Bygones

  “So . . .” Keith said, fixing his stare on Bess. He wore glasses thick enough to magnify his eyes. His face was round, his sandy hair thinning, allowing the tree lights to reflect from his skull between the strands. “I've been waiting all evening for you to mention Michael.”

  “Why?”

  “Isn't it obvious?”

  “No, it's not. Why should I mention Michael?”

  “Well, you've been seeing him lately, haven't you?”

  “I've seen him three times but not in the way you infer.”

  “Three times?”

  “I hardly thought I'd get through Lisa's wedding without seeing him.”

  “The night Lisa set you up, and the night of the dinner at the in-laws.” Keith ticked them off on his fingers. “When was the third time?”

  “Keith, I don't appreciate being grilled like this.”

  “Can you blame me? This is the first time I've seen you since he came back on the scene.”

  Bess pressed a hand to her chest. “I divorced the man, are you forgetting?”

  Keith took a sip of wine, lowered the glass and remarked, “You're the one who seems to be forgetting. I'm still waiting to hear about the third time you saw him.”

  “If I tell you, will you stop haranguing me?”

  He stared at her awhile before nodding stiffly and picking up his spoon.

  “I went to see his condo. I'm going to decorate it for him. Now could we just finish our spumoni and go?”

  With his spoon poised over his ice cream, Keith asked, “Are you coming over tonight?”

  Bess felt him watching her minutely. She ate some spumoni, met his eyes and replied, “I don't think so.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a lot of work to do at home tomorrow. I want to get up early for church. And something's come up with Randy that's on my mind. I think I should be there tonight.”

  “You put everything and everybody else before me.”

  “I'm sorry, Keith, but I . . .”

  “Your kids, your work, your ex-husband, they all come before me.”

  She said gently, “You demand a lot.”

  He leaned closer to her and whispered fiercely, “I'm sleeping with you, don't I have a right?”

  He was so close she could detect the subtle color shadings in his green-brown eyes. She found herself unmoved by his resentment, grown very tired of fighting this fight. “No. I'm sorry, but no.”

  He pulled back and his lips thinned.

  “I've asked you so many times to marry me.”

  “I've been married, Keith, and I never want to go through that again.”

  “Then why do you keep seeing me?”

  She considered carefully before answering. “I thought we were friends.”

  “And if that's not enough for me?”

  “You'll have to decide.”

  His spumoni had melted into a sickly green puddle. He pushed it aside, took a deep breath and said, “I think we'd better go.”

  They rose and left the restaurant politely. At the coat check, he held her coat. At the entry, he held the door. At his car, he unlocked the passenger door and waited while she got in. Inside his car they buckled their seat belts and headed for his place in silence. She had left her car parked at the foot of his driveway. He passed it and stopped before the garage door, which he got out to open. When he'd pulled inside, when the headlights were off and the engine silenced, Bess unsnapped her seat belt but neither of them moved. The beam from the streetlight stopped short of the car, leaving them in blackness. Beneath the hood the engine ticked as it cooled. The absence of warmth from the heater chilled Bess's legs. The absence of warmth in her heart chilled much more.

  She turned to Keith and laid her hand on the seat between them. “Keith, I think maybe we should break it off.”

  “No!” he cried. “I knew this was coming but it's not what I want. Please, Bess . . .” He took her in his arms. Hampered by their heavy winter outerwear, the embrace was bulky. “. . . You've never given us a real chance. You've always held yourself aloof from me. Maybe it's something I've done and if it is I'll try to change. We could work things out, we could have a nice life together, I just know we could. Please, Bess . . .”

  He kissed her heavily, wetting her mouth and spreading the taste of wine into it. She found herself slightly revolted and eager to be away from him. He released her mouth but held her head in both hands with his forehead against hers. “Please, Bess,” he whispered. “We've been together for three years. I'm forty-four years old and I don't want to start looking for someone else.”

  “Keith, stop it.”

