Love Is a Breeze

by Purcell, Sarah

  Brianna scribbled the number on her napkin with a pen from the black wire desk caddy under the phone on the wall.

  “There is a notepad there.” He pointed to the same caddy.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “This’ll do. No need to waste paper.”

  John shook his head and smiled. “See you later. Behave yourself.”

  Brianna sat until she heard the front door close before she folded the newspaper and laid it on the countertop. The prospect of finding a place she could afford on her own did not look good. She glanced at the sleek, modern cabinetry with the long stainless handles that mirrored the gleaming appliances. A set of brushed stainless canisters sat next to the ceramic top stove, otherwise the granite was bare. She imagined what a few colorful accessories could do for the room. Brianna sighed. It seemed warmer when John was here.

  After making her bed, she took her laundry to the utility room. She started a load and returned to her room, intending to take a shower but as she stood in front of the enclosure a picture of the large black tub floated across her mind. She secured her hair on top of her head and headed for John’s bathroom.

  Sunlight flooded the room and a quick glance at the bed revealed it to be neatly made. A door beside the dresser stood slightly ajar. Curiosity got the better of her and she pulled it open. Her jaw dropped as her eyes traveled around the room masquerading as a closet. It was huge, outfitted in teak and meticulous. Suits hung together in one section, shirts organized by color in another one, casual clothes in other sections. Built in shoe shelves, again, were organized by color and style. Tie carousels and drawers for socks and things completed the room. She backed out the door, careful not to disturb anything, and thought of her own chaotic closets in the past. She didn’t have enough to have a chaotic closet now. She closed the door and crossed in front of the dresser to the bathroom on the other side.

  Brianna turned on the water, adjusted the temperature control and the jets as John had shown her. Dropping her robe onto the fluffy white rug, she carefully mounted the step up to the tub. She noticed a bottle of strawberry bubble bath that she hadn’t seen the night before. She uncapped it and added a generous amount to the rising water. Bubbles instantly grew out of the churning water, filling the tub to its brim. Brianna sank into the foamy depths and turned off the water. She placed a rolled towel behind her head and closed her eyes.

  Waving a hand in front of her face as if chasing a fly from her nose, she opened her eyes. Bubbles nearly covered her head. She cleared her line of vision and saw bubbles cascading over the edge of the tub and down the steps to the floor. Oops. Turning off the jets and opening the drain, she struggled to stand up on the slippery surface. She looked around for something to give her some traction. Her cane was out of reach. She’d left her cell phone in her room. She would have been too embarrassed to call Mrs. Miller to help her out of the tub anyway. She waited for the tub to empty, which took awhile given the amount of foam the drain had to swallow. Finally, the water was gone. Bubbles – not so much. She shivered as she grabbed a towel and spread it on the bottom of the tub. Turning onto her knees, she used another towel to dry the rim of the tub and slowly hoisted herself up and over it. She stood there gaining her balance before attempting to reach the soggy bathrobe lying on the once fluffy white rug. It took remainder of the day to mop, launder towels and coax bubbles down a reluctant drain.

  * * * *

  When John arrived home, promptly at six, she greeted him wearing her one and only sundress and a smile. He returned the smile.

  “I hope you weren’t too bored today.”

  “No, not at all.” Brianna replied.

  She followed him into the kitchen and took her usual seat at the bar while John readied another of the meals Mrs. Miller had prepared.

  “I tried out your tub today.”

  He removed his jacket and tie and rolled his sleeves back. “How was it?”

  “Great. I loved the bubble bath. I didn’t notice it last night.”

  “I thought you’d like it. I jogged to the corner drug store this morning instead of working out in the gym.”

  John opened the refrigerator and ducked his head in.

  “How come you’re not married or anything?” Brianna asked, while appreciating how the cut of his slacks outlined his rear.

  John pulled his head out of the fridge and set the covered dish on the countertop before looking at her.

  “Or, anything?” He gave her a quizzical glance.

  “You’d make a great husband. I mean, you’re a good looking, rich guy. You know - a good catch. And you certainly know your way around the kitchen. Women should fall all over themselves for a bit of your attention.”

  “You think I’m good looking?” One corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

  “Well, yeah. I’m not blind.”

  John placed the dish in the microwave and turned it on.

  “Well, I’m not rich – comfortable, but not rich.”

  “Very comfortable. And, you’re not married because…?”

  “I was.” He pulled the salad and dressing from the fridge and set it in front of her.

  “Oh. What happened?” Brianna added the dressing and tossed the salad.

  “It didn’t work out.”

  “Why?”

  John shrugged his shoulder. “I didn’t like her boyfriend.” A sardonic smile curved his mouth.

  “Oh.” Brianna picked a cherry tomato from the salad and popped it into her mouth. “Was it recent?”

  “No, about ten years ago.”

  “Did she live here?”

  “No.” John pulled the chicken casserole from the microwave.

  “Why haven’t you remarried?”

  “You know the old saying ‘once bitten....’”

  Brianna inclined her head and scooped salad into the two bowls John had placed on the bar.

  “I don’t want to get married,” she said.

  “Really? And, why is that?”

