Blessed Twice

by Lynn Galli

  “I don’t know how you’ve refrained.” I turned toward Dr. Jackson to see M taking her leave. She froze in place when she spotted us and another visible struggle took place.

  “Briony, Alexa,” Dr. Jackson greeted us. “So good of you to come.”

  “Congratulations on the retirement.” I hugged her.

  “And congratulations on the wonderful job you and M are doing on the venture fund project. You both must be so proud.” I smiled at M, who looked like she wanted the floor to open up and drop her through. “It’s been a delight to work on, I have to admit.” I kept my eyes on Dr. Jackson, rather than look at the main reason the project was such a delight.

  “We’re proud of our girl,” Alexa chimed in, then thankfully remembered her manners and corrected, “our girls. We’ll be the talk of the academic world before these two are through with this first round of ventures.”

  “I should say,” Dr. Jackson agreed. Her fond look at M told me she was acquainted with M’s shy mannerisms.

  “I’ve got to run,” M said, much to my disappointment. “I just wanted to stop by and wish you well in retirement.”

  “Thank you. I plan to live it well.” Dr. Jackson reached to squeeze M’s forearm.

  She stiffened like Dr. Jackson had grasped a sore muscle, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she forced a smile then turned to us.

  “Nice seeing you again, Alexa. See you in class tomorrow, Briony.”

  “That’s an extraordinary one,” Dr. Jackson commented as we watched M’s smooth traverse toward the exit.

  “After only a few weeks in class together, I know how right you are,” I agreed wistfully. Not that I hadn’t recognized it before, but with each shared class or advisory committee, I knew that M Desiderius was rare indeed.

  * * *

  There were about a million other things I could be doing right now. Playing tennis with Alexa, reading a mystery, working out, talking to Caleb at camp, whitewater rafting, banging my head against a low hanging beam, and all would be more pleasant than my sixth blind date. Cripes, Caroline knew a lot of women.

  A lot of women who were so wrong for me.

  This one’s name was Polly, and she worked as a court clerk.

  After her third cup of coffee—I’d learned never to commit to anything that might take more than one course to complete—I could sum up Polly’s personality with one word: drama. Or issues. Or get me the hell out of here, please!

  “And then I was, like, ‘what do you think you’re doing with my stuff, bitch?’ I mean, can you believe she was, like, walking out on me and expected to take the one and only gift she, like, bought me in the entire three months we’d been together? I was, like, ‘you didn’t even pay me rent for three months, you’re not taking my Maroon 5 with you.’ ” Her pretty green eyes stared expectantly at me, asking me to agree.

  Still stuck on some of the other intimate details she’d shared prior to talking about a massive blowout over a piece of plastic that costs twelve dollars, I merely nodded then shook my head. I didn’t know if she expected me to say, “Yes, I completely agree, even though you’re a loon,” or “No, that’s just awful, especially since there’s no way you could ever replace such a priceless item.

  Unless, of course, you walked into any music store, or better yet, downloaded the songs so no one could walk out of your life with her love and your CDs.”

  “You’re so easy to talk to,” she jabbered on after I’d apparently given the appropriate response. “I can’t believe Caroline never introduced us before. I’m having so much fun.” Yeah, because drinking coffee was a riot a minute. I really had to come up with some way to make Caroline stop.

  “So, like, what’s your story?” She paused long enough to make me think she actually wanted an answer.

  Well, I’ve never used the word “like” as a verbal pause; I’ve never moved in with someone after only one night together; and I’ve never considered a CD worth the effort of an argument. Oh, and I now deem dating a soul draining experience.

  “Wait, let me guess. I’m, like, really good at this.” She pressed her lips into a thin line and jutted her chin. “Your last girlfriend wasn’t smart enough for you, so you, like, tossed her aside for one of the grad student honeys?”

  The sip of coffee I’d just taken fought to break free. I concentrated on breathing through my nose and finishing the swallow. Grad student? Puh-leeze!

