by Beverly Farr
Don't just stand there sniffing him, she told herself. Your job is to take him around the rink without breaking any bones. She took a deep breath to steady herself, but then he hooked two of his fingers through the belt loop on her jeans. The slight tug on the fabric sent a shock of physical awareness down to her knees, making them waver.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
Olivia swallowed. Focus on the ice-skating. “Here we go,” she said cheerfully. “Start out with your right foot and we'll move together.”
He started with his left foot and the blade of his skate missed hers by millimeters. Olivia clutched at him and they teetered again. “Right foot,” she repeated once they had composed themselves. “Let's try again.”
Slowly, slowly, they started out, inching their way forward.
“Dance time,” a loud voice announced and the rink sound system started playing “Rock Around the Clock.”
Olivia looked around. They were at least fifteen yards from an exit. “Don't worry. We can make it to the exit.”
“But I want to dance.”
“We'll get run over. All novice skaters need to get out of the rink.”
“Where's your sense of adventure?” Without warning, Michael let go of her and turned, then caught both of her hands and pulled her into the middle of the rink. He was skating backwards, with smooth, strong, confident strokes.
“You pig!” she said, laughing at him and trying to pull her hands free. “You said you'd never gone ice-skating before.”
“I haven't.” He held her hands firmly. “But in college I didn't have a car and I went everywhere on inline skates.”
He laughed at her look of surprise. He looked younger, happier, carefree. “Do you want to dance or not?”
If she were wise she'd pretend she was still annoyed with him and go sit down for a few minutes. “Dance.”
#
“Skating sure works up an appetite. I'm starved. How about you?”
Yes, he was starved, Michael thought as he bent down to unlace his rental skates. Starved for a woman like Olivia in his life.
He liked the way Olivia flipped her long hair over her shoulder, the way her waist felt under his arm, the way she smelled of gardenias. He liked her eyes crinkling up when she smiled, and her chatting about inconsequential things. She'd been patient and encouraging when she thought he couldn't skate. She was quick to forgive when she learned he had played a trick on her. She was a lovely person.
Until tonight he hadn't realized how desperately lonely he had become.
Most of the time he'd been married to Mary Ellen, he'd been lonely, too. They had started out close, but over time they had drifted apart, wanting different things. Maybe that's why he had pushed so hard to have a baby. Like many people, he'd foolishly thought that a child would bring them back together. Instead, the children had been the final straw that broke them apart.
He thought of his children. If his mother wasn't visiting, he'd be at home right now, changing diapers, fixing bottles and cleaning up after Grant. That was real life for him, not dancing around an ice-skating rink.
So he might as well enjoy it while it lasted, because when tonight was over, he was going back to the trenches.
He suddenly realized Olivia had finished unlacing her skates and was looking at him, expecting an answer. He said, “I'm sorry. What were you saying?”
“I can go for hot and spicy or sweet and gooey. Which do you prefer?”
Michael blinked. Food. She is talking about food, so get your mind out of the gutter. “Sweet and gooey,” he said finally.
She smiled. “Great. They've got a place here that makes the best cinnamon rolls in the world.”
The bakery was called Aunt Mimi's. “Have you eaten here before?” she asked.
“No.” The only restaurants he ate at these days were fast food places with drive through windows.
“May I help you?” a young man in a green apron asked. He wore braces on his teeth and looked about sixteen years old.
Olivia bent over and peered through the glass display case. “I want one of your cinnamon rolls, but I want the biggest one with the most frosting.”
It was refreshing to see a woman who enjoyed her food. Mary Ellen had been obsessed with calories and fat grams. It had gotten so bad that in the last few years of their marriage, he'd stopped eating desserts in front of her. He remembered eating ice-cream out of the carton over the kitchen sink, after she was asleep. And even then he had to hide the carton under bags of frozen vegetables or she'd accuse him of undermining her diet.
“The one in the corner?” the boy asked.
Olivia considered the tempting display. “No, I'll take the one next to it.”
“I'll have the corner one,” Michael said.
Olivia took a ten dollar bill out of her jean's pocket and paid for the rolls before he could. “It's only fair,” she said when he frowned at her. “You paid for the skates.”
They carried their green plastic trays to a round wooden table and sat down. Olivia leaned forward a few inches, closed her eyes and sniffed, smiling with rapture.
Michael watched, entranced. She had the ability to find happiness in the smallest things.
“I think heaven must smell like this, don't you?” She opened her eyes and smiled at him.
“I never thought of heaven having a smell,” he said honestly, and took a bite of his roll. It was good, warm and sweet, with a hint of orange in the frosting. “Do you think there will be food in heaven?”
She waited until she had swallowed before saying, “I hope so. Otherwise it won't be much of a paradise.”
They ate for a few minutes in silence, then Michael said, “Livykins. Where did that come from?”
“My grandmother’s last name was Wilkins, and she loved nicknames. It started with my brother Gil, who became “Gilkins” but eventually we all became “kins” to her. I was Livykins.”
