New Year's Resolutions

by Briggs, Laura

  There were more of Lois’s traces in his apartment, tucked in drawers and the back of shelves. Climbing to his feet, he went in search of the rest.

  *****

  Chop, chop, chop. Abigail’s knife reduced the onion to miniscule pieces–on purpose, this time. Carefully she scraped the pile into a measuring cup, adding it to the growing pile of ingredients beside her saucepan. Broccoli heads carefully pulled into bite-sized chunks and a measuring spoon’s worth of a yellow powder in a bowl.

  The Best of Thai Cooking was wedged open between the sides of a napkin holder, keeping the page open to a recipe of sauteed noodles and peanut sauce. Already, Abby was reducing a pile of peanuts to small pieces that reminded her of airline packets. An open jar of peanut butter tempted her to sample its contents with one finger before filling a measuring cup with the recipe amount.

  Simmer noodles until tender... She poured water into a saucepan, adding a thin layer of oil, since she had yet to master the salt in water trick. A package of noodles followed, a thin curly pasta dried in stiff waves.

  A few other tricks had come more easily in the past few weeks of practicing. Abby had baked a chicken breast without burning it and successfully added spinach to spaghetti sauce–although she ended up boiling the pasta to mush on that occasion.

  Tonight, nothing would be left to chance. She readjusted the stove knobs to achieve the pan heat recommended in the recipe book; she stirred the noodles as she consulted the page on preparing the sauce for the vegetable and nut medley. The old Abby would have dumped them all in the same pan with a little water and left it to chance–explaining why her diet revolved around paper cartons and delivery sacks.

  The skillet sizzled as the vegetables made contact with the hot oil and garlic, Abby’s metal spatula scraping them away from the edges to prevent charred marks. Stirring faster as she glanced in the direction of the sauce ingredients slowly compiling themselves under heat. Don’t burn, don’t burn–just hold it together.

  A cloud of steam as she drained the noodles, a soft plop as the vegetables joined them. She drizzled the sauce over them in the skillet, glancing from the dish before her to the picture in the recipe book. Similar, if not quite the same. A sense of relief stole over her.

  Plunging a fork into one of the peppers, she wound strands of pasta around the tines as she twisted it. Puffing a few breaths on the selected bite before popping it in her mouth.

  “Mmmm,” she said, although there was no one present except herself. “Mmm... that’s not bad. Not exactly the place around the corner, but still...” Her fork plunged deeper, spearing a few onions as chopped peanuts slid across the noodles. Taking another bite, then another, until half the skillet was gone.

  *****

  Cooking gave her confidence; at least that was the mantra she used to soothe her nerves on Wednesday afternoon. Hands trembling as they curled her hair into a cloud of waves and painted lavender eye shadow below.

  Clearly, this mantra wasn’t working.

  “Ready?” Maureen rapped on the bathroom door, then popped it open. Her smile dimmed slightly. “Oh, sweetie...”

  The lighting in the women’s restroom at the Java Box was a glaring florescent glow that somehow made the room feel dimmer than it actually was. Pressed against the sink, peering into the box mirror suspended above it, Abby glimpsed dark circles beneath her eyes, a garish aura around her lipstick.

  “Case of the jitters,” said Abby, forcing a nervous laugh from her throat. The sound of a loud acoustic guitar vibrated in the darkness behind Maureen before she entered and closed the door.

  “Let’s tame this mane a little,” suggested Maureen, pulling a misting bottle from Abby’s shoulder bag. “Use that brown highlighter pencil to define your eyes a little...” As she talked, her fingers were busy parting Abby’s curls.

  “What do you think of the dress?” asked Abby. “Is it too much?” The dress was black, covered in silver embroidery. Slightly punk rocker, but paired with plain boots it seemed tamer than in the boutique where she first tried it on.

  “It looks nice,” answered Maureen. “Very chic. You don’t look like you, of course...”

