by Terri Kraus
Leslie, swept up in his explanation, hadn’t realized he was asking her a question. “Yes. I mean no. I mean … it would have been okay. I think.”
She laughed as she found herself stumbling as badly as Mike.
“Listen, Leslie, I want to ask you out to dinner. Not just you, but you and Ava. For tomorrow. That’s Thursday. So it’s not like it’s a big date night or anything—just a normal, regular dinner, that’s all. Do you think you would want to go? Or come to dinner? I have it all planned. I mean, it’s not cooked yet or anything like that. What do you say? You and Ava up for a meal?”
Leslie debated with herself.
A sweet guy. A really nice man. I could learn to … Would I be settling …?
She mentally shook her own shoulders.
It is only a dinner. How many nice men have asked you out recently?
“I would like that, Mike. That is very sweet of you.”
“Well, that’s just swell. How about I pick you and Ava up at six tomorrow night. It’s a school night and all that. So we could eat and talk or whatever and the kids could get to bed at their normal time. Would that be okay? Six?”
“Sure, Mike, six is fine with us. We’ll be waiting.”
“Thanks, Leslie. You won’t regret it.”
She wanted to laugh again, his closing line was that funny, but she didn’t because she was sure he would obsess about the cause of her laughter for the rest of the day.
At 5:55 p.m. on Thursday, Mike pulled to the curb. Leslie had been waiting by the french doors since 5:45, sure that Mike was the arriving-early type. He literally jumped out of the car. He was wearing what looked to be a new sweater. It had sharp creases on the arms, something that occurred only upon purchase or on fresh dry cleaning perhaps, and Mike did not appear to be much of a dry-cleaner sort of man.
She opened the door before he got to the street entrance.
“We’ll be right down.”
He held the car door for her, all the while Ava regarding him with a suspicious look. She clambered into the backseat. Trevor was buckled tight in a booster seat.
“Okay that Ava doesn’t have a booster seat? I didn’t have an extra one. We could get one out of your car.”
“It’s only a few blocks, Mike. Just promise not to crash.”
“Okeydokey. No crashes.”
Mike’s green car, a Chevrolet, Leslie thought, even though she was not good at car identification, was sort of beige on the inside, with cloth seats. There was a hint of aftershave in the car and Leslie couldn’t tell if it appeared just this evening or was a permanent scent. The cup holder held a battered thermal cup; one that probably once bore a Dunkin’ Donuts logo, but that was long faded. A thicket of maps nested above the passenger side visor. Leslie noticed, with some satisfaction, that the floor was spotless, as if it had just been vacuumed.
“I hope you like home-cooked food,” Mike said as he crossed Main Street, without looking twice for runaway cement trucks. “We could have gone to a restaurant, but I thought, well, the kids eat in five minutes and Trevor has all the game systems and videos and stuff—that’s if it’s okay that Ava plays them, or watches a video.”
“I’m sure it will be fine, won’t it, Ava?”
“I’m not watching anything scary. I have nightmares.”
“Nothing scary,” Mike said in his best dad voice. “I promise.”
Ava wasn’t used to hearing a dad sort of voice, and Leslie was sure she was busy processing the different tone.
Mike pulled up to a very nicely kept Cape Cod on a quiet street of attractive homes, several blocks northeast of the downtown, with white stucco and siding, dark green shutters, and neatly trimmed evergreens surrounding the front of the house and lining the walk. A swing hung from a low branch of a large oak tree in the front yard. A small porch adorned by several large clay pots with autumn flowers in them. Leslie wondered if they were real or artificial. If they were artificial, they were good artificial. There was a white screen door in the front. Mike pulled up close, turned off the engine, and almost tripped trying to get around the car fast enough to open Leslie’s door.
“Sorry,” he said, almost out of breath. “Out of practice.”
She smiled.
He is sweet.
They entered a very neat, very clean, very precise home, with everything just so.
“It’s not always exactly like this,” Mike said. “I tidied up a bit.”
“It’s just lovely,” Leslie said and meant it.
The living room furniture, not outright stylish, was not dowdy either—just pleasing and comfortable. Not bachelor furniture, but not grandmother furniture. Tweeds, soothing blues and browns, with throw pillows, in the right accenting colors. A few nice lithographs on the wall. The paint color was some soft taupe shade, a nice complement to the furniture. A low fire in the fireplace warmed the room.
“This is very nice,” Leslie said, repeating herself. “I guess I’m a little surprised.”
“By the design or by the cleanliness?”
Leslie had to laugh. “Both I guess.”
“Well, thanks,” Mike said, smiling in satisfaction. “Let’s go into the kitchen. I thought that rather than eat in the formal dining room, we’ll have dinner in the eating area off the kitchen.”
He had the table set with two plastic plates and two plastic tumblers, and a kid’s set of silverware by each place.
“I made macaroni and cheese and chicken fingers. I thought I could feed the kids first. Trevor eats everything in about five minutes and then wants to run from the table. Does Ava eat slow or fast?”