  “What happened? Get caught having a ‘study break’ in your office?” She winked and nudged my forearm. “Doesn’t matter, I’m just glad you’re, like, available now.” Why was that again? Oh yes, I’d stupidly allowed my friend to get away with thinking she could do this to me. Then again, it was my dim-witted idea to imagine dating would go anything like it had with Megan or Jessie. The fact that I’d met Meg during an intern program at a company where she worked as the receptionist and had gotten acquainted with Jessie at her club before our first date probably had something to do with it. Well, several dates down and the only thing that didn’t annoy me was that I now had the answer to the question I’d posed before. Yes, dating really was like this now.

  “Briony?”

  I looked up and felt my stomach plunge as swiftly as if I’d been pushed out of an airplane. M stood beside my table, iced coffee in hand on her way out. She was in casual clothes, showing a hint of midriff at the hem of her shirt, the start of envious calves under her capri pants, and just the barest promise of cleavage beneath the v-neck collar.

  “Hi there, M.” I hoped she caught the relief in my tone.

  Wow, she looked good. No makeup today and her hair was a little more chaotically styled but wickedly attractive. Beyond, actually, more like hot. Yes, hot suited her just fine. Why wasn’t I on a date with her? Oh, crap, Polly. “This is Polly. Polly, my friend and colleague, M.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Polly narrowed her eyes.

  “Pleasure,” M responded, glancing at the door but returning her gaze to me. My heart started thumping when I realized she didn’t want to leave right away.

  Polly must have picked up on it, too, because the next thing I knew, she was telling M, “We’d invite you to join us, but we’re on a date.” She reached out to squeeze my hand like the contact would prove we were on a date.

  I wasn’t sure who cringed more, me at the idea that this could really be counted as a date or M at the rude dismissal she’d been issued. My eyes snapped up to M’s in apology. Before I realized what I was doing, I made the ASL sign for “help” which I’d learned from Hank along with several other words that might come in handy for when the boys spent time together. This was the first time I’d ever used it, and I never imagined I’d be using it for evil instead of good.

  “Pardon the intrusion, but I thought we said three o’clock?” M asked with the perfect amount of urgency and innocence. “I grabbed a table up by the windows and left all the lecture notes and draft business plans there. It’s a few hours of work and I’ve got plans tonight, but if you need a little more time, I understand.”

  “Is it three o’clock already?” I tilted my wrist to check the time on my watch. “Gosh, I’m sorry, Polly. I didn’t mention this work thing because I never thought we’d still be here. You just made the time fly by.” Two hours that I’ll never, ever get back.

  She beamed at my compliment but disappointment peeked through. She shifted her gaze between M’s nonthreatening stance and me. “I understand if it’s a work thing. Caroline said you were a bit of a workaholic, but we can fix that.” I stood, irked that Caroline characterized me that way to a blind date but relieved to find this over with. “This was nice,” I lied.

  Polly started around to my side of the table. “I had a great time. Let’s do this again soon.” She made a move to hug me as I was holding up my hand to shake. We did that awkward hug, shake, hug, shake thing that seemed to never end but finally did.

  When her mouth descended toward mine, I turned away at the last moment, pretending to reach for a cheek kiss of
my own. It was either that or let her kiss me, and I couldn’t do that. Not only because I didn’t want to, but M was still standing there. Farther away since Polly had stood up but still there.

  Finally, the sixth date on my path through hell was over. Polly banged through the coffee house doors with all the drama she’d expressed during her diatribe. I let the tension I’d been feeling for the last two hours drain away. “Thank you for saving me.”

  “Not a good date?” M asked, reluctance drifting into her tone.

  “Not a good setup. I’m starting to wonder if the friend who keeps doing this to me knows me at all.” A smile cut across her face. “Well, I’m glad I could help.”

  “That’s twice now that you’ve been my savior. I’ll have to return the favor some time.”

