  “I’ll be back when Jessica heads back to Idaho. I don’t want her even tempted to see my house. I don’t know why this is, Josia, but right now I just can’t.”

  “It’s okay, Fia. Well, I guess I’ll make an early morning of it at the forge. Call me if you need me.”

  As I tread the stairs to the stoop, Josia climbs into his truck, waiting until I shove my key in the lock and the door opens beneath my push. He pulls away.

  Actually, I do know why I don’t want Jessica at my house. I don’t want her brand of acid drizzling down over all that is beautiful, eating away at my progress and my hope for the future until it resembles what she is comfortable with, what she can control, what she can use to further herself.

  But she’s still my mother, right?

  Or is she? Is that what mothers do, rip away any kind of security you have, undermine any personal growth unless it’s to further their own self-image? No, thanks.

  But when I think of everything she’s done for me. . .

  Wait. That’s it exactly.

  Think and remember, Fia. Remember every little thing.

  I shut the front door and lean against it to rest for a second. My leg feels better than it has so far, and though it is still painful, the stiffness has lessened.

  Jack’s asleep on the couch. “Jack,” I whisper, tapping him on the shoulder.

  His eyes open and right away he smiles. “Fi? You’re already up? Are you okay?”

  “I’m better than ever. I want you to get ready and take me over to my mom’s hotel.”

  He sits up immediately. “Really? Right now, as in, right now?”

  “Uh-huh. No better time than the present.”

  “What’s going on?” He swings his feet to the floor and stands. “Do you want breakfast first?”

  “I’ll make it.”

  “Are you sure you can handle standing that long?”

  “I’ll soon find out.”

  He heads toward his bedroom and calls over his shoulder, “I think you can do whatever you set your mind to, Fia.”

  And in that moment, I realize that I love him.

  Brandon, however, isn’t as optimistic. Then again, he knows Jessica far better than Jack does. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you? I’ve got the rental car.”

  He’s setting the breakfast table as I scramble eggs. The coffeemaker is sputtering and I’m ready for the first sip. And the second and the third.

  “I’m sure, Dad. Really. I have to do this on my own.”

  “I know.” He reaches into the silverware drawer for forks. “I just know how she can be.”

  “Better than anyone,” I admit. “But honestly, this isn’t about anything other than my relationship with her. It’s not your problem anymore, Dad.”

  He side-hugs me. “I’m proud of you.”

  Jack stands at the doorway. “This might be one of the hardest things you’ve ever done.”

  “I know.” I tip the skillet over a bowl and slide the eggs in with the spatula. “But it’s time.”

  Talk about a divorce.

  Is this right? Am I really supposed to do this to my own parent?

  And she might come around, admit she’s been a selfish person all these years, admit her failings as a parent, and we go on from there.

  I’ll give her that chance.

  But this is it. No more chances, no more catty calls and manipulating me with her emotional ploys. I’m done. If I don’t do it now, I’ll hate her for the rest of my life.

  Twenty-Three

  I text Jessica, arranging to meet her in the lobby at noon. We can catch a cab and go over to Little Italy for lunch. My dad’s family has always preferred Chiapparelli’s, and although Jessica usually prefers the more “it” places, I’m not taking no for an answer.

  She agrees by saying, I hate that place, but it will be worth it if I can see you, darling.

  I show Jack the phone. He rolls his eyes. “Sometimes there are no words for how gullible people think a person can be,” he says.

  “I need you to do me a favor,” I ask. “Can you drive me to the Galleria, get me there by ten so I can do some shopping? I want to look absolutely amazing.”

  Deborah Raines be damned. I’ll spend that money and be glad to do so.

  He reaches across the breakfast table, grabs my arm, and squeezes. “Of course I will. I’ll get a little work in beforehand and we’ll leave here at nine forty-five.”

  I head into the living room where Dad watches the morning news show hosts dance the fine line between journalism and entertainment.

  “Dad,” I say. “I’m going shopping. I want to look really great when I meet Jessica for lunch.”

  He sets the remote on the coffee table. “How about a daddy-daughter shopping spree? We’ve never had one of those, and I’d say we’re long overdue.”

  I grin, catching a dim reflection of myself in the sliding glass doors, wondering at that ghost of a girl in front of my eyes, the girl who looks so much like I used to feel, the girl who’s quickly fading to nothing. And good riddance.