  “No . . . please, don't go. Please come inside. Come to bed with me . . . Bess, please.”

  “Keith, don't you see? We're a convenience for each other.”

  “No. I love you. I want to marry you.”

  “I can't marry you, Keith.”

  “Why? Why can't you?”

  She had no desire to hurt him further. “Please don't make me say it.”

  As he grew desperate his voice became pleading. “I know why, I've known all along, but I can make you love me if you just give me the chance. I'll be anything you want . . . anything, if only you won't leave me.”

  “Keith, stop it! You're abasing yourself.”

  “I don't care. I'll even abase myself for you.”

  “But I don't want you to. You have a lot to offer a woman. I'm just not the right one.”

  “Bess, please . . .” He tried to kiss her again, groping for her breast.

  “Keith, stop it. . . .” Their struggle became ferocious and she shoved him back, hard. “Stop it!”

  His head struck the window. Their breathing beat heavily in the confined space.

  “Bess, I'm sorry.”

  She grabbed her purse and opened her door.

  “Bess!” he pleaded, “I said I'm sorry.”

  “I have to go,” she said, scrambling from the car with her heart clubbing and her limbs trembling, welcoming the rush of cold air and the sight of her own car in the nearby shadows. She hurried toward it, running the last several yards after she heard his car door opening.

  “Bess, wait! I'd never hurt you, Bess!” he called. Her car door cut off his last word as she slammed and locked it, then rummaged in her purse for her keys. The sound of all four automatic locks clacking down should have calmed her but she found herself shuddering and digging frantically, then peeling out of his driveway in reverse.

  A quarter mile up the street she realized her hands were gripping the wheel, her back was rigid and tears were running down her cheeks.

  She pulled to the curb, dropped her forehead to the steering wheel and waited for the tears and shakes to dissolve.

  What had happened to her back there? She knew full well Keith would not hurt her, yet her revulsion and fear had been genuine. Was he right? Did his being her lover give him the right to expect more from her? She had always held herself aloof from him: this much was true. Her children had often come first, and she had frequently put him off in favor of business that could have been delayed.

  Furthermore, she was beginning to suspect perhaps Michael did play a part in her rather sudden severing of ties with Keith. He had been the one calling out apologies as she'd run away, but perhaps it was she who owed them.

  * * *

  She thought of Michael too much during the week that followed. While she leafed through wallpaper and furniture catalogs she pictured his empty rooms and recalled their voices echoing off the white ceramic tiles of the empty kitchen. She saw his damp towel, his toothbrush, his mattresses on the floor—most often his mattresses on the floor. Though she was divorced from him it was impossible to divorce herself from the knowledge of him, and sometimes she pictured him moving about the rooms, in intimate disarray, the kind only a wife or lover can know, or in an equally intimate freshly dressed state, with his skin still flushed from a shave and his lips still shiny from the shower. She saw him in a suit with his tie in a W
indsor knot, still in his stocking feet, picking up his change, money clip and flat, flat billfold that held little more than his driver's license and two credit cards (he hated bulging out his rear pocket). And last, before he donned his shoes, she saw him opening the penknife he always carried, standing in the bedroom beside the dresser and cleaning his fingernails. He did it every morning without fail; in all the years she'd known him she'd rarely seen him with dirt beneath his nails. It was part of the reason she so loved his hands.

  She unconscionably worked on Michael's designs before seven others that had been in her files longer. She knew things he liked: long davenports a man could stretch out on, chairs with thick arms and matching ottomons, the USA Today with his breakfast, fires at suppertime, schefflera plants, things with rounded corners rather than squared, real leather, diffused lighting.

  She knew things he disliked: scatter rugs, doilies, hanging plants, clutter, busy florals, the colors yellow and orange, twelve-foot telephone cords that got stretched out and testy, television playing at mealtimes.

