“Yes, it has. But so has your own social status. You own your own firm now, you're very successful. It's only right that your home should reflect that success. I should think that in time you'll have more and more clients into your home. Decorated as I've suggested, it will make a strong statement about you.”
He studied her without blinking until she wanted to look away but resisted. The light from the floor lamp on his far side put a luster of silver on the hair above his left ear. It painted his cheek gold and put a shadow in the relaxed smile line connecting his nose and mouth. He was an unnervingly handsome man, so handsome, in fact, that she had associated that handsomeness with unfaithfulness, so had intentionally chosen an unhandsome one in Keith. She realized that now.
“How much did you say that leather sofa's going to cost?”
“Eight thousand.”
He considered awhile longer. “How long before I get this stuff?”
“The standard wait for custom orders is twelve weeks. Natuzzi takes sixteen because it's shipped directly from Italy and it comes over by boat, which takes four weeks by itself. I'll be frank with you and admit there's been some trouble over there lately with dock strikes, which could delay it even longer. But on the brighter side, sometimes we call the manufacturer and find out they have a piece already made up in the fabric we want and out it comes in six weeks. But figure twelve, on the average.”
“And what about guarantees?”
“Against defects and workmanship? We're dealing with quality names here, not flea-market peddlers. They stand behind everything, and if they don't, I do.”
“And what about the wallpaper and curtains? How long do I have to wait for them?”
“I'll place an order with the workroom immediately, and window treatments should be installed within six weeks. Wallpaper, much sooner. It's possible I could have paper hangers in here within two weeks, depending on their work schedule and the paper availability.”
“You take care of all that?”
“Absolutely. I have several paper hangers who do my work. I contract them directly, so you never have to do any of that. All you have to do is make arrangements to have the door unlocked when they come to do the job.”
Her estimate still lay on his lap. He glanced at the top sheet and his lower lip protruded.
She said, “I should warn you, I'll be in and out of your place a lot. I make it a point to check the wallpapering immediately after it's done, and I also accompany my installers when they come to put up window treatments. If there's something wrong, I want to find it myself instead of having you find it later. I also come out to see the furniture on site once it's been delivered, to make sure the color match is right. Do you have any problem with that?”
“No.”
Bess began gathering up the floor plans and putting them into the manila folder. “It's a lot of money, Michael, there's no question about that. But any interior designer you hire is going to cost a lot, and I think I have one advantage any other wouldn't have. I know you better.”
Their gazes met as she sat forward in her chair, with a stack of things on her knees, steadying them with both hands.
“You're probably right,” he conceded.
“I know I'm right. The way you've always loved leather, you'll go crazy over that Italian sofa, and the rich rug in front of the fireplace, and the mirrors in the gallery. You'd love it all.”
So would you, he thought, because he knew her well, too, knew these were colors, styles and designs she liked. For a moment he indulged in the fantasy that she had planned the place for both of them, as she had once before.
“May I have a while to think about it?”
“Of course.”
She stood and he did likewise, while she bent to collect his cup and saucer.
Michael checked his watch.
“It's almost eight o'clock and I'm starved. How about you?”
“Haven't you heard my stomach growling?”
“Would you want to . . .” He cut himself off and weighed the invitation before issuing it in full. “Would you want to grab a bite with me?”
She could have said no, she should put away all these books and samples, but in truth she'd need them for ordering if he decided to sign with her. She could have said she'd better get home to Randy, but at eight o'clock on a Friday night Randy would be anywhere but at home. She could have simply used good judgment and said no, without qualifying it. But the truth was she enjoyed his company and wouldn't mind spending another hour or so in it.
“We could go to the Freight House,” she suggested.
He smiled. “They still make that dynamite seafood chowder?”
She smiled. “Absolutely.”
“Then let's go.”
She locked up and they left the Blue Iris with the lamps softly illuminating the window display. Outside the wind was biting, swaying the streetlights on their posts, whipping the electrical wires like jump ropes.
“Should we drive?” he asked.
“Parking is always horrendous there on weekends. We might as well walk, if you don't mind.”
It was only two blocks but the wind bulldozed them from behind, sending their coattails skipping and Bess hotfooting it to keep from toppling on her face in her high-heeled pumps.
Michael took her elbow and held it hard against his ribs while they hurried along with their shoulders hunched. They crossed Main Street against a red light and as they turned onto Water Street the wind shifted and eddied as it stole between the buildings and formed whirlpools.
His hand and his ribs felt both familiar and welcome against her elbow.
The Freight House was exactly what its name implied, a red-brick relic from the past, facing the river and the railroad tracks, backing against Water Street with six wagon-high, arch-top doors through which freight had been loaded and unloaded in the days when both rail and river commerce flourished. Inside, high, wide windows and doors faced the river and gave onto an immense wooden deck, which in summer sported colorful umbrella tables for outside wining and dining. Now, in bitter February the corners of the windows held ice, and the yellow umbrellas were furled fast, like a flotilla of quayside sails. It smelled wonderful and felt better, being in out of the chill.