  “All my life people have made decisions for me. I want to make my own decisions.” She noticed John’s look of amusement. “I’ll admit I’m not very good at it—yet. Men always have to be in control and I don’t like being controlled.”

  “I’ve noticed.” He flashed her one of his half smiles.

  “You like living alone?” Brianna asked.

  “It has its advantages.”

  “Like?”

  He set a plate in front of her. “Like not having to answer personal questions.” He tapped her nose, softening his words.

  Brianna grinned, took a bite and swallowed. “I’ve never lived alone.”

  “Never?”

  Brianna shook her head. “Nope. I went from my parent’s to my aunt’s to Eric’s and now I’m here.”

  “Except for the time you lived at the office.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “Well, yes. I lived alone there but I didn’t like it.”

  “So, tell me about this boyfriend that left you out on the street. Where’d you meet him?”

  “We met about three years ago. He’s an assistant professor in the anthropology department at the University of Chicago. I attended a class he taught on art in ancient cultures. He was very charming, blonde hair, blue eyes. One night he invited me out for coffee. We’d been dating about a year when my aunt died. He asked me to move in with him and the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “So, what went wrong?” John looked up from loading the dishwasher.

  “Now who’s being nosy?” She grinned at him. “Nothing ‘went wrong’ exactly, it was gradual—subtle. He started making all the decisions from where we went to who our friends were and even how I dressed. It was his idea”– She gave a derisive snicker. —“more of a command—that I switch from painting to graphic arts. He said I could make a living instead of being a ‘starving artist.’”

  “Ahh, I can see how that wouldn’t appeal to you.” He gave her a lopsided grin.

  “Right. About six months ago I decided
I’d had enough and rebelled. He didn’t like that one bit.”

  John laughed. “That doesn’t surprise me. But, not all men are like Eric, you know.”

  “ So I’ve been told. It’s not just Eric, my father and brothers were domineering, too. But, that’s another story for another time.”

  * * * *

  The following morning, after John left, Brianna soaked in his tub again, without bubbles. She was amazed at how much her ankle had improved. She still limped but used the cane mostly for balance.

  She curled up on the loveseat in the den and lowered the TV to viewing position. After flipping through several channels something on the Food Network caught her attention. The chef showed a chicken dish with red wine sauce he would be preparing in the next segment. An idea took shape. She grabbed a pen and small note pad from the desk top. She would prepare a special dinner for John. It was easy, the chef said, which was good because she had little cooking experience. Mrs. Miller could get any groceries she needed on Friday and she’d fix the meal Saturday night.

  * * * *

  When Brianna entered the kitchen Saturday morning she could see John sitting at the table on the terrace reading the paper and sipping coffee. She poured a glass of orange juice and carried it outside.

  John looked up. “I’m playing golf today with Dave Anderson. I’d forgotten about it until he called this morning. Do you mind being left on your own again?”

  This is perfect. “No, not at all.”

  “I should be home around five or six.”

  “Great.” She barely contained her excitement.

  “You seem awfully anxious to get rid of me.”

  “Oh. No. You go on and enjoy yourself. Really. I’ll be fine.”

  After John left, Brianna turned on the Food Network again, as if it could magically turn her into a Cordon Bleu chef. Well, a little more information couldn’t hurt. She watched and absorbed as much as she could until it was time to start cooking.

  She went into the kitchen, collected all the ingredients and put them on the bar. Checking her handful of notes, she gathered the necessary utensils and went to work.

  * * * *

  Brianna leaned on the balustrade of the balcony. The glass door behind her slid open. Straightening her spine, she took a swig of wine but didn’t turn around. The hair on the back of her neck prickled as John approached. He stopped at the table and picked up the nearly empty wine bottle.

  “Did you drink all of this?”

  Brianna did not respond.

  “Brianna?”

  “No, I did not drink all that.” She turned to face him.

  “What the hell happened to the kitchen?” He demanded.

  She gulped more wine, set the glass on the table and put her hands on her hips. “Where have you been?”

  “We ran into friends at the club and had dinner.” He shook his head.

  Raising her chin, she said, “I fixed dinner.”

  “All that damage for one meal?” He swept his hand toward the kitchen.

  “No, not for one meal. I cooked for you, too.” Picking up her glass of wine, she turned back to the lake view.

  “I brought you dinner.”

  “A phone call would have been nice.” She glanced over her shoulder briefly. Draining her wine, she crossed back to the table and refilled her glass, emptying the bottle and ignoring John’s scrutiny. “I worked hard planning and cooking dinner to thank you for all you’ve done for me and you didn’t bother to come home. Do you know how hard it is to make a wine sauce?”

  John picked up the empty wine bottle. “You used a two-hundred dollar bottle of wine to make a sauce?”

  Brianna looked at the bottle then at John with wide eyes.

  “Two-hundred dollars for a bottle of wine?” Raising the glass to her lips with a shaky hand, she turned from his gaze. “No wonder it tastes so good.”

  “Where’s the dinner?”

  “Burned. Everything was going so well. Then the pasta boiled over. While I was cleaning that up the wine sauce got lumpy. I tossed it out –” Wine sloshed as she gestured. “– and started over. When I remembered the chicken in the oven it was dry and crispy. It wasn’t supposed to be dry and crispy.” Her voice trailed off. “Then the sauce boiled over again.”