“Did everyone call you that, or just your grandmother?”
“Just Grandma. Everyone else called me Livy.”
He tried to remember what she’d said earlier. “Did you say you’ve got nine kids in your family?”
She nodded. “And we had only one bathroom.”
“That puts my five in perspective.”
“No,” she said. “We were all spread out, which I think has to be easier than five at once.”
“From what I read, it should get easier in a few years. Once they’re out of diapers.”
“And learn how to drive.”
Michael smiled. “You’re scaring me.”
“Sorry.” She sipped her water, then looked at him intently. “All joking aside, I know it’s got to be tough. Especially as a single parent --”
She was right. It was the toughest thing he’d ever done.
She added, “When you’re still grieving.”
Grieving? He was surprised by her word choice, but supposed he was grieving. Grieving the loss of his marriage. The loss of his dreams.
She continued, “People always say, ‘time will heal your pain,’ but I disagree. Time doesn’t take the pain away, but it provides distractions, so you don’t think about the --”
He quickly interrupted her. “My wife isn’t dead. We’re divorced.”
“I’m sorry. For some reason I assumed --”
“No. She’s alive and well and living in California.”
Olivia frowned, trying to understand. “So that’s why no one’s seen her?”
“No one has seen her because she doesn’t want to have anything to do with me or the children,” he said flatly. “I have full custody.”
“Oh.”
He could tell that he’d surprised her, and he watched her trying to think of an appropriate response. Finally, she said gently, “That’s really sad. She’s missing out.”
Olivia was a kind-hearted person, but the empathy in her voice made him uncomfortable, so he said briskly, “I suppose it’s easier not having to coordinate schedules and deal
with each other. I can do what I think is best without her interference.”
“Convenient.”
“Yes.” Michael sipped his water, and noticed how the conversation had ground to an awkward halt. Nothing like discussing your marital failure to put everyone in a chatty mood.
He couldn’t think of something to change the subject, but fortunately she did. She said pleasantly, “What sports did you play in high school?”
“What makes you think I did?”
She pointed. “Your hoodie.”
He looked down. He’d forgotten that he was wearing the one with his school mascot emblazoned across his chest. He tended to grab the first thing that was clean in the closet and didn’t pay much attention to what it looked like. “I played basketball, but I wasn’t very good.”
She smiled encouragingly, and he found himself telling her more. “The coach thought I’d be a natural, because of my height. I was good at the drills, but not at games. I tend to hyper focus. I can only do one thing well at a time. I could dribble and shoot or play defense. But not both.”
“Makes sense.”
“What I really liked to do was run. Just me and the road.” He let his breath out slowly. “But I haven’t gone running since the kids were born.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have the time.”
“If you exercise regularly, you’ll find that you have more energy to get more things done.” She added, “At least I find that to be true for me.”
Michael smiled. Olivia sounded like his mother, but for some reason it didn’t bother him when she gave him advice. “I’ve seen you race walking in the evenings.”
“Yes, I started that after rehab.”
His eyes widened. “Alcohol?”
She laughed. “No. That’s not one of my addictions.”
He leaned forward. “What are your addictions?”
She was silent for a few seconds, looking at him closely as if debating whether to trust him with her answer. He’d thought from her tone that she was joking, but now he worried that he’d misread her. He didn’t want to be flippant, treating a serious subject humorously. He mentally braced himself, and then she said clearly, “Men in cravats.”
He let out his breath in a gust, half a laugh. “That’s right. Jane Austen.”
“And Gaskell and Bronte.”
“I don’t know them,” he said.
“They’re Victorian authors. Basically, I like almost everything British from Shakespeare to World War I.” She smiled wryly and waved her fork at him. “It’s a good thing you modern men don’t realize how much mileage you could get out of sideburns and a poufy white shirt.”
“So you’re telling me a t-shirt and hoodie doesn’t cut it?”
She tilted her head a little to one side, considering him. “It’s not bad. But not swoon-worthy.”
He was amused. “What technically is a swoon? Passing out?”
“Similar to a faint. I think it was mostly from women in corsets hyperventilating, but I don’t know.”
“Have you ever swooned?”
“No, not yet.”
Her steady gaze met his. I like her. He looked down at the last few bites of his sweet roll.
They finished eating, gathered their trash and tossed it in a waste receptacle. “Do you want to walk around?” he asked.
“Sure. It’s a good way to work off all that sugar.”
They didn’t talk as much, other than small talk Michael was tempted to take her hand in his, but that would send a message he didn’t want to give, so he bunched his hands into fists and kept them in the pockets of his hoodie.
Eventually they left the mall and walked out to his truck.
“Did you refinish this?” Olivia asked.
“A long time ago.” He’d gotten the truck cheap when he was in college: a classic 1956 blue Chevrolet. Mary Ellen had thought it was nothing more than a time and money drain. She didn’t understand how working on a project helped him relax and focus better on his school work He ran his hand along the hood. “It’s a little dinged up, but it still looks good.”
“I think it looks great.”
