by Terri Kraus
The children turned back to their parents. Trevor shouted back, “Then hurry up. Why do you walk so slow?”
Leslie laughed. “Ava says the same thing to me—all the time.”
Mike held the door of the coffee shop open, allowing everyone to enter.
Leslie stopped and stared. The interior was straight out of an 1890 postcard: dark, high-backed wooden booths, with carved swirls on the outside faces, frosted glass on the walls, the old sort of mirrors with the silvering slowly fading off, resulting in mottled reflections, tin ceilings, old-style ceiling fans, display cases with curved glass, an old-style fountain, with dark wood counters. Here and there were modern touches—a very sleek, brass Italian espresso machine with chrome dials and fittings, stylish menu signs, hand-painted on chalkboard, and a case filled with all sorts of pastries and cookies, all upscale and chic and trendy.
“I had no idea,” Leslie said softly, not sure what idea she might have had originally.
“My cousin is pretty creative,” Mike said, almost apologizing.
Trevor was well aware of the drill.
“Strawberry sundae. Strawberry sundae,” he said, his choice obviously made well in advance. “Whipped cream. Whipped cream. No nuts. No nuts.”
“Me too, me too,” Ava echoed, surprising her mother. Up until this moment, Ava had never once uttered the words “strawberry sundae.”
“My treat,” Mike said, then quickly added, “if it’s okay with you that Ava gets a sundae. I mean, some kids have allergies and all that. Or it wrecks their appetite or something.”
“No, it’s fine. Thank you, Mike.”
“Two lattes for the adults? And a couple of those frosted biscotti? I love those frosted ones. The regular ones are okay, but the frosted ones are really, really good.”
“Sure,” Leslie agreed. “They do look good.”
The two children took a front booth, looking over the street. Right above their booth, on a sturdy shelf, were two aquariums, filled with all sorts of colorful, darting exotic fish.
“My cousin likes fish. He has, like, twenty tanks at home,” Mike explained.
The barista placed the two biscotti in a silky waxed bag and the two thick lattes in mugs on a tray, which Mike took. Then he escorted Leslie to a booth a bit further back in the store.
“Let the kids eat and talk by themselves. The fish will keep them amused. Trevor can sit for hours watching them. Makes me want to get a fish tank at home. But I figure, with my luck, all the goldfish will die and I’ll have to try to explain the death thing to Trevor. Better that he comes here to watch. Safer. And less expensive.”
Leslie took her seat opposite Mike. As he sat down, she felt his knees bump into hers.
“Sorry. I usually have Trevor across from me. He’s smaller.”
“That’s okay,” Leslie said. “I’m not used to being with other adults either. Takes a bit of getting used to again.”
Mike took his biscotti from the bag, snapped it in half and popped one half into his mouth, grinning. “I love these things.”
Leslie nibbled on hers. “You’re right. They are good.”
From where Leslie sat, she could see the reflection of Ava and Trevor in the mirror beside her. The two of them were kneeling on the benches of their booth, leaning forward, carefully scooping out the ice cream, and looking as if they were savoring every bite, chatting away as only kindergartners can do.
Mike chewed, swallowed, and took a drink. “Well, this is nice.”
At that moment, a door behind them banged, in a friendly way, and a short, barrel-chested man approached, wearing an apron over his T-shirt and jeans and a baseball hat.
“Hey, cousin, how are you?”
Mike stuck out his hand.
“Ernie, this is Leslie.”
Ernie grabbed Leslie’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “So this is the woman you’ve been telling me about. Nice. Real nice.” Ernie’s eyes traveled up and down, twice.
Leslie wondered if Mike was blushing more than she was.
Ernie offered a wide grin, not leering, but close—more like a happy-that-you’re-here grin. “How’s the coffee? How’re the cookies? You like ’em? I have an aunt who makes ’em fresh every day. I guess, it’s really we have an aunt. She’s a saint, that woman. Let me give you some to go. I bet your little girl will love ’em. I’ll fix you up. Okay?”
Leslie managed to croak out, “Okay.”
Ernie barreled away, toward the front of the store, calling out to other customers.
“Sorry about that. He can be sort of loud and … loud,” Mike apologized.
“It’s okay, Mike … he seems very nice.”
She looked down at her hands. He’s telling his cousin about me?
“And sorry about … you know … talking to him about you,” Mike added to his apology.
“That’s okay,” Leslie answered, unsure of her response.
“I mean, you’re an unusual woman. He asked. You’re a single mom. You bought a building. You’re fixing it up. That’s pretty unusual—at least it would be for our family. I give you a lot of credit for taking that sort of risk. I don’t know if I would do it. That’s what I told Ernie about. I didn’t say anything about you being … you know … nice. I mean, well, you are nice. I mean that in the pretty way. Not in the way that Ernie said it. You know.”
Mike slapped his palm against his forehead. “I don’t know what I mean. I get in front of a beautiful woman and my tongue gets all tangled. Well, not really my tongue—it’s my brain. There are so many things I want to say, but I usually manage to get everything flummoxed up.”