  “That’s the point,” said Abby, sweeping a thin coat of glittery lip gloss to dampen the maroon shade. “I look like a persona. It goes with the stage name–”

  “To protect the innocent, right?” Maureen slipped the bottle into Abby’s bag again, then squeezed her arm. “Break a leg out there.” With that, she slipped outside again.

  Taking a deep breath, Abby gazed into the mirror, trying to find a hint of courage in her pale reflection. Imagining herself a confident artist facing a crowd of admirers as opposed to potential hecklers.

  The announcer for Coffee House Concert shuffled up to the microphone as a performer clad in leather fringe exited. “Next up, we have the musical stylings of a talented young artist. In her debut performance, let’s give a warm welcome to Abby Gee.”

  Her heart was pounding in her chest, a fist banging on the door in demand to escape. She forced herself to breath, to sling the battered acoustic guitar around herself by its strap. Forcing a smile to her lips as she stepped into the light and approached the lone stool seated before the mike.

  “Good evening, everybody,” she said, adjusting the mike stand to her level as she spoke. The sound of her voice seemed to echo through the microphone. “Um, I’m going to do a couple of songs for you tonight. Starting with ‘I Fall to Pieces’.”

  Nervousness enhanced her senses; her fingers felt every fiber in the guitar strings, the scratched metal of the fret beneath. As her lips parted, she felt the stickiness of the glossy layer that masked her heavy lipstick.

  To her ears, her voice was a quavering recording triggered somewhere in her chest. She felt the acoustic guitar strings reverberating through her frame as she played, her eyes gazing into the darkness with what she hoped was a mysterious, sultry glance. The faceless members of the crowd were merely shapes at tables. She shivered at the memory spiraling somewhere behind the haze of lyrics in her mind, the one of the handsome stranger gazing at her from below.

  When the last note trailed off from her guitar, she expected silence, a chorus of boos and hisses, perhaps, even as the first shower of applause erupted. Her fingers pressed against the strings to stop her hands from trembling visibly, as the pounding in her heart became a responding flutter.

  “Thank you,” she said, leaning towards the mike. “I hope some of you are jazz fans, because my next number is a little piece called ‘Miss Brown’.” She struck the opening chords, surprised by the sound of a few hands clapping over her choice. Perhaps there were jazz fans watching her indeed.

  *****

  “You brought the tickets, right?” Seth asked, his voice sounding slightly anxious as he raised it above the steady hum of voices in the crowded room. He balanced two coffee drinks in his hand, one topped with whipped cream in a fluffy cloud.

  “Of course,” Henry answered. “Right here, courtesy of my contacts in the punk music world.” He patted his inside jacket, where Paul’s ticket envelope was tucked.

  “Just stick it in my front pocket,” said Seth. “I want to surprise her at the table.”

  It occurred to Henry as he obeyed the request that Seth seemed over-eager for these seats compared to gifts for past girlfriends. Usually, Seth was casual with regards to whether his lady love received anything more than a music download gift card or a bouquet of standard roses.

  Sheryl didn’t look like the type easily satisfied with roses. While she was far from the blue-haired musician in his friend’s past, there was something about her that separated her from the likes of Gwenique or the librarian. A tough, breezy confidence exuded from her voice and expression, her leather jacket a sensible cut that outlined firm muscles beneath.

  Seth slid into the seat across from her. “Guess what I got you,” he said, sliding the plain latte in her direction.

  “You got me coffee,” she answered, sarcastically. “Isn
’t that what I ordered?”

  “No, I mean besides that.” Like an eager puppy, Seth pulled the ticket envelope out, brandishing it in front of her. Sheryl’s face betrayed no sign of childish glee or interest; instead, a slight frown of suspicion as she took the envelope.

  “If this is some kind of joke, Seth–” she began, trailing off as she opened it. She glanced up at him with an altered expression, the first trace of a smile Henry had seen since they met.

  “How sweet,” she said. Leaning forward, she kissed Seth on his cheek. “Really, it’s very thoughtful of you. I don’t know what to say.” Seth’s grin broadened into a soppy look, as if he were a teenage girl crushing on a heartthrob. As Sheryl’s hand squeezed his, he drew closer to her, apparently forgetting that Henry had joined them.

