Heart's Desire

by Laura Pedersen

  When Mrs. Farley is finished going through the house and questioning us, Bernard takes her on a stroll through the yard, and for a few minutes they stand near the spot where I’ve just begun weeding a flower bed. He’s definitely behaving like his old self now, spreading warmth and optimism as he passes, just like the sun. Bernard proudly points to the bright flares of asters as if he’s planted and watered them himself. Mrs. Farley nods appreciatively and draws closer to him.

  “So, have you considered how you’re going to work full-time and care for a child?” she inquires, pen and notepad poised to record his response.

  “The great actress Ethel Barrymore made movies during the day, worked on stage at night, and raised three children all by herself,” says Bernard. “Similarly, I am my own boss. Thus the child can come to work with me when she’s not in school, and I can stay at home if she’s ill. Mother has said that she’ll be happy to baby-sit here at home, and should circumstances warrant it, I’ll hire a professional nanny.”

  If Bernard is the first potential adoptive parent to compare himself to screen legend Ethel Barrymore, Mrs. Farley doesn’t let on, or seem to hold it against him. The only moment that doesn’t appear to go swimmingly is when Mrs. Farley meets Ottavio and asks if he’s Olivia’s husband. Ottavio throws a fit in Italian and once again starts insisting they must get married at once so that the grandchild isn’t a bastardo. Bernard calls for Olivia and deftly steers Mrs. Farley away from Ottavio and back into the house.

  However, the good news is that overall Mrs. Farley and Bernard appear to get on exceptionally well and they talk for almost another hour in the dining room. When I go inside for some chocolate Yoo-hoo, I hear her complimenting Bernard on his taste in furnishings. And old fox that he is, Bernard casually asks if she collects anything.

  Indeed she does—Rommel figurines, which I happen to know that he secretly despises. But lots of people in town collect them or give them as gifts, so he keeps a substantial supply in a glass case down at the shop.

  Sure enough, after further softening Mrs. Farley up with some of his homemade iced oatmeal cookies, Bernard whisks her off to the shop, just to have a look. However, there’s no doubt in my mind that she’ll be going home with a few of her favorites, and anything else that catches her fancy. Certainly Bernard won’t ask her to move his name up on the adoption list. On the other hand, I won’t be surprised if a special circumstance should arise, where he might just be the only applicant qualified to accept a child that unexpectedly pops up ahead of schedule.

  Chapter Forty-one

  NOW THAT THE GARDENS ARE ALL PLANTED AND WEEDED I CAN finally do some more work on the lawn itself. I start with ripping out some of the worst patches of crabgrass by the roots and then reseed those areas, along with all the places where the healthy grass has rotted from being buried under wet leaves for too long. The border of overgrown grass surrounding the house, shed, shrubs, and trees will also have to be dealt with by hand or the electric trimmer after I see how close I can get with the mower.

  Two hours and three lawn and leaf bags later, Olivia comes out back and lights up a cigarette. I find this odd, being that she never has a cigarette during the day. And also because since the Judge died, she rarely smokes at all.

  “Ottavio asked me to marry him,” Olivia announces, and gazes off into the distance.

  “Congratulations!” I say, and drop my spade.

  “Again,” she adds.

  “Oh.” I pick up my spade. “What did you tell him?”

  “What I always tell him. That I don’t see the need to marry. Our children are grown and we’re certainly not having any more. So what’s the point?” Though she sounds more like she’s trying to convince herself rather than me. “If we continue to love each other then we’ll stay together. And if not . . . well, there’s no mess to clean up.”

  That makes sense. On the other hand, I’ve noticed that most people enjoy the idea of belonging exclusively to another person, and making it official in one way or another. “Maybe he just wants to make some sort of statement to the world about how much he cares for you.”

  “That’s it exactly,” she says. “We’re planning a trip to Italy in the fall to meet his family and Ottavio insists that his generation doesn’t approve of living together.”

  “So you’re not positive that you’ll always love him?” I ask, not wanting to miss an opportunity to collect more information for my growing love file.

