Heart's Desire

by Laura Pedersen

  “I see they finally started work on the new entrance hall,” Al says to Pastor Costello as he gathers up the cards. “Did the contractor lower the price?” Al works for the town and knows all about construction. Which is one reason his wife believes that he’s at a Building and Grounds Committee meeting that’s actually a build-abetter-poker-hand gathering.

  “You kidding?” asks Herb. “Contractors around here lower their prices? When hell freezes over!” He turns to Pastor Costello and automatically says, “Sorry, Father” before continuing, “That would be the new Kunckle entrance hall—excuse me, vestibule — you’ll be walking through.” As a small businessman Herb is in charge of advising the church on finances, which is why his wife thinks he’s also at a Building and Grounds Committee meeting tonight.

  “Is the plaque going to be bigger than the vestibule?” asks Officer Rich, making reference to the stained-glass rendition of The Last Supper donated at Christmastime by the Kunckle family, where the plaque really was as big as the artwork itself, if not slightly larger.

  “Attendance isn’t what it used to be. I have to accept donations wherever I find them,” says a resigned Pastor Costello. Though it’s not a very well-kept secret that even he becomes tired of the Turd grandstanding at the opening of so many church functions and Edwin’s twenty-one-year-old daughter, Edwinna, always getting solos, even though her voice could make an angel use its wings to cover its ears. “If I were a better poker player perhaps I wouldn’t have to go around with my hat in my hand so often,” jokes Pastor Costello. It’s been two hours and Pastor Costello has the same thirty dollars in front of him that he started with.

  “A gay waiter!” announces Bernard as he excitedly lays out his hand.

  We all glance toward the stairs to see if one of his friends has just arrived. But the stairwell is empty and so we look back at him with puzzled expressions.

  “Queens with trays.” He points at the full house of three queens and two threes now displayed faceup on the table.

  “I think you’ve been seeing too much poker slang on the Internet,” I say, while the rest of the guys chuckle.

  We finish the night with Bernard ahead twenty dollars, though this doesn’t seem to thrill him the way it normally would. And I’m down forty-two dollars, which is unusual, but not a surprise, at least to me, since I can’t seem to concentrate on anything these days.

  “Looks like all that fancy book learning has drained away your natural instincts,” Herb is quick to lay into me. “Be sure to come back next week.” He happily pockets his sixty-something dollars in winnings, and for a second I don’t feel so bad about his store not making any money.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “I REALLY SHOULDN’T TELL YOU THIS,” I SAY TO BERNARD ON THE way home, “but you stroke your chin when you’re trying to bluff.”

  “I do not!” However, he thinks back to when he had the two tens showing and scared everyone off with a big raise to make us believe there was a third one hidden in his down cards. And he lucked out because the other two were still hidden in the deck. “Hmm, maybe I do, just a little bit. I’ve always thought of it as part of my charm. But thanks for the tip.”

  “It’s too bad about Herb’s store,” I say. “Just when he got back with his wife and the kids stopped collecting stacks of juvenile delinquent cards.”

  “Really?” says Bernard and perks up a bit. “Whatever happened to the young woman who worked at the pharmacy—directly under Herb, I believe it was.”

  Thank goodness he hasn’t lost his ability for double entendres or his taste for gossip, or else I’d really be worried. Gil always used to joke that Bernard’s answering machine down at the shop should say: Hi, I’m out right now, but if you’d like to leave a rumor . . .

  “Her name was Jemma,” I remind him. “I heard that she married some guy she met while on vacation in Antigua and then moved to Seattle.”

  “And so Herb crawled home and begged Mrs. Herb for forgiveness?” suggests Bernard.

  “Hell no!” I almost add, “Sorry, Father,” before realizing we left Pastor Costello back at the church. “Nina got so tired of him running around that she had an affair with the earth science teacher over at the high school.” I recount the story Gwen had told me during winter break, including how she saw the two of them together at a Hyatt in Cleveland while attending her parents’ anniversary party. And I mean together.

  “Nina is such a charming woman,” Bernard says about Herb’s wife. “She recently stopped by the store to purchase a candy dish for her Waterford collection. I never would have thought she had it in her.”