  “Think nothing of it.” She said it like she believed it when I was considering erecting a lifelike shrine of her and lighting a candle every night. Her eyes darted to the exit as her customary introversion returned. “It was nice running into you.”

  “Tell me about those plans you mentioned,” I blurted, but only because I knew how quickly she could scram.

  “I lied,” she admitted with a shy smile. “I figured if I didn’t give a limited window of time, she might think she could get us to postpone our work meeting.”

  Strangely, I felt more relief hearing this than getting out of my date with Polly. “So, you’ve got nothing going?”

  “No.”

  “You do now.” I stepped toward her with a smile.

  Chapter 18

  Now, this was how you spent a Saturday. Like our day at the amusement park, it flew by effortlessly. She was game for anything, a true adventurous spirit, my favorite kind. We’d started walking around town at first, hitting an art festival, then contemplated joining a volleyball game at the park, going up in one of the festival’s hot air balloons, taking our bikes out for a ride, or rollerblading. Instead, we ended up continuing our walk, taking our time with each art display, watching the volleyball game, then making plans for a bike ride and rollerblading some other time. We finished the day having dinner together out on a bistro terrace, watching the waning summer sunset.

  “Thanks again for saving me from that catastrophe,” I said as we walked back to the scene of the crime, or crime of a date, I should say.

  Her gaze flickered downward before meeting mine. “It didn’t look like you were having that bad of a time.”

  “I’ve learned to grin and bear it. My friend, well, friends, seem to think it’s time for me to start dating again.” A long moment passed before she inquired, “After?”

  “After a year, which is actually three plus years,” I admitted and watched her brow knit at my cryptic response. “A year ago, I decided it was time to get over Megan, or try, at least. I’d met Jessie at her club and got to know her a bit. She’s a great person in addition to being gorgeous, and I figured if anyone could make me want…well, she’d be the one.”

  “Did she?”

  Somehow I knew she wasn’t asking if we’d slept together. She was asking if dating Jessie had gotten me to stop considering myself a married woman and stop thinking about what Meg and I would do over the upcoming weekend. “No, which is why I’ve been pestered relentlessly ever since. They think that I’m still hung up on Jessie, so they’re encouraging me elsewhere. I get the impression that they’ve had some practice with that in the past.” She studied me, understanding making her gaze sharper.

  “None of them figured out what was really going on?”

  “Jessie did. She told her partner and, I think, Quinn, but the rest of the group just thinks I’m odd or busy or too involved with Caleb to start dating again. They lifted the moratorium recently, though, so…”

  “Pleasant time with Polly?” M joked, a sly smile enlivening her expression.

  “So pleasant,” I agreed dryly. “What about you?” I watched her step back and wave a hand through the air, shaking her head.

  Apparently, she thought that was a response. I could tell she didn’t want to answer, but I was too curious and it was suddenly vital to know. I waited her out as we came to a stop on the sidewalk.

  “Well, this is me.” She gestured at the building behind her.

  “You live here?”

  “Yeah, it’s nice enough.” She shrugged like she was embarrassed.

  “Beautiful building. Is it as authentic inside as it is out here?” It was the same style as so many others in the historic district, probably Colonial or Federal if I remembered what I’d learned on the tour when I first arrived in town.

  “It’s truly grand.” Her eyes lit up. From our discussions earlier today, I knew architecture was a passion of hers. “It has features only found in buildings from the eighteen hundreds. It’s one of the reasons I chose the apartment.” She turned and looked up at the façade and back to me. “You could come up and take a look if you have time—if, if you wanted.”

  “Yes, I’d love to see inside.” I wanted to quell her sudden insecurity.

  On our way up to her apartment, she confirmed for me that it was a Colonial Revival then pointed out some of the unusual details in molding, arches, and on the banister of the wide stairwell. Course marble from over a century of foot treads exaggerated the sound of our footsteps.

