by Amber Kelly
We make our way to the corner of Main and Liberty, serenaded by the chirp of the snowy tree crickets.
Belle Ciao is a quaint stone-faced building with large, dark mahogany double doors. The sound of romantic instrumental music greets us as we walk into the stunning lobby. The aroma of sweet tomato sauce and garlic wafts through the air, and my mouth starts to water as Foster approaches the hostess station.
“This place is nice. It’s the first time I’ve been in here,” I tell him as the hostess leads us to a candlelit table tucked into a private corner.
“Me too. I’ve wanted to try it, but they aren’t doing takeout yet,” he says as he pulls a chair out for me.
I know what he means without him having to explain further. No one wants to eat in a restaurant alone, and no man wants to get dressed up and go to a romantic place with his guy friends.
“I do a lot of takeout myself these days. That or frozen dinners,” I say as the server fills our water glasses and hands us menus before excusing herself to give us time to look them over.
“I’m not much of a cook. I learned how to make two dishes really well when I was young. My granddad taught me how to make a mean five-alarm chili that will melt the bowl if you don’t eat it quick enough, and my dad taught me how to make beer can chicken. It’s basically just shoving a bunch of spices and an open can of beer into a chicken’s ass and roasting it in the oven for a couple of hours. Oh, and I grill a mean rib eye, too, but I haven’t bought a grill for the silo yet,” he admits.
“I’m impressed.”
“How about you?” he asks.
“I’m a decent cook, and I enjoy baking. Elle’s aunt Doreen and aunt Ria have had us in the kitchen since we were teens, teaching us how to make everything under the sun from scratch. It’s just easier to grab something on the way home than it is to cook for one,” I answer.
“That’s true,” he agrees.
The server returns to take our order. After making our selections, I request a glass of Chianti, and Foster gets a Woodford Reserve on the rocks.
“A bourbon man. Nice. I’m used to the men around here ordering draft beer everywhere we go.”
“I like my draft, but a good meal with a beautiful woman seems like an occasion to splurge,” he says, and I let his compliment pour over me like warm honey.
“Tell me about you,” I request.
We’ve been acquainted all these years, but I don’t know much of his backstory beyond his employment at Stoney Ridge.
“What do you want to know?” he asks.
“Anything. Everything.” I shrug.
“Let’s see. I was born and raised a few miles outside of town. My parents are Cindy and Robert Tomlin; they still live in the same house I grew up in. And you know my brother,” he begins.
“I knew all of that actually. Tell me something I don’t know.”
He thinks for a moment and then decides to open up. “Dad and Mom didn’t have the means to pay for college, and an Army recruiter came to my high school a few weeks before graduation to talk to us about the opportunities that a military career could offer. I thought it sounded like the perfect path. So, when I got out of high school, I joined the Army. I could get on-the-job training, housing, a good salary, learn skills that only the Army could teach me, and get to see the world. Plus, my dad is a veteran. He was drafted and sent to Vietnam before we were born.”
“I bet he was proud of having his son follow in his footsteps,” I say.
“Maybe. Dad’s a man of few words. Anyway, I was only a couple months out of basic training when my unit was deployed to Iraq.”
“Wow, that must have been scary,” I mutter.
“I was too young, cocky, and stupid to be scared. I was excited. I’d never been on a plane before flying to basic, and here I was, about to fly to another country halfway across the world.
“Wendy and I’d met right before I left for training. When I enlisted, she lost her mind; she was so happy. She wanted nothing more than to get married to a military man and told me so. She hoped I’d end up stationed somewhere like Italy or Hawaii. So, we got hitched by the justice of the peace four days before I shipped out. Which meant I got a slight salary hike and Wendy was fully insured with government benefits and a housing allowance while I was gone.”
“How long was that?” I ask.
“Our deployment was for eighteen months, but I only made it fourteen before my convoy ran over an IED. One of my buddies lost his life, and another lost both his legs. I was hit with shrapnel in my side and my leg.”
I gasp. “I had no idea.”
“Yeah, it was rough for a while. They sent me home, and I received a medical discharge. It took a while to heal both physically and mentality. My right leg still gives me trouble sometimes. Nothing bad, just a twinge if I’ve been on it all day or the weather is super cold,” he admits.
“I guess that derailed your plans for Italy.”
“It did. Wendy was devastated, and she wasn’t pleased about being a nurse to me either. She just wasn’t on board for all that being married to a wounded soldier entailed. We hung in there and tried. We both did. But at the end of the day, we hadn’t really known each other that well before we said I do, and once we did get to know each other, we decided that we don’t. Her dream was not to be a ranch hand’s wife in Poplar Falls, and she took every opportunity to remind me of that fact.”
“Sounds miserable,” I say.
“We fought a lot, and we’d work it out, but then we’d fight some more until, eventually, we had to face the fact that we were not each other’s forever.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“At least you figured it out faster than we did. I wasted a lot of years trying to make a square peg fit in a round hole. We’ve actually separated four different times,” he admits.
“Four? Wow, you did hang in there for a long time.”