He smiled. “Thanks.”
He walked around to open her door. He saw her fingering the chain around her neck . He’d seen her do it before, as if it were a talisman. “What’s with the necklace?” he asked, then at the flash of vulnerability on her face, he said quickly, “Don’t tell me if you don’t want to.”
“No, that’s okay,” she said and pulled the long chain out from under her sweater to show him a diamond ring at the end. “It’s my engagement ring.”
The words hit him hard. “You’re engaged?”
“No. My fiancé died in a car wreck.”
Suddenly he remembered her talking about grief and how time didn’t heal all pains. He felt like a jerk. “Forgive me.”
She smiled briefly. “It’s been three years now. I can talk about it.”
Three years and she still wore the symbol of her love around her neck? He shouldn’t be surprised. Olivia struck him as the kind of girl who could love a man forever.
He opened the passenger side door. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“There isn’t much to say. I loved him. He loved me. We were four weeks away from our wedding when some kid drove through a red light.” She stepped up into the cab and sat down.
She spoke calmly, matter-of-factly, but Michael’s heart ached for her.
“Sometimes I think that’s the hardest part. The instantaneous change. There was no warning. One minute we were talking about something, nothing important, and the next minute he was gone.”
Michael tried to understand. At least with Mary Ellen, there had been signs that she was going to leave him. He hadn’t recognized them at the time, but later, thinking back, he’d realized that she’d had one foot out the door for years.
Olivia sighed. “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away.”
In his mind, he thought of the rest of the verse: blessed be the name of the Lord. He said, “Job.”
She looked at him. “You know your Bible.”
“I should. I’m a minister’s son.”
“Ah,” she said thoughtfully. Then she added, “My legs were broken in the car accident. That was the rehab I mentioned. Physical therapy, etcetera.” She smiled reassuringly. “But I’m fine now.”
Olivia had a positive attitude, but he knew it had been worse than she was implying. He imagined her, lying in a hospital, recovering from her injuries, grieving the loss of her fiancé. That must have been terrible.
Olivia changed the subject. “What kind of minister’s son were you -- the straight arrow or the rebel?”
She obviously wanted to switch to a lighter conversational tone, which was fine with him. “What do you think?”
She looked at him with amusement in her eyes. “Definitely straight arrow.”
He smiled. He knew he didn’t look the rebel type. That was one of the things Mary Ellen had grown to dislike. You’re so boring and predictable.
“Boy Scout?” Olivia guessed.
“Eagle.”
She smiled. “My dad was a scoutmaster.”
Michael said, “It’s a good program. It taught me a lot about setting goals and work.” In some ways, it had helped him gain the discipline he needed now, to do the unpleasant things because they needed to be done.
Like taking Olivia home and saying good night.
He closed her door and walked around to the other side of the truck.
#
Olivia didn't want to say good-night. She hadn’t enjoyed herself so much in years. Michael was easy to get along with. He made her laugh, but he wasn’t one of those obnoxious life-of-the-party kind of guys. He wasn’t a braggart, either, wanting to talk non-stop about himself and his plans.
And best of all, he hadn’t weirded out when she mentioned John. He handled it just right, taking his cues from her. She appreciated the way he asked her if she wanted to
talk about it. He’d been sympathetic without giving platitudes.
When they got to her house, they could see that the lights were on at his house. He turned the engine off. She said, “Someone’s still awake.”
“Wash rarely goes to sleep before eleven. He hardly sleeps at all. Grant sleeps the most.”
She was quiet, watching his face, wondering what Michael was thinking.
Finally, he said, “I feel guilty, but I don’t want to go back home, not yet.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “Your mother is there, taking good care of them. She’d call if there was a problem.”
He checked his phone. “No texts. No messages.”
“Then it’s okay. Get a room, like your mom said. Get some sleep.”
He nodded, but didn’t say anything, didn’t make a move to open her door or to say good night.
Olivia took a deep breath, gathering her courage. “Do you want to come inside?”
“I’d like that.”
A few minutes later, he sat cross-legged on the floor of her den, playing with her cats. He'd found a ball of aluminum foil that Watson liked to chase. He threw it across the room and smiled as Watson thundered across the floor, and slid into a wall with a thud before catching the foil in his mouth. Watson carried the ball back toward him, ears and tail pointed upward, and dropped it on the floor, just a few inches out of Michael's reach.
Crick watched from his vantage point on Michael's lap. Although he was a year younger than Watson, he would never demean himself by playing fetch. He preferred feathers and string.
Michael leaned over and stretched to reach the aluminum ball, nearly squashing Crick who protested with a short meow. “He does this on purpose, doesn't he?” he asked. He tried to rub Watson's head, but Watson backed away before he could touch him.
“Oh yes.” Olivia stood in the kitchen, watching them. “Watson likes people, but only on his terms. As far as he's concerned, the sole purpose of my existence is to feed and entertain him. He's very much in control.”
Michael threw the foil ball again.
She opened the refrigerator door. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Sure.”