  Henry averted his face with a polite grin, listening to the spotlight performer finish an acoustic version of a Van Halen tune. A man in a coffee house t-shirt bounded up from a chair in the darkness to introduce the next performer.

  “Are you a fan of Swedish rock, Henry?” asked Sheryl. He turned towards her, seeing there was space between herself and Seth once again as his friend checked his cell phone messages.

  “Not really,” he answered. “Fortunately, I had a friend of a friend who was.”

  Sheryl laughed. “Well, that makes two of us,” she said. “But my sister is obsessed with them. She has this thing about blondes with guitars, apparently. She and her husband saw this band when he was stationed in Europe once.” She tucked the envelope in the pocket of her leather coat.

  Henry’s brow furrowed. “But you’re–not a fan?” he repeated.

  “No,” Sheryl said. “What made you think I was?” Henry sneaked a glance at Seth, whose expression was proof he was oblivious to the topic at hand.

  “Oh, nothing,” he answered. “Just something Seth mentioned.”

  Sheryl rolled her eyes. “Seth is such an airhead sometimes, isn’t he?” She squeezed her boyfriend’s shoulder playfully; Seth snapped out of his trance long enough to give her another soppy smile. “I think he doesn’t listen to half the things I say.”

  Henry grinned. “That should make for some interesting conversation later on,” he said. His gaze wandered towards the spotlight, where a young woman was now performing. Her voice was soft and husky, an appealing sound somewhere between country and jazz. Her blond curls had a whitish cast beneath the glaring bulb, the outline of her dark dress hidden by a scratched wooden guitar.

  The song was something country, a Patsy Cline number. He recalled the original, slightly less upbeat than this girl’s, which had a playful edge beneath its wistfulness.

  “Seth, has she played at one of the other concerts this year?” he asked, keeping his voice low. Seth glanced away from admiring Sheryl to study the girl onstage.

  “Maybe,” he said. “It’s kind of hard to be sure at this distance. Plus, it’s popular stuff, Dude; not really my field.” He took a sip from his glass, licking away the traces of whipped cream.

  As the song drew to a close, he joined in the applause, watching as the girl leaned forward to speak. Her voice when she talked was as unfamiliar as the singing voice; but there was something about her that drew him. As she struck up the familiar chords of “Miss Brown” he felt a smile tug across his face, a sign that the sound of jazz had grown on him in the past few months.

  “So what do you think of her?” Seth’s whisper was so soft, Henry barely heard it over the music.

  “What do you mean?” Henry answered, his mind on the girl onstage. A slight flush crept up from his collar in response to this question, as if embarrassed that he felt an attraction to a stranger.

  “Sheryl–isn’t she great?” Seth whispered. “I mean ... I haven’t felt this way since...well, ever.” Henry glanced at his friend’s face, reading the sure signs of puppy love there.

  With a sigh, he gave Seth’s shoulder a squeeze. “Sure,” he whispered back. “She’s great.” He glanced at Sheryl, who was watching the performance with interest. Her demeanor was casual, her fingers tapping along with the rhythm of the song. He hoped that buried beneath that placid surface was a deep affection for his friend’s airhead nature.

  The song ended with a flourish, the singer leaning over to murmur something into the microphone that Henry didn’t catch. And then she was gone, disappearing from the spotlight as a man in a faded tuxedo t-shirt took her place.

  “What did she say?” Henry whispered to Seth. He was too late, however, since his friend was already gazing at Sheryl again.

  “Who say?” Seth snapped out of it.

  “The girl onstage–did she say if she was going to perform again?” he asked. Seth’s face registered a twinge of self-guilt, as if realizing his inattentiveness.

  “Sorry, Dude,” he answered. “But hey, I can find out. Maybe even wheedle her real name out of somebody.”

  “No big deal,” Henry answered, trying to sound casual. “She just had a nice voice.” And a definite appeal that he couldn’t explain, nor did he want to. Instead, he concentrated on the next performer, whose version of “I’ll Be There” seemed lackluster.