Ava spoke up. “I eat normal.”
“Well, the two of you will eat normal, then you can go play games or watch a video.”
Mike had been correct. Trevor was done in five minutes. Ava took a few minutes longer. Then they both ran upstairs.
“One of the bedrooms is used as the TV room,” Mike explained.
He then cleared the table and reset it with a crisp white tablecloth, simple china plates, almost-crystal glasses, nice silverware, and matching cloth napkins.
“Whatever you’re making, it smells absolutely delicious,” Leslie said.
“It’s nothing fancy, I assure you,” Mike said, as he bent to peer into the glass front of the oven. The oven was stainless steel, like the refrigerator and dishwasher and microwave.
Leslie was surprised. She had thought Mike to be a Kenmore sort of guy—white appliances from Sears.
“I saw the recipe in the Sunday paper and it sounded good. I know they say that you should never try things out for the first time on guests, but this sounded pretty safe. I’m not a very inventive cook. With Trevor, all I need to know how to cook are grilled cheese sandwiches. And mac and cheese. And chicken fingers. Maybe a hot dog occasionally, when I let him have one. None of that is too taxing.”
Leslie sat at the table and watched him work. He took a covered bowl, filled with fresh green beans, and placed it in the microwave. He reached down and took out of the oven three baked potatoes, wrapped in aluminum foil.
“I know,” she replied. “Cooking for Ava doesn’t get too far afield. If I want grown-up food—and I’m not even sure what that is anymore—I wait until we go out to a restaurant.”
Mike took a vase off the counter, in which he’d arranged a bouquet of fall flowers, and placed it on the table.
“A little bit of elegance,” he said as if feeling a need to explain the flowers’ presence.
The microwave beeped three times. Mike donned oven mitts and carried the bowl to the table, then retrieved the tray from the oven. He set the tray on a trivet.
“The recipe title was ‘Downhome Meat Loaf.’ I don’t what made it ‘downhome,’ but it sure does smell great. Would you like me to serve some to you?”
Leslie nodded.
This is one sweet man.
He laid a thick slice of meat loaf on her plate, and some green beans, complete with butter and slivered almonds, and placed a foil-wrapped potato on one side of the plate. A simple salad completed the meal.
“Would you like ketchup with this? Some people swear by it. But I do have some brown gravy. Would you like some for your meat and potato?”
The gravy, smooth and tasty, was in an actual gravy boat, one that matched the plates on the table.
For a time, everything was quiet. Mike carefully and methodically prepared his own food—pouring gravy, adding a little bit of salt, adding a dash of pepper to everything, like he was trying to give each condiment the same attention. He had taken two bites when he set his fork down and declared, “Well, this is actually pretty good.”
Leslie agreed at once. “Mike, you’re a good cook. Everything tastes delicious. I am so impressed.”
He waved off her compliments, though it was obvious he liked receiving them. “It wasn’t all that hard. I mean, cooking is easy if you have a recipe to follow. And it helps if you have company that you really like.”
He’s trying his best to impress me … but in a sweet way.
They chatted about Mrs. DiGiulio’s kindergarten class and how both Ava and Trevor just adored her, and that Mike was still concerned that Trevor would have “issues” as he grew older. Learning issues, Mike said.
“When his mom left, he was real young, but it hit him hard. He still doesn’t understand. To be honest, I still don’t either. I’m just afraid that not having a mom will affect him somehow. Make him more squirrelly than he already is. Make it hard for him to concentrate or something. You read magazines nowadays and everyone is telling you how hard it is for a child to grow up in a single-parent home. Even my pastor last Sunday was talking about it, and how the men of the church should seek out the families without a dad and help be a father figure. Well, that’s true, but no one ever talks about providing a mother figure for the kids without a mom. I mean … I know there are fewer of us, but Trevor really wants a mom. I can see it in his eyes.”
Leslie felt his eyes on her as he spoke. She was certain that he did not mean to be as direct as he sounded, but she was also sure that Mike would love it if Leslie could provide that mother figure.
“It’s hard. I know all about it,” Leslie said, commiserating. “People forget how much work there is and how hard it is and how lonely it gets sometimes.”
Mike’s eyes seemed to light when he heard her agreeing with him.
“It can get lonely. And this house … I mean, it isn’t all that big, but it’s big enough for four people, for sure. Maybe even more.”
Mike’s eyes met Leslie’s and for a moment, seemed to link, then there was something in the exchange that shifted, and Leslie looked away. When she looked back, she was all but sure that Mike saw the gesture as one of flirtation. He was smiling, smiling in a self-satisfied way, as if discovering the solution to a very difficult problem. Then he reached over the table and took Leslie’s right hand and held it, even squeezed it a bit.
“It’s big enough for four. It really is.”
And Leslie remained silent, not sure if it were simply a statement of fact, or if Mike intended it to be an invitation or a proposal, or something else all together.
Whatever the intent behind his hand-holding and dinner and smile, Leslie remained unsure of the proper response, the sort of response that might have made sense to her.