Leslie wanted to take his hefty hand in hers and pat it, saying everything was okay and that she wasn’t mad or upset or offended. “It’s okay, Mike,” she wound up saying instead. “I understand.”
“Sometimes I get so nervous. Especially when I’m around someone I like. You know what I mean. Like a woman. Not that I’ve been around women all that much. I get nervous and my heart starts to pound and I get all flustered.”
“It’s okay, Mike. It really is.”
His honesty and transparency was so sweet and childlike and endearing that this time Leslie did reach over and patted at his hand, flat on the table. Her smaller hand only covered a third of his.
She saw his eyes snap to her hand as it rested on his, even for those brief few seconds. His eyes snapped back up to hers, as if trying to read something in her eyes, trying to ascertain what it was that she was trying to say, trying to say without words.
“Do you really?” he said, soft as a whisper. “I mean, do you really understand?”
“I think I do.”
She saw his hand move, just a little, the one that she had just touched. But then he stopped. She could see that he was considering something, calculating some odds, perhaps, or trying to decipher what she had meant by touching his hand and whether or not she wanted him to touch her hand in return, or if he were merely inventing all this because it was something that he wanted. She could see all this in his face. He was that sweet and honest.
Ava ran back first and slid into the booth next to her mother. Leslie watched her look first at Mike … Mr. Reidmiller … then back to her mother, as if inspecting the remnants of their conversation.
Trevor bounced up. “Can I have a second sundae?”
“You most certainly cannot,” Mike answered. “You never have two sundaes.”
Trevor’s face tightened, as if he were reviewing every dessert he ever ate, checking to see if there had ever been a day with a double dessert. It didn’t take all that long. “Okay. Can we go home now?”
“Attention span of a gnat, I always say,” Mike whispered, smiling. “Shall we? We’ll walk you home.”
Leslie was about to protest, about to say that she
and Ava could easily walk home by themselves, that it was only a few blocks, but she looked at Mike’s ever-hopeful face, his eager smile, and she nodded.
“That would be nice of you … Mr. Reidmiller.”
Leslie was sure Mike was about to correct her but saw his eyes dart to her daughter. He said nothing except, “My pleasure, Mrs. Ruskin.”
On the way out, Ernie presented Leslie with a large bag filled with cookies and treats—far too many for the two of them, perhaps as an apology.
“You enjoy, Mrs. Ruskin. You enjoy ’em, okay?”
Leslie promised she would.
“Okra?”
“Bland.”
“Butternut Squash?”
“Maybe. A little too much gray in that one.”
“Even with the Eggplant?”
“Might be okay. If we use Eggplant on the back wall.”
“Is there one that’s called Zucchini? For the fireplace wall. Or the entry wall. Calming. Green.”
Frank rustled through a stack, a pile, of paint chips, strewn haphazardly on their work desk. “I thought I saw one called Zucchini.”
Alice held a dealer’s hand of paint chips, casting one off after another, like a poker player discarding useless cards. Baxter, the cat, sat to one side, on the desk, batting chips that came too close. The elegant feline was much too lazy to get up and give chase, but all chips that came within paw’s reach were quickly dispatched to the floor. And under the desk sat Worthless, the couple’s other equally elegant cat, their first cat, older by a few years, barely raising a cat eyebrow over the storm of big fluttery multicolored snowflakes.
“There was a Zucchini—and a Sage—but all those food colors made me hungry. Remember that wonderful vegetable omelet we had in Paris? Was it in Paris or Brussels? That little restaurant where no one understood us,” Frank said.
“No one understood us in any restaurant in all of France or Belgium, Frank. We just pointed, remember, and were always happily surprised at what came out of the kitchen.”
Frank appeared hurt. “I know French, pardon. I took French in high school. They understood me. It’s just that they were being arrogant and did not want to admit it, that’s all. Those French.”
Alice smiled as she flipped away nearly identical colors: Eggshell and Cream Cheese—neither of which she planned on using. Baxter clawed both of them to the floor. “Well, whatever your skill in French is, or was, we still have to pick the color scheme for our new place. And we simply must plan for our coming-home party. We’ve been home for nearly three weeks and have not done a party yet. That’s simply too long to wait. People are talking. I ran into Milly …”
“Molly.”
“Molly? Who’s Molly?”
“Milly is the one you always call Molly. It’s Milly.”
“Milly. Molly. Whatever. Anyway, she says we must get together. It’s been ages. I think she and her husband are just adorable. He’s an architect or something, isn’t he?”
“Engineer.”
“Whatever. A party would be a wonderful way to see everyone again. And announce our new venture. Start the buzz. And it would be a business deduction.”
Frank stood up, brushed off the chips that had hidden on his chest and lap, and stretched. “Sure. I like parties. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m still hungry. I would love to go out for some interesting food. Butler simply does not have interesting food. Cheap housing. Close to Pittsburgh. Small pool. Easy to be big fish, cutting-edge. But no interesting food.”
Alice replied, nodding. “Well, there is that small place over in Lyndora, but it’s closed at lunch.”
Frank rubbed his stomach theatrically. “Maybe I’ll be forced to cook something.”