  “Why is it so easy to accept a guy fooling around?” I jump right in. “But if it’s a woman, then suddenly it’s scandalous and unthinkable?”

  “Will you stop it, already,” says Bernard. “You sound just like Mother. Next thing you’ll be going to that church of hers on Sunday mornings and insisting the money wasted on the space program could buy health coverage for every uninsured child in the country.”

  “I thought her church didn’t have regular services during the summer.”

  “They don’t,” he says. “Which is exactly my point. They’ve apparently decided God trusts them enough to take the summers off.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  WHEN I WANDER INTO THE MAIN HOUSE FOR BREAKFAST THE next morning, the bright and cheerful tune “Pick Yourself Up” from the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers film Swing Time is blasting throughout the downstairs. And though it’s too loud, it’s a nice change from mournful dirges and the medley of breakup songs from Broadway musicals, particularly “This Nearly Was Mine” from South Pacific and “What I Did for Love” from A Chorus Line. A person, even a yard person, can only take so much despair.

  Despite the assault and battering on my eardrums, I immediately notice that the attack on my nostrils has vanished, and that the fifty or so white calla lilies have mercifully disappeared. Not only that, but the vile aroma has been replaced by the delicious smell of fresh cinnamon bread. The bread machine is back on!

  Upon entering the kitchen I’m pleasantly surprised to find that Bernard is a new man, or rather the old man—specifically, his former self, full of vitality and quick with a smile. His trousers are neatly pressed, his button-down shirt is tucked in, and his socks are color coordinated with his loafers. The pink is back in Bernard’s cheeks, and his blue eyes sparkle and appear even brighter because they match the blue of the threads in his silk vest. As he sprints from oven to fridge to pantry like a fruit grower after a hurricane, my first thought is that Gil has returned, and I actually glance around for a suitcase or some boxes. Only I don’t see any.

  Bernard begins singing “Hello Hallie,” to the tune of “Hello Dolly,” while thrusting a plateful of “Eggs Bernard” in my hands.

  Then he announces, “I’m getting on with my life. The grieving period has formally concluded and the healing process has officially commenced. Now please come with moi.” Bernard marches me into the dining room, where the table is covered in fabric swatches, wallpaper samples, and paint chips. “I’m redecorating. No more of this maudlin maroon, Tyrian purple, Dubonnet red, and heavy damask.” He gestures toward the living room with his right arm. “From here on in I want everything to be light and airy—cotton, linen, and perhaps a teensy bit of moray silk. We’ll use carefree colors like ivory, taupe, shell, and maybe a pinch of lemon for accent. The Oriental rugs can stay, but I want Brasilia weave sisals for the front hall and also the summerhouse.”

  “Sounds good to me.” I understand that recovery can be very project-oriented. After Uncle Russ had a stroke Aunt Vi stenciled the entire house, including the basement and the garage.

  “And we need to add a new garden! Maybe something all in white like the one Vita Sackville-West had at Sissinghurst.” He pauses to envision it. “No, I’ve got it! A hosta garden—Blue Monday, Curtain Call, Mississippi Delta, and Sunny Delight.”

  Ottavio and Olivia, still in their bathrobes, enter the
room carrying cups of hot tea and plates filled with Bernard’s fresh cinnamon bread.

  “Buon giorno!” Ottavio gives us both a big smile.

  “This bread smells delicious, Bertie,” says Olivia, and kisses us both on the forehead. “It’s been so long since you’ve made some, I can’t resist it.”

  Bernard moves aside some of the fabric swatches so they have room to eat their breakfast.

  “Are you working on a project for school, Hallie?” inquires Olivia.

  “No, Mother,” Bernard says gaily. “I’m redecorating!”

  “I see,” says Olivia, surveying the ocean of swatches. “Just like the Ottoman sultans—refurbishing while in a period of decline.”

  However, Bernard pointedly ignores this reference to his previous state of mind. “And not only that, but Brandt is installing a computer down at the shop. This way I’ll be able to post all the merchandise on eBay. Myself!”

