The Transformation

by Terri Kraus

  Molto Bella Ceramica was one of those stores Oliver would never have entered by himself. Upscale, elegantly designed, and intimidating, the store held a cornucopia of tiles and mosaics and hand-painted ceramic pieces imported from Italy. Samantha took him by the hand and pulled him down one aisle, pointing out a selection here, and down another aisle, pointing at another variety there. After looking at a dizzying array of choices, Samantha paused, put her hands on her hips, and inquired, “So, what do you think?”

  He took a chance. “I like the blue ones over there. With the coppery glaze. It wouldn’t show any water marks.”

  Samantha ran over to the stack of tiles, held that sample up to the light, turned it vertical, then horizontal, and finally declared, “You’re right. These, with their almost-iridescent finish, would be beautiful. How much do I order?”

  Unaccustomed to such decisive action, Oliver replied, “I don’t know exactly. We’ll need to measure the area. Will these people take back any overage? I’d estimate that we need at least sixty square feet. Maybe more, depending on how high up you want it on the wall.”

  Samantha was off to find a clerk, and within minutes, she returned. “We buy it, we own it, he said, so we’ll need to measure close. They have it in stock, so we can order it at any time, I guess.”

  Once back outside, she grabbed his hand. “Let’s get coffee. I know you already had some. So maybe some tea. Or water. Okay?”

  Samantha pulled him inside Jitters, a tiny coffeehouse, where the owner/barista greeted her warmly and by name. Samantha ordered a large complicated mocha—coffee-caramel-chocolate-decaf-with-whipped-cream affair—and Oliver settled for a simple coffee with cream.

  She took a seat by the window. “I owe you money, Oliver. I didn’t get you your check last Friday.”

  “No problem, Samantha. I’ve got a little bit of a cushion. You can get it to me tomorrow or whenever.”

  She dug at the whipped cream on her drink with her straw. “No. We have an arrangement. I’m late on paying.”

  “Now this is a first,” Oliver said. “A client insisting that I get a check.”

  Samantha playfully slapped at his hand. “I have errands all afternoon. Why don’t you come over to the house after work? I’ll have the check then. We can talk. Maybe have a drink or something.”

  “Sure. What time will you be back?”

  “Six. Can you do six?”

  He nodded. “Six is great.”

  After Samantha and Oliver left the coffee shop, Samantha spent the rest of her morning and early afternoon meeting with her banker, her architect, and a very unpleasant man from Pittsburgh’s zoning board, who had angered her by threatening to pull her construction permit on a technicality. She had almost used, in defense, the line she never used: “Do you know who you’re talking to?” But she didn’t, biting her tongue, making sure that her project would not receive undeserved, extra scrutiny from some underpaid and resentful zoning-board clerk.

  The day had become increasingly gray, and a heavy mist now hung over the city. She drove her red Mercedes slowly back from city hall along the Allegheny. Threads of low clouds hovered over the water as she took the longer route back, allowing herself time to unwind a bit and lose some of her anger. Samantha did not enjoy being angry, while some of the people she worked with seemed to thrive on it, letting their anger fuel their drive.

  I’m a lover, not a fighter.

  She signaled her right turn and sped through the familiar neighborhood just north of Shadyside—Little Italy, they called it—but it was anything but little. Block after block of interesting stores and wonderful restaurants, butcher shops, and bakeries beckoned.

  So much good food. So little time.

  She pulled into the drive of the church. There was only one truck in the drive—and it wasn’t Oliver’s. She wondered if the door would be locked.

  It wasn’t.

  She stepped into the large space—that “sacred space” as the old pastor described it. On this late afternoon, the light coming through the windows was minimized by the shroud of mist outside. It was so ethereal, so peaceful, despite the jumble and clutter of renovation. To Samantha, few things felt really sacred. But even with the mess, this place was beginning to feel that way to her—and more so on days like this than when filled with the light of a bright afternoon. It was almost still and timeless.

  She sat down on one of the pews.

  This reminds me of foggy afternoons in Paris, when I’d wander into Notre Dame and sit alone in the very last pew, gazing at those beautiful windows … with all the candles flickering in the smoky darkness. Sometimes I was lucky enough to hear the organist rehearsing that beautiful César Franck piece or a Bach. So inspiring, in a way that was poignant, yet peaceful.

  Samantha’s reverie was interrupted by footsteps. Before she could become alarmed, though, Taller came around a corner, saw her, and presented her with a charming, disarming, welcoming, and flirty smile. He could be even more handsome when he tried, she thought.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked.

  “Besides me, who else do you need?” he replied. His remark wasn’t cocky but at the edge of self-deprecation, trying hard to be engaging.

  He’s good at it.

  “Taller,” she said, “I didn’t mean to imply that I didn’t want to see you, too. But Oliver and the Pratts? Have you done away with them? All of them don’t leave early too often.”

  Taller ambled toward her. “The Pratts weren’t scheduled this afternoon. And Ollie headed over to a mill shop in Aspinwall. Somebody said they had a huge warehouse filled with the end runs of special millwork. Ollie always looks for bargains, Miss Cohen. My brother can squeeze a penny in half.”