  “Oh, it’s not that. I do believe I’ll love Ottavio forever. I simply don’t feel the need to sign a contract.” Then she momentarily turns her attention toward me. “Just when Bernard is starting to look better, you now look . . . well, exhausted.”

  She’s being kind by not just saying “exhumed,” which is also exactly how I feel.

  As I’m about to tell her about my short-lived romance with Auggie, Ottavio comes dashing out in the yard looking frantic, as if he’s been searching all over for Olivia.

  While he rushes down the path toward us, she whispers in my ear, “You see, even solitary love can be a torment, though hopefully a sweet one.”

  “Olee-ve-ah,” he implores her, and clasps his hands together as if actively praying, then begins babbling away in Italian. Olivia turns and walks toward the orchard, where the pink and white blossoms have been replaced with tiny green apples that cling to the boughs of the trees. Ottavio follows her, talking and gesticulating like a preacher at a revival meeting.

  Funny thing is, I never would have guessed that people in their sixties fretted about love the same way that we teenagers do. I’d actually been looking forward to reaching thirty and having all that romance nonsense settled and out of the way.

  As I’m working near the fence on the far side of the yard, I hear a tremendous crashing in the bushes and suddenly a bear is breathing in my face. Only bears don’t bark. And most of them probably don’t lick you, either.

  Fortunately I’ve become somewhat accustomed to Lulu the Great Dane charging up to the fence when I least expect it. She’s actually very friendly, a regular 120-pound, four-legged welcome wagon. And tall, too. When she puts both front paws on top of the fence she’s taller than I am, and able to lick my forehead. I can only hope the Shultzes didn’t get her as a guard dog, because I think they’d have been better served by a Yorkshire terrier.

  Upon hearing Lulu’s joyful barks, Rocky bolts out of the house, swings up into the tree branches, and manages to dangle above her, just out of reach. Lulu goes berserk, leaping in the air in an effort to catch him, and for a moment the humongous dog becomes so frantic that I worry she’s going to attack him.

  It turns out that Rocky has a piece of bologna in his hand. And after Lulu practically does a summersault in midair, he finally gives it to her, then drops down onto the lawn so they can play a game of high-speed chase. Whenever Lulu’s about to catch Rocky, he quickly climbs a nearby elm tree so that she just barely misses him. Then Lulu proceeds to bark and jump around the base as if she’s treed a squirrel. However, Rocky scampers high up into the branches, swings to another tree, and then sneaks back down behind her.

  Just when I start to think how much Rocky is like a human, because of the way he seems to understand so much, or looks at you with those expressive and comprehending brown eyes, he does something totally chimplike. For instance, he’ll steal my trowel and then whiz around the yard on his knuckles, showing off his pink gums by hooting and grinning.

  Olivia and Ottavio eventually return from their walk. Since they don’t mention anything about an engagement I assume Olivia has held her ground for the time being. They’re strolling hand in hand and smiling at each other, so it’s safe to say that no unpleasant ultimatums have been issued. It makes me think how nice it must be to have someone to care about.

  Apparently Olivia has been doing some thinking as well. “Perhaps we should start growing medicinal marijuana,” she says to me. “One of my church friends has the worst case of glaucoma and there’s no way for her to get po
t now that her son has moved to Seattle.” She scans the yard as if searching for a good plot for reefer growing. “What do you think, Hallie?”

  “I think you’d have to get some gro-lights and expand the greenhouse,” I say. “But you haven’t been arrested in a while, so it’d probably help to get your name back out there.”

  “It’s tempting, but I suppose I’m a little oversubscribed right now. Maybe that’s one for you and Craig to work on.” Olivia and Ottavio continue on their walk. However, she turns before disappearing around the side of the house and calls back to me, “You’re never too young to start planning what sort of revolution you’ll lead. Thomas Jefferson said that every generation needs a new revolution.”

  I’m afraid that right now my dire financial position necessitates that I work only as a paid revolutionary, and there are definitely no extra funds lying around for start-ups. But it’s still nice to know that when it comes to championing the greater good, Olivia’s neighborliness extends so far as to invite the party faithful to break local, state, and federal laws on her property.

