A Knight to Remember

by Yvonne Lehman

  She was thinking. After a moment she shrugged. “Well, if we do this, it has to be dutch treat.”

  She said if. He jested. “Can you afford it on that minimum wage you complain about?”

  “I could afford bread. But since you don’t have a job, you can bring the water.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “But,” she said, “a lot does depend on where we’d go.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll pick the place and you pick the time. I would like it to be a cool evening.”

  “Weather?”

  “That, too,” he said, and they grinned and bit into the sandwiches. He liked to see the happiness in her eyes, even if she wasn’t canvas material that way.

  Watching her pick away some of her sandwich bread, he liked the closeness of their having formed a bond while working together over the past weeks. Maybe they could progress to the level of being friends.

  But she had not sought him out. He’d happened to be at the base of the tree at a time when she needed to talk and confide as she closed her book on Raymond. That had been a vulnerable moment for her.

  Oh really?

  If she was the vulnerable one, why had it been he who extended a dinner invitation?

  twenty-three

  Jim entrusted more of the office work to Gloria, talked about retiring and limiting himself to resident counseling and teaching Bible studies at the center and church. The daytime RA expressed interest in the directorship. Jim and he were spending a lot of time together. Clara had cut back considerably on her volunteering but still sent her pies and special treats.

  Gloria started going in a little earlier and sometimes had breakfast with Thomas after the men ate. She shared correspondence she received about jobs having been filled as a result of the fair. The landscaper hired two of the residents part-time. After school started for Bobby, Heather could begin working mornings at a hair salon in a Walmart only about fifteen miles away. Helping Clara at Bible school during the summer had given her more confidence.

  Gloria knew job fairs were always successful for many, but she’d been part of this one and felt great about it. She got a slight raise in pay but still not enough to be on her own.

  Some mornings she’d simply go in and say hi to everyone. “Hot this morning,” someone might say. She’d reply, “Dog days of summer.” Sometimes she’d fan her face with her hand. She and Thomas would grin at each other. Neither mentioned the dinner again, but the days were getting cooler.

  “You’re unusually quiet tonight,” Jim said one night at supper.

  “Thomas asked me to have dinner with him,” she said as if he’d asked today instead of weeks ago. “What do you think?”

  He didn’t look surprised. “I think you should say yes or no.”

  She glanced at the ceiling and back at him and said, “That’s a huge help.” Clara shook her head as if he was hopeless.

  “But if you want to know what I think of him,” Jim said, in a serious tone. “I like and respect him.” He nodded. “Very much.”

  Clara added, “I’ve only seen and heard good things about him. I think he’s a fine young man.”

  Gloria felt her face grow warm. Why the glowing recommendations? “It’s only. . .dinner.”

  Jim shrugged. “Right. Some dinners are just dinners. Then there’s. . .soup.”

  “Oh!” Gloria said, and they all began to laugh. “Please, let’s change the subject. Clara, those marigolds and asters are looking great, aren’t they?”

  So one colorful, cool day during the third week in October she walked up to the countertop, looked at Thomas, hugged her arms, and said, “Brrrr.”

  Maybe he forgot. Or it didn’t matter now. After a moment of studying her while she grew warmer, he said, “I thought I might freeze to death before it was cool enough for you. However, the reservations were made weeks ago and the table is waiting.”

  His playfulness had a way of easing tension. “Tomorrow night? Seven?”

  “I’ll pick you up at Jim and Clara’s.”

  In what? Jim’s truck? But that was not for her to question. Even if he walked from the center to Jim’s, and they walked back to the center and ate there, it would be fine. This was his way of saying thank you. This was. . .ridiculous. But it couldn’t lead anywhere. Surely he didn’t think that. And like Jim had said, there were always the words yes or no.

  She chose to wear brown pants, a matching cami, and a quarter-length sleeved, yellow knit, low-cut fitted sweater with a brown belt, layers of gold chains, and a pendant necklace, and dangling gold loop earrings. She was pleased with the sporty but dressy look that would be suitable for about any place they might go. She’d bought the outfit last fall to wear after Raymond returned from a trip. She’d worn it once to church.

  After approving her shoulder-length hair and applying a bright lipstick, she slipped into her wedged sandals. Getting dressed for an evening out felt good. She just hoped she hadn’t overdone it.

  She thought not when Jim opened the door to Thomas. Amazing how nice a bearded man with a ponytail could look. No, nice was how Raymond looked, and he had given her a few lessons in men’s clothing. Thomas looked. . .cool in khaki Chinos and a light and dark brown argyle sweater over a light-colored shirt, maybe ecru or beige, unbuttoned at the neck. She thought they looked pretty good for a minimum-waged woman and an unemployed man.

  She felt like she’d opened up a suspense novel in which the unexpected occurred, and she wondered what might happen next.

  That book became a mystery or maybe a true detective novel when she saw the car. A sports car?

  “Where’d you get this?” she managed to say, after they were inside and he started the engine.

  “From the garage at the hotel.”

  She gasped. He grinned.