Unbuttoning his overcoat, Michael spoke to the hostess, who consulted an open book on her lectern.
“It'll be about fifteen minutes. You can have a seat in the bar if you'd like, and I'll call you.”
They kept their coats on and perched on hip-high stools on opposite sides of a tiny square table.
“It's been a long time since I've been here,” Michael remarked.
“I don't come here often, either. Occasionally for lunch.”
“If I remember right, this is where we came to celebrate our tenth anniversary.”
“No, our tenth we celebrated down in the Amana colonies, remember?”
“Oh, that's right.”
“Mother took care of the kids and we went down for a long weekend.”
“Then which one did we celebrate here?”
“Eleventh, maybe? I don't know, they sort of all run together, don't they?”
“We always did something special though, didn't we?”
She smiled in reply.
A waitress came and laid two cocktail napkins on the table. “What would you like?” she asked.
“I'll have a bottled Michelob,” Michael answered.
“I'll have the same.”
When the girl went away Michael asked, “You still like beer, huh?”
“Why should I have changed?”
“Oh, I don't know, new business, new image. You look like somebody who'd drink something in a tall stem glass.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“It's not a disappointment at all. We drank a lot of beer together over the years. It's familiar.”
“Mmm . . . yeah, a lot of hot summer evenings when we'd sit on the deck and watch the boats on the river.”
Their beers arriv
ed and after a skirmish about who would pay, they each paid for their own, then eschewed glasses in favor of drinking straight from the bottle.
When they'd each taken a deep swallow, Michael fixed his eyes on her and asked, “What do you do now on hot summer evenings, Bess?”
“I'm usually busy doing design work at home. What do you do?”
He thought awhile. “With Darla, nothing memorable. We both worked long hours and afterwards just sort of occupied the same lodge. She'd be gone, grocery shopping or having her hair done. Sometimes, when Mom was still alive, I'd go over to her house and mow her lawn. It's funny, because I had a yard service that took care of my own but after she had her stroke she couldn't handle the mower anymore, so I'd go over once a week or so and do it.”
“Didn't Darla go with you?”
Michael scratched the edge of his beer label with a thumbnail. He worked up a little flap that was sticky on the backside. “It's a funny thing about second wives. That extended family bonding never seems to happen.”
He took another swig of beer and met her eyes over the bottle. She dropped her gaze while he studied the way her lipstick held a tiny circle of wetness after she drank from her own bottle. Beneath the table she had one high heel hooked over the brass ring on the bar stool and her knees crossed. It made a pleasant shadow in her lap where her skirt dipped. Man-oh-man, she looked good.
“You know how it is,” Michael continued. “A good Catholic mother doesn't believe in divorce so she never actually recognized my second marriage. She treated Darla civilly but even that took an effort.”
Bess lifted her eyes. Michael was still studying her.
“I imagine that was hard for Darla.”
“Yup,” he said, and snapped out of his regardful pose as if nudged on the shoulder by an elder. “Aw, hell . . . water over the dam, right?”
The hostess came and said, “We have a booth ready for you now, Mr. Curran.”
The backs of the booths went clear up to the ceiling, sealing them into a three-sided box which was lit by a single hanging fixture. While Bess spent some time perusing the oversized menu, Michael only flipped his open, glanced for five seconds and closed it again. She sat across from him, feeling his eyes come and go while he finished his beer and waited.
She closed her menu and looked up.
“What?” she said.
“You look good.”
“Oh, Michael, cut it out.” She felt a blush start.
“All right, you look bad.”
She laughed self-consciously and said, “You've been staring at me ever since we came in here.”
“Sorry,” he said but went on staring. “At least you didn't get mad this time when I told you.”
“I will if you don't stop it.”
A waitress came to take their orders.
Michael said, “I'll have a grilled chicken sandwich and a bowl of seafood chowder.”
Bess's eyes flashed up: she'd decided on the same thing. This used to happen often when they were married, and they would laugh at how their tastes had become so alike, then speculate on when they might start looking alike, the way people said old married couples did. For a moment Bess considered changing her choice but in the end stubbornly refused to be cowed by the coincidence.
“I'll have the same thing.”
Michael looked at her suspiciously.
“You won't believe it but I'd made up my mind before you ordered.”
“Oh,” he replied.
Their seafood chowder came and they dipped into it in unison, then Michael said, “I saw Randy last Saturday. I asked if I could take him to lunch but he said no.”
“Yes, he told me.”
“I just wanted you to know I'm trying.”
She finished her chowder and pushed the bowl back with two thumbs. He finished his and the waitress came and took away their bowls. When she was gone Michael said, “I've been doing some thinking since the last time we talked.”
Bess was afraid to ask. This was too intimate already.
“About fault—both of ours. I suppose you were right about me helping around the house. After you started college I should have done more to help you. I can see now that it wasn't fair to expect you to do it all.”