  Samantha laughed at the remark, then almost scolded herself for doing so.

  “I like your laugh, Miss Cohen. It’s very hearty—but lilting at the same time.”

  He is good.

  “Call me Samantha, Taller. Miss Cohen sounds like I work at a bank or something.”

  “Sure thing, Samantha,” he said, coming even closer than a workman would stand to an employer, a closeness that seemed to fit Taller to a T.

  Samantha could see in Taller’s eyes a calculation of sorts, a mental checklist of moves and actions and touches he had at his disposal—all the things he could call up when dealing with a woman.

  He holstered his hammer in his tool belt and let it fall against his thigh, drawing attention to his tight-enough jeans and muscular legs.

  “Samantha,” he purred, “I know you know this area a lot better than I do—me from the boonies like I am. I wonder … no, you’re too busy and much too sophisticated …” It was an incomplete question that begged Samantha to ask for clarification, all the while being wound up in flattery.

  She had to rise to the bait. “No, Taller, ask me. I’m not all that sophisticated. Just a small-town girl from Squirrel Hill.”

  Taller reached out and touched her forearm, casually, as if he had been touching her forearm for weeks and weeks. He didn’t even look down as his fingers rested on her skin. “You are not a small-town girl, Samantha, but I appreciate you making me feel at ease.” His fingers waited, then slid slowly and deliberately down her arm. “You’re sophisticated, regardless of what you might say. And very beautiful as well. My question was … I would love to have a woman like you accompany me to some quality nightclubs in the area. But what makes it difficult for me is that I don’t know any quality clubs in the area.”

  He waited, smiling gently. “Are you free this weekend, Miss Cohen? I think we could have a good time together.”

  Samantha watched his eyes dance with possibilities as he stared into her eyes without apparent guile. But somewhere deep inside, Samantha knew better.

  He is good. And I am tempted.

  She found herself clenching
her fist, her hand hidden in the pocket of her coat. “Taller, I’m flattered. But … I am going to say no.”

  She was about to say why when Taller held up his hand.

  “Don’t tell me why,” he said, soft and easy, as if expecting that answer. “If I don’t know, then I can ask you again, when you’re not so strong. When my charm is stronger. Is that fair, Miss Cohen? I’ll take a reluctant rain check on my request, and not your answer. Is that okay with you?”

  He said it in such an offhand, disarming way that Samantha nodded her head, almost in admiration.

  “Sure, Taller. Ask me again sometime.”

  And with that, she offered him a sort of half wave and walked away, past the gallery of stained glass.

  The cold light from the windows subtly caught Samantha’s hair as she passed each window.

  Taller knew women, and he had the experience to know that some nos meant no for both now and well into the future. Samantha’s no was one of those long-term nos. He had seen her eyes darken as he asked, seen her grow tense before she’d replied. He knew exactly why she was saying no.

  It was Oliver. He was the one she wanted.

  Only God knows why, he thought. And she’s picking the wrong man. I’m the one who can truly appreciate her passionate nature.

  Taller stood there, still and alone, for a long time after she’d left.

  Oliver always gets the good stuff. He’s always the good boy. He always does the correct thing. He always says the right thing. I’m tired of him always being the good boy—and I’m always the bad one, the bad seed.

  Despite the fact he had work to complete, Taller did not move.

  He’s everybody’s favorite fair-haired boy.

  He took in a deep breath.

  And now … even Paula.

  Then he smiled.

  Paula …

  He put his hand on his hammer and removed it from his belt.

  Paula … now there’s an interesting topic. Hmmm. Samantha is a lost cause, but what about poor, abandoned, mistreated Paula? She’s beautiful … and as needy as they come.

  He went back to the ladder, climbed up, and began to hammer.

  And then we’ll see who the good boy really is.

  “You’re staying here tonight, right?” Taller asked Oliver when he returned from Aspinwall. He removed his tool belt and tossed it onto one of the broken pews. “You’re not coming back to Jeannette, are you?”

  If Oliver thought the question and his brother’s tone were odd, he made no mention of it. “No. I’m staying here. Too much trouble to go back and forth. I don’t see why you don’t do the same. There’s plenty of room.”

  Taller grinned. “Share a room? Like when we were kids? I don’t think so.”

  “Save you a lot of aggravation—rush-hour traffic and all.”

  “The traffic isn’t as bad as you think, big brother. And … I have things to do back home. Things I can’t do with you staring over my shoulder.”

  “Suit yourself,” Oliver replied and continued to measure out the area behind the bar, wondering aloud how much space he needed to allow for the granite countertop and the mirrored display area above it.

  Taller waved and the front door banged shut.

  When Taller left, Oliver stopped and checked his watch: 5:35.

  He had plenty of time to run downstairs, take a shower, and iron the one nice but wrinkled shirt he had brought with him.

  At 6:02, he tapped at Samantha’s door.

  He was most often very precise, so the two extra minutes were intentional, thinking that Samantha most likely would expect any guest to be a polite minute or two late.

  The door swung open. An older woman with dark skin and dark hair invited him in. “You be de church fellow,” she exclaimed. “I be Mally. You be Oliver, right?”

  “That’s me.”