  He drove down the street and turned at the end, heading toward the main road. “Do you remember the man who came to the job fair for a couple hours on Saturday but wasn’t listed and that I sent a few job-seekers to him?”

  The one he hadn’t addressed formally and had walked outside with.

  “James?”

  “He’s my brother.”

  So his brother was nearby? This was his brother’s car? Maybe he was staying with his brother. But he’d said he was staying at a hotel. Mystery.

  In no time at all they were right outside Silver City, and he turned into the driveway of what looked like a bed-and-breakfast, or a. . .small hotel. No lights shone from the windows. He drove around to the back where lights glowed from several windows. The car clock registered two minutes before seven.

  “Thomas?” She exited the car and walked up to him. “Is this the empty hotel you mentioned?”

  “It is.” He led her to the back door, moved aside the Closed sign, unlocked it, opened it, and gestured for her to enter.

  “You sure this is all right?” she whispered as if the police or someone might hear.

  “Gloria, did you notice I unlocked the back door with a key?”

  Did he notice that didn’t do much for her uneasiness? At the same time, this was rather intriguing. They walked slowly along the cool hallway, past closed doors. He stopped at a door and faced her. “This hotel has been closed for over three years. But it has been in my family for decades. The last owner was my dad.”

  Had been? Was? It was all too confusing, but his moment of sadness seemed to change abruptly, and he smiled. “Let’s enjoy our dinner, shall we?”

  He opened the door, and she gasped as she walked in. This was a cozy living room. A round table, covered by a white cloth with gold fringe and highlighted by flickering candles in golden holders, sat between two couches and across from a fireplace. The fire danced and licked the wood with delightful sounds and emitted an odor of warmth and wood and coziness on a. . .cool evening.

  This was more than cool. It was wonderful. Better than any restaurant.

  Her glance swept around the room, taking it all in. There were three seating arrangements of a couch an
d two chairs, end tables with lamps, coffee tables, a piano in a corner, and beautiful paintings on the walls.

  Thomas pulled out a chair from the table. She sat. He walked over and sat opposite her. Okay, who needed food in a setting like this? But a middle-aged man in black pants, white shirt, and a towel over his arm came in and set two glasses of water at their places.

  Thomas introduced him as Blackston, a waiter when his dad ran the hotel. Blackston asked how she liked her steak and silently left to fulfill her request. Thomas began to tell her the story of his dad’s success, then his losing so much, including his life.

  “James and I divided up what was left. Although James thought I got the worst end of the deal, I wanted the hotel and grandmother’s soup recipe with the secret ingredient that became the hotel’s trademark.”

  When Blackston appeared again, Thomas said, “Hope you don’t mind I ordered for you.”

  Looking at the meal set before her, she thought she could live with it. “We’ll see,” she teased, loving the smell and looks of it. Blackston set out the appropriate drinks to accompany the meal Thomas described. A light frisée salad with bacon shallot vinaigrette and a filet mignon with garlic frites. After Thomas said a blessing, she began to eat and thought her moan of pleasure reassured him about having ordered for her. It was a perfect meal without featuring large portions that made one feel overstuffed.

  “This may not be the kind of dinner conversation you want.”

  “I’ve wanted to know about you, Thomas, but wasn’t sure I should ask.”

  She listened, fascinated as he told his hopes, his dreams, his failings and successes in every area of his life, his commitment to the Lord, and his having no idea how it all might end.

  He finished his story. So he was one of those starving artist types. She’d often heard that creative people were odd, or at the least. . .eccentric. But having worked in a bookstore, she knew that some wrote very good books.

  Thomas obviously could work at many jobs and make a good living. But it was also clear he’d rather paint, even if it meant he might starve.

  Blackston came in with cappuccino soufflés. Thomas finished his before she did. She wanted to savor the flavor as long as possible.

  “There’s something I want to ask you,” he said. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

  What did he have in mind? Ask if they could see each other in a personal way? Like tonight. She loved this. Her heart beat fast.

  This was a magical night.

  twenty-four

  Thomas returned with a large notebook. “You said you majored in English before changing to business management?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ve written a few things about the homeless. I wondered if you might read what I wrote and give your opinion. If you have time or. . .want to?”

  Gloria took the notebook and settled in a chair facing the fireplace to see the writing better. It was handwritten. Thomas switched on the end table lamp.

  He sat on the nearby couch. She read one, two, three, entries then turned to the first one again. These were short biographies of homeless people: name, age, how the person became homeless. What the person was doing to get out of that situation.

  She flipped through a few others. They were all about the same format, although the stories were different.

  Most had notes stapled to them, telling where the home-less person is now and what they’re doing. Some did not.

  She read one about a night volunteer. He had been homeless, later returned to school in middle age, became a grade-school teacher, retired, and now wanted to identify with and help the homeless.

  She closed the notebook and sat for a moment with her hands folded on the binder, uncertain what to say. Glancing up, she saw the inquisitive look on his face, his questioning eyes. Waiting.

  “These are touching stories. I’ve heard many like this since I’ve been here.”

  “But?” He leaned forward, his forearms on his knees.