She waited for him to add but, and offer excuses. When he didn't she was pleasantly surprised.
“May I ask you something, Michael?”
“Of course.”
“If I'm out of line just say so. Did you ever help Darla with the housework?”
“No.”
She studied him quizzically awhile, then said, “Statistics show that most second marriages don't last as long as first ones, primarily because people go into them making the same mistakes.”
Michael's cheeks turned ruddy. He made no remark but they both thought about their conversation throughout the rest of the dinner.
Afterward they divided the check.
When they reached the door of the restaurant, Michael pushed it open and held it while Bess passed before him into the cold. To her back he said, “I've decided to give you the job decorating my condo.”
She came up short and turned to face him while behind him the door swung shut.
“Why?” she said.
“Because you're the best woman for the job. What do I do, sign a contract or something like that?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“Then let's do it.”
“Tonight?”
“Judging from how you handle yourself as a businesswoman, you've got a contract all made up back at the shop, right?”
“Actually, I do.”
“Then let's go.” He took her arm quite commandingly and they headed up the street. At the corner, when they turned into the wind it whistled in their ears and almost knocked them off their feet.
“Why are you doing this?” she shouted.
“Maybe I like having you poke around my house,” he shouted back.
She balked. “Michael, if that's the only reason . . .”
He forced her to keep walking. “Just a joke, Bess.”
As she unlocked the door of the Blue Iris, she hoped it was.
Chapter 9
FEBRUARY SPED ALONG. Lisa's wedding was fast approaching. The telephone calls from her to Bess came daily.
“Mom, do you have one of those pens with a feather at your store? You know . . . the kind for the guest book?”
“Mom, where do I buy a garter?”
“Mom, do you think I have to get plain white cake or can I have marzipan?”
“Mom, they need the money for the flowers before they make them up.”
“Mom, I gained another two pounds! What if I can't get into the dress?”
“Mom, I bought the most beautiful unity candle!”
“Mom, Mark thinks we should have special champagne glasses engraved with our name and date but I think it's silly since I'm pregnant and can't even drink champagne anyway!”
“Mom, have you bought your dress yet?”
Since she hadn't, Bess set aside an afternoon on her calendar and called Stella to say, “The wedding is only two weeks away and Lisa threw a fit when she found out I don't have a dress yet. How about you? Have you got one?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you want to go shopping?”
“I guess we'd better.”
They drove into downtown Minneapolis, browsing their way from the Conservatory to Dayton's to Gavidae Commons, where they struck it lucky at Lillie Rubin. Stella, turning up her nose at the grandma image, found a hot little silvery white number with a three-tiered gathered skirt and perky sleeves to match, while Bess chose a much more sedate raw silk sarong suit in palest peach with a flattering tulip-shaped skirt. When they stepped out of their adjacent dressing rooms Bess gave Stella the once-over and said, “Wait a minute, who's the grandma here?”
“You,” Stella replied, “I'm the great-grandma.” Perusing her reflection in the mirror, she went on, “I'll be darned if I've ever been able
to understand why the mothers of brides go to such great lengths to add fifteen years onto their age by buying those god-awful dowdy dresses that look like Mamie Eisenhower's curtains. Now this is how I feel!”
“It's very jaunty.”
“Y' darned right it is. I'm bringing Gil Harwood along.”
“Gil Harwood?”
“Do I look like a dancing girl?”
“Who's Gil Harwood?”
“A man who makes my nipples stand at attention.”
“Mother!”
“I'm thinking of having an affair with him. What do you think?”
“Mother!”
“I haven't done any of that sort of thing since your father died, and I think I should before all my ports dry up. I did a little experimenting the last time Gil took me out, and it's definitely not his arteries that are hardening.”
Bess released a gust of laughter. “Mother, you're outrageous.”
“Better outrageous than senile. Do you think I'd have to worry about AIDS?”
“You're the outrageous one. Ask him.”
“Good idea. How are things between you and Michael?”
Bess was saved from answering by the clerk, who approached and inquired, “How are you doing, ladies?” But she felt a flurry of reaction at the mention of his name and caught Stella's sly glance that said very clearly she knew something was stirring.
They bought the dresses and went on to search out matching shoes. When they were in Bess's car, heading east toward home, Stella resumed their interrupted conversation.
“You never answered me. How are things between you and Michael?”
“Very businesslike.”
“Oh, what a disappointment.”
“I told you, Mother, I'm not interested in getting tangled up with him again, but we did straighten out some leftover feelings that have been lingering since before we got the divorce.”
“Such as . . .”
“We both admitted we could have worked a little harder at holding things together.”
“He's a good man, Bess.”
“Yes, I know.”
* * *
Bess had little occasion to run into the good man between then and the wedding. The paper was hung in Michael's condo and though Bess went over to check it when the paperhangers were just finishing up, Michael wasn't there. She called him the next day to ask if he was satisfied.