He stepped to the doorway of their studio/office/workroom. They lived in a comfortable bungalow on the north side of Butler, just at the edge of the really expensive properties. Years ago, when they first purchased it, they had torn out most of the interior walls on the first floor, replacing them with movable partitions—all heavily laden now with artwork and collages and wire/textile assemblages and other collections that Alice was noted for. The front room was a sort of studio/office/workroom. In the rest of the space, a few sleek black leather sofas floated, intermixed with the artwork and panels. A modest-sized kitchen—efficient and terribly modern—lay in the back of the house. The entire second floor was an expansive master bedroom suite, with two huge closets, and one large spa-like bathroom.
“An un-loft,” was how Alice described it.
Frank, uninterested in labels, just said it was “organic.” He was not sure what that meant, but it sounded artistic and avant-garde—at least for Butler.
When they had operated their store in Pittsburgh, they had rented a large apartment in a historic building in nearby Shadyside and returned to Butler on their days off.
“So what would you like to eat? A panini? A frittata? Stir-fry? A couple of frozen White Castle hamburgers?” Frank attempted to remember what their refrigerator held without actually going back there to do an inventory.
“White Castle!” Alice all but shouted. “Yes! White Castle! How many do we have left in the freezer? I need at least six of them.”
Frank scratched his head. “An entire box of fifty, I believe. Remember when you ordered it online when we arrived home? You said you would never be left without a White Castle ever again.”
Alice had been despondent when she found out that Paris did not have a single White Castle hamburger franchise.
“Well, then, White Castle it is. And could you do them in that little stainless steel oven on the counter with the cute little door on it? It tastes so much better that way. You’re so good at that,” Alice said, knowing that boasting on her husband was a surefire method of getting him to do something for her.
Frank pshawed in reply. “To make it taste just like in the restaurant, I would need a huge, greasy griddle with steam vents in it and a swarthy, underpaid immigrant to do the grilling. But yes, I will use the convection oven.”
He padded down the hall, or at least where the hall used to be until they tore out the walls, whistling to himself, happy to be cooking, or at least reheating, in a creative fashion.
As he busied himself in the kitchen, Alice discarded a few more paint chips onto the desk, but there was no longer a cat there to help. Baxter and Worthless both had grown instantly alert when Frank made his way to the kitchen, charging along the wooden floors just in case he would mistakenly open a can of tuna and drop it.
He turned the key in the door, pocketed it, and hurried down the steps of the Midlands Building. Jack whistled as he hurried to his truck, being in a very good mood. There were now two jobs penciled in on his calendar—two good jobs.
The kitchen and bathroom job for the young couple over on Brady Street might take four weeks, but if Jack pushed, three. And Frank had intimated that plans, permits, loans, and the like remained a bit nebulous, but on schedule. They would want to start the renewal of the interior soon.
“The city said everything would be fine, but I don’t want any additional problems. We’ll wait until we have all the little bits of paper in hand to start. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
Jack assured him that it was totally fair.
“And we have an architect to draft up everything so the city people will be satisfied.”
Jack said that sort of arrangement was typical and would be fine with him. He would review the plans and put together a bid.
Now Friday night had arrived, and Jack felt more than a bit expansive.
It would be so nice to have someone to share this with.
But that remained impossible, he told himself. Instead, he got into his truck, and headed toward The Palm.
Earl will be happy to hear.
He pulled along the side street by
the tavern, switched off the engine, and stopped. He could get out, have a meal, drink a few Cokes, and talk a bit with Earl, as he waited on other customers. That might take an hour, tops.
Then what?
Jack imagined himself driving home, back to his small apartment, and channel-surfing until he dozed off sitting on the depressing sofa. The triumphant evening was not so much of a triumph when reduced to such stark and dismal terms.
I don’t want to go in there. I don’t. Not with Earl there.
He put the key back in the ignition, started the engine, put the transmission in gear, and started to drive. He did not have a destination in mind, that’s what he told himself, but he really did. He simply did not admit it to himself.
He crossed the bridge south of town and made the sharp right turn, following Route 8, out of town, toward Pittsburgh. He had traveled this route several times; he knew what businesses existed along the road. One of his lumber suppliers was down this stretch of road.
That was not his destination.
The road cut through some surprisingly empty stretches, bordered by thick stands of trees and greenery, now glistering with the dying reds and golds of autumn. He did not pay attention to the color nor the restaurants he passed. Some seven miles south of town, he saw his destination.
He had not really intended on heading here. But here he was. He pulled his truck around the back. He always pulled his truck around to the back of places. He told himself that he didn’t know why, but he really did.
For a long moment, he sat there, in the quiet of the cab of his truck, the engine clicking as it cooled. He closed his eyes because of the struggle.
At last he opened his eyes, took the keys from the ignition, slipped them into the breast pocket of his jacket, and carefully buttoned the pocket shut.
The four headed back toward Leslie’s place. Ava and Trevor were animated, jumping up and down off the curbs, turning every handle on every parking meter as if expecting loose coins to pour out. Mike and Leslie walked slowly, side by side, not touching, but together, Mike commenting on the chill in the air, the coming of winter, being prepared with storm windows, putting bags of rock salt in the trunk.