  After shopping with my father, getting photo after photo snapped by onlookers, I’m sitting in the hotel bar, absolutely exhausted but looking good in a flirty yellow floral sundress and flat, red sandals. I found the dress right away, on sale, despite all the gawkers. Dad and I put on a nice little show, and I still had time for a blowout. My now-flowing hair looks decently fluffy in all the right places.

  But the best thing? It turned a little chilly, and around my shoulders, Lila’s coat gives me strength.

  Sipping on a lemonade, I compose myself, thankful I had the foresight to get dressed up for this. In entertainment terms, I’m armed and dangerous because, facts are facts: I’m young and pretty, and Jessica isn’t young. She’s far prettier, yes. But that doesn’t matter. Her beauty is attained and maintained, and everyone seems to want what they cannot have. Poor Jessica will nevermore possess a youth that doesn’t come from being able to afford it. Much like a house or a garden, without maintenance, and a lot of it, it will fade like the paint on my porch pillars.

  In her own terms, I win. In fact, given a youth culture like we’ve got, I’ve already won.

  And a part of my heart goes out to her. This is the battlefield of Jessica Randolph.

  It isn’t fair. It’s absolutely meaningless to have some sort of competition set up in the first place over something that simply is or isn’t.

  I’m old. You’re young.

  I’m young. You’re old.

  Who the hell cares?

  But right now I need this to feel strong.

  And, Mom, if you weren’t so worried about being young, you could have been the coolest older lady ever. If you wanted to be in competition so damned bad, why not make yourself even cooler than Jessica Tandy was? Why put yourself at odds with women possessing half the wisdom and life experience you might have built up to become amazing?

  In this moment, my head-space filled with the same old monkey chatter that has cluttered it for years, I actually listen to myself take stock of my own advice. The woman who has tormented me for as long as I can remember has to go. And the woman I’ve used inside my head to torment myself? She has to go too.

  There she is.

  I watch her walk away from the bank of elevators, enter the lobby proper, and look around as if she’s looking for me when I know full well she’s looking to see who is looking at her, and, might I add, she’s looking as stunning as ever.

  But I can x-ray right through those summer white pants and the nautical shirt with the Hermès scarf tied around her blond hair. The gold jewelry and perfect, patent leather flats don’t fool me at all.

  She wants worship, and she wants it right now.

  I look down at my lemonade, pretending to be absorbed in my own thoughts, unaware of the show
in front of me. If all the world’s a stage, my mom wrote the manual on how to block it perfectly to suit any production and venue.

  She makes her way up to me, taps me on the shoulder playfully, and smiles, eyes lifting to the bartender almost imperceptibly. “Hey, you,” she says, as if we saw each other for the last time yesterday, not more than ten years ago.

  “Hi, Jessica.” I’m striving for pleasant but not overly emotional, and definitely not needy. “Have a seat.”

  “Drinks first?” She slides onto the stool and sets her electric-blue designer tote in her lap. One smile at the bartender brings him right over. “Lemonade for me as well, please. Diet, if you have it.”

  The way she nods him off probably makes him feel as if he has been given the quest of a lifetime. Sir Galahad of the bubbler machine. It amazes me how this works with other people but fails to have an effect on me.

  “Shall I call a cab?” she asks.

  Time in a cab with Jessica? Trapped in a moving vehicle? Little Italy will have to wait for another day. “No. Let’s have lunch here. My leg is tired after the morning with Dad.”

  Her eyebrow rises at my use of his title, not his name, but she says nothing.

  “I thought it would be good to walk around a little this morning and he did too,” I explain.

  Her lips purse in a pouty way. “Well, I would think it’s a little too soon, but never mind about that.”

  This from the woman who wanted me to pick her up at the airport yesterday afternoon.

  The bartender arrives with her drink. “Menus?” she asks.

  “Right away,” he says. I judge Lyle (according to his name tag) to be in his midthirties, a gym rat when he’s not plying the trade of cocktails, maybe a little difficult to deal with if you’re in a relationship with him and you’re not as good-looking as he is, but otherwise generally harmless.

  Ten seconds later we’re looking at the usual “pub fare” menu large hotels sometimes have in their Irish pubs that are anything but. I don’t have to look twice. If the menu says “fish and chips” somewhere, my decision was made the day it rolled off the printing press.