  Chapter Forty-two

  WHILE LENDING BERNARD A HAND IN PREPARING DINNER, I DECIDE that the house finally seems back to its old self. The new sofa and chair that he ordered for the living room arrived the other day and look nice with their clean, white fabric, and certainly more modern than the big old wooden pieces that had carved animal hooves for feet. Olivia’s occupied with her writing and protesting and Ottavio is busy planning their trip to Italy and Greece.

  All is well except for my own crappy mood and of course the absence of Gil. It’s hard not to think of Gil whenever something happens that I know he’d laugh at, like Bernard overbasting the coq au vin the other night so that the oven caught fire and the door blew open. And I miss hearing Gil’s Buffalo Springfield albums on Saturday mornings.

  Meantime Bernard has this CD of greatest opera arias playing loud. He puts down the cutting board and asks me to carve the chicken cutlets into strips.

  “You’re making chicken fingers?” I’m stunned that Bernard would stoop to such double-wide-trailer cuisine.

  “Oh my Lord and Taylor, absolutely not. We’re having a night at the opera,” he proclaims with an air of mystery.

  “What are you talking about?” When Bernard is preparing to tell one of his stories, a certain amount of cajoling and disbelief is always rewarded in the end. “Are we going to shape the chicken strips into music notes?”

  “Not at all. We are preparing Chicken Tetrazzini.”

  “Sounds like a disease.”

  “Chicken Tetrazzini was named after the coloratura soprano Luisa Tetrazzini, who enjoyed great popularity in this country at the turn of the nineteenth century. Cooked spaghetti and strips of chicken are combined with a sherry Parmesan cheese cream sauce. Then we sprinkle breadcrumbs over the top and bake until bubbly and golden brown.”

  “Sounds a bit rich,” I say.

  “It’s probably not a coincidence that Luisa was a POW,” allows Bernard.

  “She was a prisoner of war?”

  “No,” he says, “a Person of Weight.”

  Next he sets me to halving peaches and shaving almonds while La Donna e Mobile competes with the high-pitched whir of the blender and the bubbling of beans cooking on the stove.

  Bernard continues to expand on his opera motif. “The Australian soprano Nellie Melba gave her name to Peach Melba. In fact, the famous French chef Auguste Escoffier created the dessert expressly for her. It’s made with two peach halves poached in syrup. Each half is placed hollow-side down on top of a scoop of vanilla ice cream and then covered with raspberry sauce, whipped cream, and sliced almonds.”

  “What did Ms. Melba do to earn her own dessert?” I ask. “Was she a POW, too?”

  “I believe her measurements were rather typical for an opera singer of that time, at least during her performing years. Nellie Melba was born Helen Porter Mitchell and chose her stage name as a way of honoring her hometown of Melbourne, Australia. When Nellie’s health was failing in later years, Escoffier devised for her the crisp and easily digestible Melba Toast.”

  “So if I change my name to Hallie Cosgrove after our town, then maybe some famous chef will name a dessert after me,” I suggest.

  “I’m sure you’ll be the inspiration for much great cuisine. In fact, perhaps that could be the key to your fortune. You see, Nellie was so incensed at not receiving royalties on her eponymous food items that she trademarked her name and became even wealthier by investing the proceeds. And in time her face came to adorn Australia’s hundred-dollar bill.”

  “They can just give me the hundred-dollar bills,” I say. “Hmmm. Those chocolate and banana sandwiches I make are pretty good. Maybe I can start selling those and get rich like Nellie.”

  “You don’t want to be exactly like her,” cautions Bernard. “She died from an infection after having a face-lift.”

  “Get out!” I say. “You’re definitely making that up.”

  “Google it,” he confidently replies.

  Rolling my eyes, I seriously wonder why we ever thought it was a good idea to encourage him to learn how to use a computer.

  “You haven’t said a word about Auggie,” Bernard says coyly. “Would you like to invite him over for dinner tonight?”

  “Thanks, but it’s over.”