  “You call me Mally, okay?”

  “Sure,” Oliver replied, a bit off balance. He knew Samantha and her father had a maid but didn’t know she would be answering the door and greeting people as well.

  “Miss Sam be upstairs. She run late today, but den you most likely know dat she run late at times. She said she be done in a moment. She say meantime I be offerin’ you a drink. We have wine and beer and whatever else you like. I don’ know much ’bout mixin’ dem fancy drinks, so you ask for beer or wine, okay?”

  “I guess a beer is fine. Whatever you have.”

  “I don’ know beer either. I close my eyes and pick one. Whatever it be, you tell me it’s okay, okay?”

  “I will, Mally,” Oliver said with a laugh.

  She returned with a bottle of Iron City and a glass. Oliver was a bit surprised, since Iron City carried a definite blue-collar connotation; he would have expected Mr. Cohen to buy only the best. But he accepted the drink with a sincere “Thank you.”

  Mally eyed him critically for a moment, then stepped closer. “You treat Miss Sam good, Mr. Oliver. She a good soul, and I don’ want nobody to be hurtin’ her, okay?”

  Oliver agreed, nodding emphatically, not sure of how entangled Mally thought the two of them had become. Oliver was pretty certain that he and Samantha were not entangled enough to warrant anyone’s concern.

  There was that kissing after our dinner date, Oliver thought. Since then, though, we haven’t even been out together … until this afternoon. But looking at tiles for the project doesn’t really count, does it?

  “I would never hurt Samantha,” he said.

  “Dat be good den. You be a man of your word, yes?”

  Samantha flew down the steps, apologizing from halfway up. “Sorry I’m late, O-not-O, but everything took longer than I expected. Oh, good, you’ve got a beer. Iron City? Did he ask for that, Mally? Or did you give it to him just to see what he would do?”

  Mally shrugged—an impressive shrug that dismissed Samantha’s concerns.

  “Well, I’ll take one too, then, so Oliver won’t suffer alone.”

  When Mally left the room, Samantha whispered to Oliver, “Actually, I like Iron City. I just like giving her the business. And I’m sure it was intentional on her part. She’s tricky like that.”

  Samantha made a show of pulling a check from the breast pocket of her blouse and handing it to Oliver. “There. As promised, Oliver. Now all accounts are current.”

  “Thanks, but I could have waited,” he said as he folded the check and slipped it into his pocket.

  The living room of Samantha’s huge Victorian house had inlaid hardwood floors, Oliver noticed, with floor-to-ceiling windows and elaborate moldings, all painted white. It had been decorated in a way that somehow shrank its immense size and provided an intimate feel. None of the furnishings were Victorian, but classic modern, without being overly sleek—rich and earthy, of leather and expensive wood, with a few expensive-looking antiques mixed in.

  Style that never went out of style. Classic contemporary, Oliver would have described it if he had been asked.

  A large marble fireplace at one end of the room, where they sat, was flanked by two matching coffee brown leather sofas. The low glass and chrome table was set on a huge Oriental rug in deep reds, blues, and browns that looked authentic and very luxurious. One end of the room was done entirely in bookcases, packed with bound volumes, each of the books appearing to have been read (there were small tears in the dust jackets) and not purchased just for show. A scattering of paperbacks, some stacked vertically, some horizontally, were mixed in with decorative pieces and a few framed photos. The walls were done in a pale coffee color above the wide chair rail with a darker shade below.

  “Did you measure for the tile?” Samantha asked as she shifted her position on the sofa, now more or less facing Oliver head-on.

  “I did. If you buy seventy square feet, that should be enough. If we’
re short, we can add a few pieces from the store’s stock. If it’s a different dye lot, no one should be able to see the difference if we add it on one end.”

  “I’ll call them tomorrow.”

  They both remained silent—but it was a comfortable silence.

  “I’m really happy with the project,” Samantha said after a long moment.

  “That’s good. It’s coming along well. Have you found the chef or whoever it is you hire first for a restaurant?”

  “A chef. If he’s expensive, he calls himself an executive chef. He’s been on board for a couple of weeks. A really, really nice guy. Young, very creative. Busy planning menus and stealing away other cooks from the places he’s worked before.”

  “Is he a member of the ‘Slow Food Movement,’ like you told me about at Enrico’s?”

  “Ah—you remembered. As a matter of fact he is.”

  “Is he from around here?” Oliver asked.

  Samantha offered a puzzled look. “I’m not sure. I mean, he works up at Seven Springs now but can’t stand living so far out in the country, so I guess he’s a city boy … from somewhere nearby. And they don’t cook ‘Slow Food’ there. He’s very, very good. C.I.A. trained and all.”

  It was Oliver’s turn to be surprised. “Like a spy?”

  “No,” Samantha replied with a laugh. “Culinary Institute of America. It’s in New York. I remember someone saying it’s on the Hudson River.”

  “Oh,” Oliver replied. “I’m glad you’re pleased, and that everything is on schedule then.”

  “It is. He has all the china ordered, as well as the flatware and tablecloths, the small kitchen equipment, and everything else we’ll need. He’s got a friend who will be in charge of the bar, and all those supplies are on order as well.”