  “But. . .” she continued, “when I hear their stories, I see them. I see their expressions, their mannerisms, how they’re dressed. I see their poverty. I see embarrassment or hope or hopelessness.”

  He nodded, understanding. She went on. “Each of these could be turned into an article for a magazine and maybe inspire others to donate time or money. Number two for instance. You say the woman is twenty-three. Her handwritten note says she is now working in a department store and gets her clothes at a discount. She said you wouldn’t know her now. She even got a perm.”

  He grinned like she was telling him something great instead of criticizing. She pressed further. “I’d like to know how she looked when she was homeless. In my mind, I can see her on the floor of a department store in nice clothes and her hair curly. But I don’t see her homeless.”

  “Great analysis,” he said. “Maybe I’m doing what I intend. I don’t want those words”—he pointed at the notebook—“to give the reader a picture of how she looked when she was homeless. I want to know if my factual account could be worded better. You see”—he took a deep breath—“that life—that embarrassment, hope, or hopelessness, and the caring of the volunteers—should be in the paintings. Otherwise. . .”

  She saw the uncertainty in his eyes when he began again.

  “Otherwise, I will have to answer what the past three years were all about.”

  She looked down wondering, would it be embarrassment and hopelessness for him? “May I see them?”

  “Not yet. I don’t want opinions one way or another until the project is finished. It’s almost there. Everything I have inside me, in talent and work, is in those paintings. And I don’t know if they will be good enough. Homeless people aren’t good enough for most people in this world. So can I expect paintings of them to be?”

  Homeless people aren’t good enough. She felt quite warm, and it wasn’t because of the dying fire in the fireplace.

  She was afraid. . .he was right.

  “So. . .what will you do if they’re not good enough?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t dwell on that yet. Just. . .continue until it’s done.”

  There was no reason to linger. Talk about what kind of music or books or movies or activities they liked would seem trivial after an evening of someone sharing his innermost yearnings. The car clock read 9:32 when he returned her to Clara and Jim’s.

  She touched his hand on the wheel before he could reach to switch off the engine. “Don’t get out,” she said. He turned his hand, and she gave it a little squeeze. “Thank you.”

  His expression was warm. “My pleasure.”

  They said good night. She had touched him physically, without worrying about what he might think, what she might think. She got out with the notebook and upon opening the front door heard the car drive away.

  Clara and Jim sat in the living room, each with their reading material. She sat on the couch near Clara. Jim broke the silence. “Is this a little early to be home from a date?”

  She shook her head. “I think I may be a little late.” She wasn’t referring to the evening. How to say it? “Tonight was the most romantic evening I’ve ever spent with anyone.” She told them about the room, the fire, the candlelight, the food, the waiter, having an entire hotel to themselves.

  “And yet,” she said, still feeling the wonder of it, “it wasn’t about romance at all. I began the evening wondering who and what is Thomas. And what is this to me, if anything? But it ended with getting me out of the way, really seeing someone else’s dreams and hopes and purpose. I saw the heart of a homeless person.” She scoffed lightly. “Even if it is self-imposed homelessness.”

  They were just listening, like they’d done when she ranted and raved about Raymond and her job. Then they had given advice and wisdom. Right now they were just. . .looking.

  “I do care about other people and the residents.”

  “We know that,” Clara said.

  “Uncle Jim, you told me they were just people. But I
still saw them first as labels more than people. I’m probably not making any sense.”

  They didn’t say anything, but their expressions, like always, shone full of love and acceptance. “I may be several months late on this, but thank you for offering your home and your love.” She stood. “I accept.”

  Still holding the notebook she went over to each, kissed their cheeks, and told them she loved them. Looking back over her shoulder at the doorway, she saw them gazing at her. Did they think she’d lost her mind?

  Or. . .found her heart?

  twenty-five

  The weather turned cold and windy and rainy the last of October. November winds and rain and fog seemed to beat and hover about Thomas’s studio windows. He hadn’t turned on the gas yet, and the small electric heater left a lot to be desired. But the small royalties Frank sent him had to be dispersed carefully. On foggy days natural light no longer came through the windows, so he had to use electricity.

  There was plenty of firewood in the dry space under the hotel, but he’d finished all the sketching and did his painting in the studio. Sometimes he wondered if what he heard was his bones shaking instead of the wind rattling the windows. Frank and his wife were coming to spend a week with James and Arlene and the children. Thomas wouldn’t have to pack up his paintings and haul them into DC but would get the agent’s approval or disapproval right there in the studio.

  Thomas knew he hadn’t sounded confident when he called and told Frank he’d be ready for him to see his work of three years. Frank hadn’t sounded too excited either. He just said, “We’ll see, Thomas. I hope we can work something out.”

  That was polite. No nepotism involved. Maybe being the man’s son-in-law’s brother got his foot in the door, but it didn’t get his paintings sold.

  He didn’t know how he could have gotten along without Gloria to work on the written part of the project. He’d never been that great with typing, but she was a whiz on the computer, and Jim told her to use any free time on the project. She often worked after hours. He appreciated her more every minute but didn’t have time to think about it.