“I think I kept hoping that if I were patient, I’d get that sweet, happy girl back, the one who wrote me loving letters about how much she missed me and couldn’t wait for us to be together and start our family. At this point, I’m pretty sure that girl never existed, but she kept trying to play the part.”
Sounds to me like she doesn’t want him, but she doesn’t want anyone else to have him either.
“So, you’re sure it’s over for good this time?”
“It’s been over since the beginning, but yes, this last try, I realized that I hadn’t just fallen out of love, but I’d also fallen out of like. I hated going home at night. I watch Myer practically skip out of the ranch every day to get home to Dallas. A man should be in a hurry to get home to see his wife. That’s the kind of marriage I want.”
“Yeah, that was my and Ricky’s problem too. Somewhere along the way he lost the thrill of coming home to me. I think I bored him. He was never interested in anything that I wanted to do, and he’d rather spend all his free time with his buddies than with me. He hated my friends, even though they tried to make him feel welcome. They didn’t care for him, but they never treated him poorly. They accepted him, and he was such a jerk to them. The worst part is, I let him get away with it. I’d just settled, but I wanted so much to make it work.”
“Then, he was a fool. You’re amazing. Your friends are amazing. Any man would be damn lucky to come home to you.”
God, not only is he handsome, but he knows who he is and what he wants. It’s refreshing to talk to a man who isn’t self-centered.
I relax and change the subject, and we chat about everything from our childhoods to our workdays.
After dinner, we share a slice of limoncello cake, which is melt in your mouth delicious, and then he pays the bill and leaves a generous tip for our server.
On our way back to my apartment, we pass Momma’s shop, and I see the glow of the light from the back.
I stop, bring my hands to the glass, and peer in. I can see her seated at the sewing machine, singing as she works.
“Momma is still working away in
there,” I say as I turn back to the sidewalk.
Foster looks down at his wrist. “It’s nearly nine o’clock.”
“I know. But she loves to sew. She does it to relax, like me curling up and reading a book. I’m sure my stepdad is going to be by any minute to coax her home.”
I look back over my shoulder.
“You want to go in, don’t you?” he asks.
I’m still holding the bag with the other half of my pasta and a couple of slices of garlic bread. I bring my eyes to him.
“Yeah, I do. She probably hasn’t had supper yet. I think I’ll keep her company until she’s finished. I mean, if that’s okay with you. I’m not trying to cut our evening short,” I stutter out.
“No, please. I was just going to walk you to your door and say good night. I can do that here.”
He leans in, and I freeze. He lays a sweet kiss on my cheek before he takes a step back.
“Good night, Sonia. I had a nice time tonight. I hope you’ll let me take you out again someday.”
I smile. “I’d like that. Good night,” I reply and pull my shop keys from my bag.
He turns to head to his truck that is parked a block down.
“Hey, Foster,” I call after him.
He stops and twists to look back at me. “Yeah?”
“Thanks for being such a gentleman tonight.”
He smiles. “Well, you’re a lady. You deserve it,” he tells me.
I grin and wave as he climbs into his truck and drives away.
Foster
I’m riding on a high when I wake up on Sunday morning. That is, until I get up to shower and start my day to find there is no hot water.
I stomp down the stairs to flip the coffeepot on, and for some reason, it doesn’t comply. I check the water and make sure it’s plugged in as I press the switch again, but still, nothing.
Great.
I mentally add go to town and purchase new coffeemaker to my to-do list.
I grab a glass from the cabinet, turn on the faucet, and settle for water instead. As I down the clear, cool liquid, I notice that the microwave isn’t lit up.
What the fuck is going on?
I walk over to the light switch on the wall beside the front door and flick it up.
Nothing.
Shit.
I pick up the phone that sits on the end table beside the couch, and the line is dead. So, I go upstairs to retrieve my mobile that is charging by my bed, and it has a ten percent battery. I quickly look up the city’s utility helpline number and call.
After fighting with the stupid recordings, I am finally connected to a person who informs me that my wife called yesterday and had all the utilities at my current address cut off.
I explain that she and I are separated and that she doesn’t live here, nor does she have the authority to have any of the utilities at this location terminated.
The operator apologizes profusely and says that she’ll have someone out to restore my services as soon as possible, but it will most likely be late evening before they can make it out.
I hang up and try to call Wendy, but it only rings once before the screen goes black, and the phone shuts down.
Fuck.
I hurl it across the room, and it crashes into the closet door and falls to the carpet.
I instantly regret the outburst as I walk over and pick it up. The screen has a crack right down the center.
I take a few deep breaths to calm myself down, and then I get dressed, sans shower, and head out the door.
Twenty minutes later, I pull into the driveway of my former home and park beside Wendy’s VW.
I walk up to the porch and knock on the door.
Nothing.
I can see through the front windows that the television is on.
I knock again, harder this time.
“I know you’re home, Wendy. Open the damn door,” I yell.
It swings open a few minutes later. On bare feet, she stalks out onto the porch in her robe, and she looks from left to right.
“What do you want, Foster? You’re going to wake up the neighborhood,” she whisper-shouts.