  With eyebrows raised, Bernard looks up from slicing a hard-boiled egg.

  “He’s not gay!” I insist. “At least not a hundred percent.” There’s no point in mentioning Svetlana. It’s embarrassing, and worse, he probably wouldn’t believe it anyway.

  “Whatever you say.” Bernard goes back to his egg but not without giving a distinct sniff that practically shouts: I told you so! Gil always used to say that Bernard is in possession of the world’s most finely developed sense of rumor.

  Time for a change of subject. “So you look really nice.” Bernard has had a haircut, appears freshly shaved, and the new blue shirt he’s wearing looks perfect with his coloring.

  “Shall I compare me to a summer’s day?” asks Bernard.

  “It must be a constant struggle to remain so modest,” I say.

  “As one in possession of such enormous talents, yes, I suppose it is,” Bernard replies with a false sense of world-weariness.

  As usual, Brandt calls from the lab at six to say that he won’t be able to make it home for dinner. Apparently something went wrong with Louise’s science project and they’re going to try and fix it. For a few days Brandt stopped back at the house in the afternoon for an hour to help Louise with her homework, but they quickly decided it was easier for her to meet him over at the lab where he works. It’s less running around for Brandt, and Louise claims that the air-conditioning helps her allergies.

  I should really buy Brandt a present or invite him to a movie. He’s been so kind and absolutely devoted to helping Louise do well in summer school. My only fear is that she might be using Brandt, knowing full well that none of her friends will see her with him over at the lab.

  I start removing the extra place-setting, but Bernard says to leave it because it’s not for Brandt.

  “Well, there are six places set and it’s just you, me, Olivia, Ottavio, and Rocky.” Rocky sits at the dinner table just like a person, only he’s allowed to put his feet up on the chair. However, if he doesn’t like what we’re having, there’s always a big bowl of fruit salad on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.

  “I’ve invited a guest,” he says.

  I should have known. Bernard rarely puts out the individual porcelain salt dishes with the tiny matching spoons when it’s just us. Same with the monogrammed silver napkin rings. And there are new pale pink candles in the polished silver holders.

  “Mrs. Farley?” I wouldn’t put it past Bernard to wine and dine her in order to help move his name up on the list. He’d been approved for the adoption, but was told that he may have to wait as long as two years. Though this hasn’t stopped him from diving in and drawing s
ketches to transform Brandt’s room into a nursery after he leaves for college in August.

  “A male friend.” Bernard flashes a mischievous grin.

  “A boyfriend?” I ask.

  Chapter Forty-three

  AS IF IN ANSWER TO MY QUESTION, THE DOORBELL RINGS. Bernard frantically pulls off his apron, checks his appearance in the hall mirror, and dims the lights in the dining room.

  Our mystery guest is in his mid-twenties, as best I can tell, which makes him roughly ten years younger than Bernard. He’s extremely handsome, with jet-black hair neatly combed back behind his ears, tan skin that glows with good health, and soft brown eyes with dark copper-colored parentheses around the irises. Bernard introduces him as Melik, a rug dealer from Columbus whom he recently met when appraising some acquisitions from Kurdistan.

  I’m polite to Melik, but promise myself that I won’t really like him. No one can ever replace Gil. However, I realize that it’s not going to help Bernard get over Gil if I start acting like the teenager of divorced parents who hates all of her mother’s new boyfriends. Also, Melik is very nice and tries hard to make a good impression by saying how lovely the house is and asking us all what we do.

  The only thing I find slightly odd is that Melik doesn’t seem very sophisticated. For instance, he doesn’t take an interest in the wine on the table the way Gil always did. And he wears plain old jeans with a T-shirt, which is fine with me, but it’s more like an outfit one of my boyfriends would wear on a date.

  Over dinner Melik tells us all how he was raised in a village about four hours east of Istanbul in Turkey. And when he finds out that I played soccer in high school his entire face lights up. He says that his cousin is a forward on the best team in Turkey and proudly relates their recent victory against Greece, play by play. I’m tempted to call Jane and ask her to come over since I get the feeling the two of them could talk international soccer for hours.