I know … I know … I know what he’s asking.
She closed her eyes.
Am I ready to answer that question? Maybe not just yet. But …
Later that evening, Leslie sat in her bed, without the light, just sitting in the dark, reviewing the evening. Mike, of course, had driven them both home early, since it was a school night.
Ava had not run up the steps as she had before but had waited with her mother at the bottom of the steps. There would be no good-night kiss with sons and daughters so close.
Mike had looked about and had given Leslie a quick hug instead, and even that got the close eye of Ava, who had nearly squinted as she watched.
As Ava had gotten ready for bed, she’d told her mother that she’d had a good time, and that Trevor sure had a lot of video games and DVDs for a little kid, and maybe that’s why he was so jumpy in school.
“I tried one game and I couldn’t figure out when to make the little man jump on time. Trevor was real good at it.”
The entire evening spoke of Mike’s tenderness, his thoughtfulness, and his careful preparation.
He really tried hard. No one has ever done anything like that for me. Certainly not Randy. I’m not even sure he knows how to work a stove or oven. Mike thought of everything. And the meat loaf was really good. He did a good job with the whole thing.
She fluffed her pillow and lay down.
She waited for the panic to set in. She had waited for the panic all night. She had almost called him to cancel earlier in the day—not because she felt panicked, but because she was terrified of becoming so during their meal. Instead, she had begun to pray, and did so silently through the entire night, uncertain at first, with simple words from her heart—just as Pastor Blake suggested.
She waited even now for the chest tightness to begin, the sweating, the shallow, urgent breathing. But nothing had happened. None of her usual triggers had started anything. She remained … normal.
Having an un-date with Mike, having Mike talk about … marriage, she thought, would have been perfect triggers before. But not tonight.
I wonder if that means I’m comfortable with him.
She turned to her left side.
I am comfortable with him. He’s easy to be with. He is a gentleman.
She turned to her right side, trying to compress the pillow to the exact thickness required.
I like him. I really do.
She flipped onto her back, feeling as if the comforter was attempting to tangle her legs in a knot. She tossed the comforter to the side and made sure the thin thermal blanket was in place.
But do I like him enough?
The thought stayed with her, even as she drifted off to an almost restful sleep.
Amelia Westland, age twenty-one years, six months
Lyndora
Butler County, Pennsylvania
January 27, 1884
Standing before a room of students perplexes me at times, occasionally frightens me still, yet at the close of the day, when the disappearing sun colors the sky scarlet, the process of passing on knowledge to children invigorates me and passion floods my veins. It is as if God has ordained me to teach, for there is much joy in the work set before me. I do not know, and am hesitant to ask my students, if they share such an evaluation of my abilities. If they were to respond in the negative, I am sure my enthusiasm would suffer a serious blow. (Yet I think, and pray, that they would find me earnest, and our days filled with a desire to learn and grow.)
There are presently twenty students in the class: four in first, four in second, three in third, five in fourth, two in fifth, and two in the last grade, six. Some allow the lessons to soak into their souls; others fight and stammer on occasion. I have noted some students’ anxieties, much like my own, and therefore I am able to offer counsel and comfort.
The director of schools for the entire county, a Mr. William Styles, a refined gentleman of much breeding and education, sat in on my class last week, and presented me with a good recommendation and praised much of what he had observed that day. Such reviews are rare, I am told. In this, God continues to show Himself faithful; for it is only in His power I am able to flourish.
The LORD is my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in him,
and I am helped: therefore my heart great
ly rejoiceth;
and with my song will I praise him.
—Psalm 28:7
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LESLIE SAT IN CUNNINGHAM’S ICE-CREAM/COFFEE shop, hoping she would not run into anyone she knew. Mike would be at work, so he most likely would not stop here. His cousin seemed only to be around in the afternoon. She had not made that many friends in Butler yet, so she felt safe making a cell phone call from her booth.
The number now was familiar to her.
“Pastor Blake? I hate to always bother you.”
“Leslie, it’s no bother. Trust me. I get paid for this, remember? And if I didn’t want to take your calls, I could let them go into voice mail, right?”
“I know you’re being kind to me. And I appreciate that.”
Leslie allowed the barista to add coffee to her three-quarters-filled mug. The dilutions of sugar and cream had been perfect, and now the ratios were all different. She would have waved the pleasant young man off, but this way, she bought herself a bit more privacy since he would not be around for a while. She sprinkled in a hazing of sugar and a dribble of cream.
“What can I do for you this morning?”
Leslie quickly related the story of last night’s dinner, leaving out some of it, but claiming a small victory.
“An evening like this would have been sure to trigger panic in the past.”
“That’s wonderful, Leslie. There is hope, right?”
“I’m doing what you told me to do. It works. Or is working.”
The pastor let a moment of silence form.
“Pastor, I have a question. Nothing about panic attacks.”
“Go ahead.”
“Should you be with someone … allow yourself to be with someone … just because it’s safe?”
“Safe? You mean, like ‘not dangerous’? Or like ‘just good enough’?”