  “Galileo!” Ottavio says proudly. Although Brandt may be useless when it comes to gardening and getting doors to stop squeaking, there’s no denying he’s a whiz with computers. He’d even set up a Webcam so that Ottavio can see his daughter and grandchildren in Italy while chatting with them online.

  “Speaking of Galileo,” Bernard perks along, “I thought that tonight we’d have a Renaissance repast—roast sparerib of pork arranged on the plate like an arched crown, wild mushroom pie, and almond fancy cake sprinkled with sweet rose water. And of course cider from barrels and wine from the vineyards.” Then he practically waltzes into the kitchen for more coffee.

  “That poker game certainly seems to have cheered him up,” observes a surprised Olivia. “We haven’t had a theme dinner since before Gil’s brother passed away.” She smiles broadly at me as if I’m the one to thank for this sudden turnaround.

  And I wish I could take credit for Bernard’s overnight recovery. But every gambler’s instinct left in my body tells me there’s something suspicious about the whole thing. Thinking back to the poker game I attempt a review of everything the gang talked about. Only it was the usual stuff—the high cost of hockey equipment, wives wanting expensive new furniture, and kids so overscheduled that they need to be dropped off and picked up every fifteen minutes.

  “Yes,” I agree. “He certainly appears to be much better.” Emphasis on appears.

  “I’m so relieved,” says Olivia. “Because Bernard is in his prime and should be enjoying life. Hallie, you must remember to embrace your thirties. It’s a magical decade between your last pimple and your first wrinkle. And yet we tend not to notice it since the majority of us spend those years chasing after toddlers or teenagers, which of course explains the wrinkles.”

  Bernard, with his seismographic hearing, reappears in the archway. “Speaking of toddlers, I have another announcement,” he says, pausing for dramatic suspense before proclaiming, “We’re going to have a baby!”

  He must be referring to my mother. Did she tell Bernard about the new baby when she came over to talk to me about Louise the other day?

  As usual, Olivia is the first to recover. “Won’t that be something! When are you due?”

  “Don’t be ludicrous, Mother,” scoffs Bernard. “I’m adopting a little girl from China. Everyone there wants a boy and so foreign adoption keeps the females from being thrown down the well. Won’t everyone at your church be pleased!”

  “I know all about daughters and infanticide,” says Olivia. “But I think this is a bit extreme, Bernard. It’s not as if you won’t find another contemporary with whom you can share a loving relationship. You have a lot to recommend you—you’re handsome, you have grace and style, and you’re the sole proprietor of a thriving business.”

  “Oh, Mother, if I wanted unconditional love I’d get another dog. I want a child! Hallie and Brandt will go off and get married and have families of their own. And after you and Ottavio are gone I’ll be all alone.”

  Olivia appears thoughtful and takes a sip from her teacup. “As much as you might like me out of the way, I have no plans to expire anytime soon. Otherwise, I think you should give it a few more months just to make sure. And then if you still feel—”

  “Mother, when the doctor recently prescribed heart medication for you it was very traumatic for me.”

  “Oh Bertie!” scolds Olivia. “I don’t take those pills, they’re just supposed to be on hand if I suddenly feel short of breath. You heard what the doctor said—a lot of people have an irregular heartbeat.”

  “Well, it made me realize that we’re not getting any younger, and the importance of family. I’ve given this matter serious consideration and I’ve never been more certainement of anything in my life. I’m ready to commit to a child.”

  But it’s obvious from Olivia’s expression that she’s thinking of another definition of commit, specifically one that involves a rolling green lawn and visits on Sunday.

  “How about planning a nice trip and then giving yourself some time for additional consideration,” suggests Olivia. “I realize that you’re a reluctant flyer, but there’s always the train, or maybe even a cruise.”

  “I’m not afraid to fly,” insists Bernard. “It’s the reduced air quality on planes that I object to. It’s terrible for your skin.” He strides purposefully toward the front hall, as if there’s a two-for-one sale on cloisonné happening out there. “And now it’s A for away! There’s an auction in Ashtabula that I should really pop in at.” He waves good-bye, flashes us a big grin, and calls out, “Have a ball, and hugs to all.”