  She felt John’s presence close behind her. His hand reached around, took the glass and set it on the table. He clasped her shoulders and turned her to face him. She swayed and had difficulty focusing his face.

  “You haven’t eaten anything, have you?” he asked.

  She sluggishly shook her head. The room lurched. She reached for a chair back but John slipped an arm around her waist and guided her into the kitchen, settling her onto a barstool. He cleaned off the bar and opened a Styrofoam box, transferred the contents to a plate, heated it and set it in front of her. Brianna took one look at the grilled salmon, clasped a hand to her mouth and slid off the stool, grasping the countertop for support. She hobbled as quickly as she could to the hall bathroom and dropped to her knees in front of the commode.

  She saw John’s shoes in her side vision. “Go away.”

  John reached over her and flushed the toilet. Oh, if only I could disappear that easily. He wet a towel, crouched beside her and wiped her face and throat. He left the towel on the back of her neck, stood and offered his hand to help her up. Keeping a steadying arm around her, he guided her to her room and sat her on the edge of the bed.

  “Are you going to be okay or do you need help?” he asked.

  Brianna glared at him. Too embarrassed to show gratitude, she merely waved a hand toward the door.

  John left the room. Brianna collapsed onto the pillows.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Brianna cautiously opened one eye, grateful for the semi-darkness of the room before opening the other one. Her head felt like an anvil someone was hammering on and she couldn’t lift it. She wasn’t sure what was going to explode first, her head or her bladder. Inching to the edge of the bed, she slid to her knees on the floor, resting her head on the mattress before attempting more movement. Placing both hands firmly on the bed she forced herself to her feet and limped to the bathroom.

  She splashed cold water on her face before raising her head to survey her reflection. With a groan she turned away from the mirror, stripped and stepped into the shower. She sat on the wide seat trying to come up with a plan to avoid John – forever. Her brain fired off several scenarios, none of which were possible. Turning off the water, she dried and slipped into her bathrobe wrapping a towel around her head. If her head exploded it would contain the pieces.

  Entering the bedroom, she saw a tray laden with a large glass of tomato juice, a small teapot and cup, dry toast and two extra strength Tylenol tablets sitting on the bed. She approached cautiously and sat beside it, tears spilling onto her cheeks. She heard a soft knock on the door.

  “Come in.” She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her robe.

  John poked his head in. “How are you feeling?”

  She squinted through one eye. “My head’s ready to explode. My stomach feels like a volcano ready to erupt. My body feels trampled by the St. Paddy’s Day parade. Other than that - grand!”

  He opened the door and came in, crossing to stand in front of her. Picking up the tablets and juice from the tray, he handed them to her. “This will help. Try to eat something.” She swallowed the pills with a drink of juice.

  “I think that bomb is going to go off any minute.” She rubbed her forehead and avoided looking at him.

  He put a hand under her chin, raised her head and studied her face. “I think you’ll live. I’ll get an ice bag for your head.”

  He poured a cup of tea for her before leaving the room.

  Brianna drank half of the juice, nibbled a small bite of toast and sipped the tea – hot and sweet – no cream. Convinced her head wasn’t actually going to blow up, she unwrapped the turban and made an effort to finger-comb her hair.

  John came back with the ice pack,
walked to the bathroom and returned with the detangling comb. He moved the tray to the dresser.

  “Turn around.” He made a circular motion with his hand. Brianna looked up at him uncertainly but did as he suggested.

  She scooted around until she sat with her back to him, cross legged at the edge of the bed. John placed the comb at her hairline and drew it back. It caught on a tangle and Brianna fell against his chest. John inhaled sharply and she struggled to sit up. He steadied her with hands to her shoulders. Her pulse was anything but steady. “My mother used to comb my hair.”

  “I’m sure she was much better at it than I am.”

  “She pulled, too. The curse of curly hair, I guess.”

  He chuckled as he carefully drew the comb through her hair.

  “Tell me about your mother.”

  “She was an artist.”

  “So that’s where your talent comes from.”

  “I suppose but she gave it up. ‘Too much real work to be done,’ she said. But I think that was more my father’s idea than hers. I remember when I was about five she painted a picture of me with my little dog. That’s the last thing she painted. She said to me one day when I was around ten, ‘Don’t let anyone steal your dreams.’ The light in her eyes faded and she never painted again.”

  “Why not?” John asked.

  “I don’t really know but I think my dad had a hand in that, too. One day he found her in the attic. She had destroyed all her paintings except that one. Took a butcher knife and slashed them to ribbons, she did. My dad took her to the hospital where he left her and a few months later he sent me to live with my aunt and uncle here in Chicago. I was fourteen. He said they didn’t have time for my shenanigans, besides it wasn’t right for me to be raised by five grown men.”

  “How long was she in the hospital?”

  “A couple of years but by then I was in school here so they left me be.”

  “That must have been hard for you. Is she all right now?”

  “Oh, yes. She’s fine. It was one of those change of life breakdowns not handled well by a bunch of men.”