  It was hard to remember a job she'd enjoyed more or had designed with as much confidence. How ironic that she knew his tastes better now than she had when planning the house in which the two of them had lived together. Having carte blanche with his budget didn't hurt, either.

  She called him on Thursday.

  “Hi, Michael, it's Bess. I've got your design all worked up and wondered when you can come to the store and go over it with me.”

  “When would you like?”

  “As I said before, I try to make the appointments at the end of the day so that we won't be interrupted. How's five o'clock tomorrow?”

  “Fine. I'll be there.”

  The following day, a Friday, she went home at 3:30, washed her face, put on fresh makeup, touched up her hair, changed into a freshly pressed suit and returned to the store in time to lay out the materials for her presentation and dismiss Heather with ten minutes to spare.

  When Michael came in the window lamps were lit, the place smelled like fresh coffee and at the rear of the store around the grouping of wicker furniture, the materials for Bess's presentation stood at the ready, fabrics draped, wallpaper books standing; textures, colors and photographs overlapped.

  She heard the door open and he came in bringing the smell of winter and the sound of the five o'clock traffic moving on the street behind him. When the door sealed it off Bess went forward, smiling.

  “Hello, Michael, how are you? I'll lock that now and turn over the sign.” She had to shinny past him in the limited space between her floor stock. The profusion of tables, baskets and glassware filled up all but the most meager traffic paths. She locked the door, reversed the OPEN sign and turned to find him perusing the walls, which were hung with framed prints and wall decor clear up to the blue iris border strip just below the cove molding. He turned her way, still looking up, unbuttoning his coat and blocking the aisle. The store seemed suddenly crowded with his presence, its proportions so much better suited to women.

  “You've done a lot with this place,” he said.

  “It's crowded, and the loft is unbearable in the summer, but when I think of getting rid of it I always seem to get nostalgic and change my mind. Something keeps me here.”

  His eyes stopped when they reached her and she became aware that he, too, had freshly groomed for this meeting: she could tell by the absence of four-o'clock shadow and the faint scent of British Sterling.

  “May I take your coat?”

  It was gray wool and heavy in her hands when he shrugged it off along with a soft plaid scarf. She had to say excuse me to get around him once more. Hanging the coat on the back of the basement door, she caught a whiff of scent from it, not simply a bottled scent but a combination of cosmetics and fresh air and his car and himself—one of those olfactory legacies a man leaves on a woman's memory.

  She drew a deep breath and turned to conduct business. “I've got everything laid out here at the back of the store,” she said, leading the way to the wicker seats. “May I get you a cup of coffee?”

  “Sounds good. It's cold out there.”

  He waited, standing before the settee, until she set the cup and saucer on the coffee table and took an armchair to his right.

  “Thanks,” he said, freeing a button on his suit jacket as he sat. The furniture was low and his knees stuck up like a cricket's. He took a sip of coffee while she opened a manila folder and extracted the scale drawings of his rooms.

  “We'll start with the living/dining room. Let me show you the wallpaper first so you can be picturing it as a backdrop for the furnishings as I describe them.” Surrounded by samples, she presented his living room the way she envisioned it—subtle wallpaper of cream, mauve and gray; vertical blinds; upholstered grouping facing the fireplace; smoked-glass tables; potted plants.

  “I seem to remember you liked our schefflera plant and watered it when I forgot to, so I thought it was safe to plan live plants into your furniturescape.”

  She glanced at him and found him considering the collected samples. He shifted his regard to her and said, “I think I like it. Actually, I like the sound of everything so far.”

  She smiled and went on, laying out her suggestions.

  For the formal dining area a smoked-glass Swaim table on a brass base, surrounded by fully upholstered chairs.

  For the foyer, a large mirror sculpture above a sassy Jay Spectre console table, flanked by a pair of elegant LaBarge side chairs upholstered in tapestry.

  For the gallery, mirrored walls and a single faux pedestal directly beneath the chandelier, highlighting the sculpture of his choice.