  Olivia silently butters her toast. I begin to say something but the words die on my lips. Ottavio looks completely confused. I’d venture to guess that in the small Italian town where Ottavio is from there’s a good chance that single gay men don’t adopt baby girls from China.

  “Bambina?” he asks us searchingly.

  “Apparently his clock is ticking,” explains Olivia.

  Which only serves to remind me that my clock is ticking as well. Ray is coming in a few days. Meanwhile, no call from Auggie. Of course, I hardly know him, and so it’s not really as if he’s a candidate for anything more than a date. But he did seem awfully nice. And still no word from Craig. His fraternity brother claims he’s off in some swamp collecting plants to make mold. I suppose I should be happy to know that he probably won’t be meeting a lot of women there. I mean, a swamp doesn’t exactly provide the same opportunities as sketching nude models in an art class.

  After ten minutes of convincing one another that we didn’t hallucinate Bernard’s announcement, Olivia and Ottavio go upstairs to change and I call Ray at his home in Cleveland Heights to find out what time he’s planning to arrive on Friday.

  “Howdy, country girl,” Ray answers the phone after recognizing the area code on his caller ID.

  “Hi, Ray.”

  “I was just thinking of you—walking out of the barn looking sexy in your coveralls with a piece of straw stuck in that gorgeous hair,” jokes the suburban slicker, knowing full well that I live in a town.

  This probably isn’t true, that he was thinking about me, but nonetheless it reminds me of how charming Ray can be when I call and he’s not in the middle of doing something.

  “Hang on, I’m going to play this terrific new song for you. It’s by that Swedish band you like.” Ray is obviously in his car because I can hear him fumbling and accidentally honking the horn.

  When Ray is interested in you he can be extremely attentive— remembering what you like to eat, your favorite music, and even the names of your friends from back home.

  Finally it’s possible to hear music, but it’s mixed in with traffic noise. “I’m in my dad’s convertible and it’s hard to hear with the top down,” he says. “I’ll give it to you when I see you. Am I still invited out to Mayberry on Friday?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, that’s why I’m calling,” I say.

  “And we’re going to parallel park together, right?” Ray not so subtly asks before confirming that he’s willing to make
the ninety-minute trip. Apparently he doesn’t want to waste any gas.

  “I was hoping we could eat something first,” I say. In other words, the answer is still yes. For some reason getting past this huge hurdle seems like it will solve my most pressing problems. First and foremost, allowing me to concentrate again, so I can figure out a way to make extra money before fall tuition is due. And let’s face it, the front porch isn’t exactly groaning from the weight of what Bernard likes to refer to as “gentlemen callers.”

  After I give Ray directions to the Stocktons’, we talk about what everyone else is doing over the summer and who is rooming together in the fall.

  “So then, I guess I’ll see you on Friday,” Ray finally says. “What should I bring?”

  “Oh, we’re all set. You know how Bernard loves to entertain,” I say. “Though he always appreciates a good bottle of red wine.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” says Ray. “I was thinking more along the lines of edible underwear.”

  “No, that’s okay,” I reply. “We always have plenty of food here.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  THE MINUTE DINNER IS FINISHED ON THURSDAY NIGHT I HEAD to Gwen’s house for my makeover. Or perhaps “suburban renewal project” more accurately depicts the enormity of her task. After ringing the bell, I enter the house and attempt to dart up the stairs past Gwen’s mom, who is at her usual surveillance spot in the living room, in front of the big picture window.

  As always, Gwen’s mother stops me before I can reach the second stair. Mrs. Thompson is very much the leopard-print enthusiast and today she’s sporting a wraparound leopard-patterned skirt with a matching headband, making her hard to miss against the sage green sofa. This is the part of the evening where Gwen’s mom updates her records.

  “I was surprised when Gwen said you were at last permitting her to give you a makeover,” says Mrs. Thompson. “You’re the final holdout. Even her father had to submit to a facial last month. And the dog now has a wardrobe for every season.”