  Once we’d reached her floor, we passed two men coming out of an apartment. They smiled in an obvious manner and checked us out as we crossed paths. While I did nothing to encourage their leers, M acted as if she had no idea they were paying attention to us. Not until we reached her door where she hesitated before unlocking it. Tilting her head just enough to watch the men out of her periphery, she waited until they finally turned and headed to the elevator. Only then did she unlock the door.

  “This is amazing. Are all the apartments like this?” I tried to take in all the details at once while she stopped to disarm the security system. Two marble columns reached up to the ornate tin tiles on the high ceilings, marking the separation from her living room to the kitchen. A wrap around counter delineated the kitchen from a dining area that was eclipsed by the large twelve-pane windows overlooking historic downtown Charlottesville.

  Original oak planks, not the snap together kind from the modern home improvement stores, butted up against elaborate floor molding. The building could be a museum on its own.

  “I’ve only been in the manager’s apartment. It wasn’t laid out the same, but it had a lot of the same details. It was once a mansion that they’ve turned into apartments.” She’d turned back from the security panel but hadn’t moved farther inside.

  As I waited for her to warm up to the idea of joining me, I started noticing her furniture and art. Where I’d been taken with the architectural details before, the complete absence of color now overwhelmed me. Antique white to match the marble columns washed every wall and a few pieces of furniture. The rest was black. The artwork consisted of black and white landscapes or architectural photographs, stunning in their starkness.

  Sparsely furnished throughout, only the bookcases partially covering two walls were cluttered. Books of all types and shapes lined the shelves, stacked both ways not for artistic style but because she had so many. I couldn’t help but smile looking at them. My own would look the same if Megan hadn’t set a limit. I couldn’t blame her, but I’d always hated those two Saturdays a year when she would make me go through the shelves and donate those books I wouldn’t reread or reference later.

  “M?” I spoke to the bookcases in front of me. “I can leave if you want.” I looked over to take in her stance by the door. She hadn’t moved, clearly reconsidering her invitation. “I’ll leave. The place is great, thanks for showing it to me.” I started back toward the door.

  A hand shot up in front of her body, trying to hold me in place from five feet away. “I apologize. I’m not used to having guests. Would you like some coffee?” She moved past me and into the kitchen. “Please, have a seat.”

  Relieved to find that she now felt comfortab
le enough to enter her own apartment, I headed over to the leather couch and plunked down on the comfy cushions. Directly in front, I noticed that the fireplace mantle was bare. I thought about the family photos on mine and twisted my head to see if I could spot them someplace else. Nope, not a single one, no college friends raising drinks after finals, no work friends huddled around a cubicle, no young M clutching a too fat cat, nothing personal at all.

  “Where did you go to high school?”

  M stopped on her way back from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee. She furrowed her brow at the seemingly off the wall question. “Are you asking if I’m from here?”

  “Okay.” I hadn’t been, but whatever she wanted to give me.

  Our conversations thus far had been rather lopsided. She was very adept at pulling info from me while avoiding adding anything too personal of her own.

  “I’m not.” She set my mug on a coaster, and rather than take a seat next to me on the couch, she sat in one of the chairs perpendicular to it.

  “And you’re from?”

  “A few different places.” The clipped response was so different from how she’d spoken all day, not to mention how well we’d interacted while working together. We were back to the tug of war over getting anything out of her. Before I could respond, she continued, “Caleb told me he moved here from Vermont, is that where you’re from originally?”

  “Born and raised, but I went away to college and my first teaching positions were at UConn then Harvard.” I let a few beats pass before I speared her with my gaze. “Which different places?”

  “Around Illinois.”

  “Your nun,” I paused before asking the question I wanted to ask. “What’s her name?”

  “Kathryn.” The admission sounded reverent, giving me the impression that she’d called Kathryn by her name rather than Mom. I wondered whose choice that was but wouldn’t ask. Yet.

  Getting back to my original hope of finding out why she’d grown up in more than one place, I asked, “Kathryn had to move a few times for her job or something?” M turned an impassive face toward the fireplace. “She passed away when I was nine.”