  A desk, chair, credenza, feather lamp and bookshelves for his drafting room.

  For the guest bedroom, an art deco bed and dresser in cream lacquer, and a heavier concentration of lavender in the fabrics.

  For the master bedroom, art deco once again—a three-piece suite in black lacquer from Formations, along with torchères and an upholstered chair. She suggested that the bedspread, wallpaper and vertical blinds all match.

  She'd saved the coup d'état for last. For the family room, sumptuous Natuzzi Italian leather on a loose-cushioned sofa of cream that stretched out into forever and turned two corners before it got there.

  “Italian leather is the finest money can buy, and Natuzzi is the best in the industry,” she told him. “It's expensive but worth it, and since you gave me carte blanche on the budget, I thought you might enjoy the sheer luxury.”

  “Mm, I would.” Michael studied the colored brochure of the curved sofa. She recognized the look of covetousness on his face.

  “Exactly how much is ‘expensive'?”

  “I'll tell you later but for now submerge yourself in fantasy. The sticker shock will come at the end of the presentation, so if you don't mind waiting . . .”

  “All right, whatever you say.”

  “The sofa is available in cream or black, and either color would fit but I thought we'd go with cream in the family room. Besides, black shows dust. Here, let me show you the entertainment unit I think would be really wonderful.”

  It was double wide and could be completely closed to reveal a solid, sleek surface of whitewashed oak.

  “Whitewashing is being used a lot. It's rich yet casual, and I've repeated it in this ice-cream table and bentwood chairs for the adjacent informal eating area.”

  There were more wallpapers, fabric samples, wood swatches and photographs to be considered, as well as furniture layout. By the time she'd covered the highlights it was 7:30 and she'd lost his eye contact and could see that he was suffering data saturation.

  “I know I've given you a lot to consider but believe it or not, there's still more. We've barely touched on the accent pieces—floor urns, wall decor, lamps and smaller case goods, but I think we've covered enough tonight. Most people do a room at a time. Doing an entire home is Olympian.”

  He leaned back, flexed his shoulders and sighed.

  She la
id a paper-clipped sheaf of papers on the table before him.

  “Here's the bad news you've been waiting for. A breakdown, room-by-room and item-by-item with an allowance for additional small decor, which I'll select as I go—always with your approval, of course. The grand total is $76,300.”

  Michael looked as if he'd been poleaxed. “Holy old nuts!”

  Bess threw back her head and laughed.

  “You think it's funny!” He scowled.

  “I haven't heard that expression in years. You're the only one I ever knew who said it.”

  Michael ran a hand over his hair and puffed out his cheeks. “Seventy-six thousand . . . Crimeny, Bess, I said I trusted you.”

  “That's including the Natuzzi sofa, which by itself is eight thousand, and a custom-made five-by-seven rug for in front of the living-room fireplace. We could drop those two items and save you almost ten thousand. Also the mirrored walls in the gallery are fifteen hundred. I went with some pretty classy designers, too—Jay Spectre, LaBarge, Henredon—these are makers who set standards in the industry.”

  “And how much am I paying you?”

  “It's all there.” She pointed at the sheaf of papers. “A straight ten percent. Most independents will charge you the wholesale price plus ten percent freight, and seventy-five dollars an hour for their design and consultation time. And believe me, those hours can mount up. It's also important to realize that the term ‘wholesale price' is arbitrary, since they can say it's whatever they want it to be. My price includes freight and delivery, and my one-time trip charge, you'll remember, was only forty dollars, which I'll apply toward the cost of the job if you decide to go with me. You're welcome to compare, if you wish.”

  She sat back, collected, with her eyes leveled on Michael while he looked over the list. He studied it in detail, only the rustle of the turning pages marking the passing minutes. She rose, refilled his coffee cup and returned to her chair, crossing her legs and waiting in silence until he finished reading and closed the sheets.

  “The price of furniture has gone up, hasn't it?” he asked.