  *****

  The dizziness in Abby’s head seemed to grow as she walked away from the spotlight. A decided wobbling in her knees that even adrenaline couldn’t erase as it buoyed her towards the darkness and her open guitar case on the other side.

  She felt someone grip her shoulders, smelled Maureen’s bitter perfume. “You did great!” Her friend’s voice was a loud hiss in her ear.

  “Thank you,” Abby whispered. “I don’t know how I feel ... I feel–”

  “Terrific?” suggested Richard. “Terrified? Triumphant?” His low voice held a teasing quality as he helped her disentangle the guitar strap from her neck.

  “Maybe all three,” she whispered back. A grin was stretching across her face as the full force of the moment sank in. She had performed–a live song before a live audience. They had applauded, not just for her arrangement or her choice of music, but for her. Abby the artist, not just Abby the teacher or conductor.

  “Let’s celebrate,” Maureen whispered. “A late-night sundae or burger. Even Thai food.” She drew Abby along towards the exit sign glowing in the dark. Richard was on her other side, carrying the guitar case–for a moment, a wild image of him as her roadie and Maureen her manager popped into her head, forcing her to repress a giggle.

  “Anywhere,” she whispered. “Let’s get out of here before my knees collapse.” The back door swung open, giving her a taste of the cool September night air as they ushered her towards freedom.

  “Think they’ll ask me back?” she said.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When her finger touched the bell on the handlebars, Abby felt a slight thrill at the chime in response. The wind in her hair, the scenes of the park on either side–it wasn’t quite the European cycling tour, but close enough.

  The distance from her apartment to the book club’s favorite bistro was only a few blocks, giving her an excuse to ride there. Her copy of Ethan Frome was tucked in the basket beside a bundle of fall leaves in the form of a bouquet, a gift from Jacqi in class today.

  The club president was crumbling a scone as she made conversation with Russell, the club’s notorious “brain” on the subject of literature. The smoothness of her cheeks was in contrast to the wrinkled, sagging skin visible above her sweater’s neckline.

  “I think she should lay off the surgeries for a little while,” Maureen whispered, as Abby slid into the seat beside her. “Look at her–she’s a poster for Botox and skin tape.”

  Abby loosened the striped scarf wound around her neck. “Are you finished with the book already?” she asked, seeing Maureen’s finger marking one of the last pages of her book copy.

  Maureen grinned guiltily. “No,” she answered, “I’m perusing contraband while we wait. A hidden love letter from Richard.” She flipped open the book to reveal a short note tucked between the pages, a heart drawn in one cor
ner. “Sweet, isn’t he? I always love it when he does something like this.”

  A twinge of jealousy shot through Abby. “It must be nice,” she answered, careful to keep the bitterness out of her voice. The book club president rapped their assembly to order using a miniature gavel from her purse.

  “Now that we’re all here, let’s pick up where we left off last week,” she said, as laughter inspired by the gavel died down. “I’ll let Russell have the first thoughts after those excellent closing remarks last time on Wharton’s literature.”

  Abby suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, her finger opening the book to the midpoint where they left off before. As Russell shared his thoughts, her eye wandered towards a couple seated a few tables away. The young man’s hand was lost in the girl’s dark hair, his eyes locked with hers in an eloquent silence that was palpable even from a distance.

  Afterwards, she picked up the programs one of the art teachers had designed and printed for her students’ upcoming concert. Flipping one open, she scanned the list of songs and student names printed there, her own below as the conductor. Smiling as she imagined her students’ reaction–she had made certain enough were printed off to guarantee each of them a copy of their own.

  The papers fluttered in the basket as she rode along the park’s bike path, admiring the changing foliage on the trees and the brilliant snatches of autumn in everyday items–orange scarves and pumpkin-themed backpacks, the smell of cinnamon from the pretzel vendor.

  Ahead, a solitary woman strolled along with her hands tucked in her coat pockets for warmth. Abby felt a sense of kinship with her, a straight figure moving on her own–until a young man rose from a nearby bench and took her hand, receiving an embrace before they strolled off together.