I hope I do. I hope every single one of her friends hears what a piece of work she really is.
“I woke up to all my utilities shut off. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Should I?” she asks, feigning innocence.
“That’s strange because I contacted the city, and apparently, my wife called and had them disconnected on my behalf. What the fuck, Wendy?”
She folds her arms over her chest, and a wicked grin appears on her lips. “Sounds horrible.”
“Why do you do shit to make me miserable? Why can’t we just be amicable?” I ask.
“You should have thought about being amicable before you had your name taken off our checking account and stopped the automatic deposits,” she hisses.
Since my discharge from the service, I receive a modest VA disability compensation from the Army due to the shrapnel scraps still lodged in my leg. That money is automatically deposited into my account on the third of every month.
“I gave you the house, which I still pay the mortgage on, and we don’t live together anymore. I have to pay for my own shit now. What don’t you understand about that?” I ask.
“So do I. Do you think a job slinging drinks at the bar every other night or washing hair at Janelle’s salon pays enough to keep up with everything around here? News flash: it doesn’t. Especially when I had a twelve-hundred-dollar garage bill dropped in my lap yesterday,” she snaps.
“Then, get a better job. I’ll keep paying the mortgage until the divorce is final, and then I’ll sign the house over to you, free and clear. You can sell it or whatever, but that’s it. Then, I’m done. You’re going to have to learn how to stand on your own two feet,” I tell her.
“Yeah, well, thank you, but that’s not enough. What am I supposed to do, Foster? Starve?” she asks.
“Stop being dramatic. You’re not going to starve. Your car is paid for, and you’re still on my insurance till the end of the year. All you have to cover are utilities and food.”
She huffs. “Sure, bread and water—that’s all a girl needs, right?”
“How long are you going to punish me for not being who you wanted me to be?” I ask.
“Until I feel like you’ve paid for tricking me. I wasted the best years of my life on this marriage, and this is where I end up? Starting over now was not a part of the plan, Foster.”
I sigh.
“What do you want from me? Huh? You want me to move back in—again—just for one of us to leave in six months? We aren’t in love anymore. I don’t know if we ever were. Aren’t you as done with this as I am?” I ask.
“Yes,” she admits.
“Look, starting over wasn’t part of my plan either. But this is where we are. We can either make it hard on each other or we can get along. The choice is yours,” I insist.
Tears start streaming down her face. I haven’t got a clue if they are sad or angry tears. She can do both.
She swipes at her eyes and looks down at the steps. Embarrassed.
Sad tears.
“Give me the bill from Jackie’s,” I say.
She looks up at me. “What?”
“I’ll take care of that for you, but it’s the last time I’m doing it. You’ve got to start taking care of yourself,” I tell her.
“I’m trying,” she insists. “It’s like I’m constantly fighting some demons.”
“You’re not fighting demons. You’re fighting accountability,” I tell her. “And stop being so fucking spiteful,” I add.
She looks away. “Fine. I’m sorry.”
“Now, if you don’t mind, I’d love a cup of coffee while you find that paperwork,” I say as I walk past her and into the house.
“You know where it is,” she calls after me.
Sonia
“Edith, are you ready?” I bellow as I enter the door to Walk
er’s mom’s home.
“Yes, dear. I’ll be out in a minute,” she calls from the back bedroom.
I make my way in and check the cabinet beside the refrigerator. All of her medications are stored there, and I set to filling her weekly pill dispenser so that she doesn’t have to try to read each bottle and figure out her dosage.
When she joins me, she is as pretty as a picture in a light-blue dress and navy shawl.
“Well, don’t you look stunning this morning!” I praise as she sits at the table.
She offers me her hand to prick her finger and check her blood sugar level before I load a syringe and administer her daily insulin dose.
“Your sugar level is so good. I’m very proud of you,” I tell her as I remove my gloves and dispose of the needle.
“I feel good. I’ve had an extra spring in my step all week,” she informs me.
“Do you need a ride to church?” I ask.
I’m never sure if she wants to go or not. Each week is different, depending on how she feels, but judging by her state of dress, I assume today is a church day.
“No, thank you, dear. Mr. Reynolds asked to escort me to services today, and then we are going to have a picnic in the park. I made potato salad,” she says.
Mr. Reynolds is one of her neighbors, and the two have been spending more and more time together. I have a suspicion that he is responsible for that spring in her step.
“That sounds nice,” I encourage.
“Doesn’t it?” She beams.
“I’ll just come back and check on you in the morning, then. You can tell me all about your hot date over coffee.”
I pat her hand and give her a wink, and a slight blush tinges her cheeks.
“And you’ll tell me all about your hot date last night,” she replies.
Edith is the one and only person I told that I was having dinner with Foster last night. I was bursting to tell someone, but I didn’t want my friends or my mother to make more out of it than it was, so yesterday morning, while we were out, doing her shopping, I told her how I was nervous to be going on my first date in years.
“I will,” I agree.
I help her gather her things and walk her over to Mr. Reynolds’s porch before I head back into town.
