“What are you looking for, James?”
“Slivered almonds.”
She gave him a skeptical look, but produced nuts in a bag rolled up and sealed with a rubber band.
James couldn’t exactly ask Vera about the Ravens latest televised game, now could he? Beside, the Ravens had sucked goose farts on national television, and James was, to his surprise, out of practice with the predinner chitchat.
“Does Donal have visitation with Twyla?” Really out of practice.
“He does not. I was adamant about that, and Trent backed me up. Stepfathers have no basis in law to assert a right to visitation, not yet.”
James turned down the heat under the beans. “I take it Donal lacks paternal inclinations.”
“He has children of his own,” Vera said, “and he does love them, though he’s incapable of showing affection for them. They’re older than Twy, and he has his hands full with them. I try to keep in touch with the kids, but when there’s a restraining order, that’s tricky. I don’t want to send a mixed message to anybody. The buns are in the bread box.”
James wasn’t picking up a hint of a whiff of a frisson of a mixed message—unless the lack of a third place setting was significant.
Vera slid the cooked burgers into a bright red ceramic dish with a clear glass lid, then called up the stairs, “Twy! Dinner’s ready!”
Next she tended to that third place setting, arranging a place mat, cutlery complete with two forks, folded linen napkin, and crystal water goblet just so.
Was a woman neurotic if she used linen napkins to eat hamburgers in the kitchen with her kid?
But even as James considered the question, he mentally played back the message her ex had left her. Linen napkins and matching place mats could be a defense against feeling chronically victimized and objectified.
A lousy defense.
Twyla came down the stairs, her expression pleased.
“We never have company anymore. Is Mr. Knightley going to have dinner with us?”
“He is,” Vera replied. “Wash your hands, Twy, and think up some grace.”
“Company grace,” Twyla said, twirling around on one stocking foot. “I haven’t had to do a company grace forever. I’m good at it, though. If I have enough time, I can make it rhyme.”
As James pulled up a bar stool and bowed his head on cue, he felt Twyla’s hand slipping into his. On his other side, Vera was holding her hand out to him, palm up.
“Mine are clean,” Twyla said. “Mom’s hands are always clean.”
A family ritual, then. James had almost forgotten such things existed. He took Vera’s hand, and to his surprise, her fingers gripped his; they didn’t merely rest in his hand.
A sincere family ritual, then.
“For what we are about to receive,” Twyla said, “we are grateful. I’m also grateful I’m not in the same class as Joey Hinlicky. Amen. Are there nuts in the beans?”
“Almonds,” James said, putting half a spoonful on her plate. “Vera?”
“Please.” She served her daughter a hamburger, and James two. Twyla’s did not sport cheese.
“You don’t like cheese?” James asked the child. “It’s good for you.”
“I like cheese raw, not melted so it sticks to the bun and the meat both. These beans are good, but they taste different, and they crunch.”
“Textural variety,” James said. “Makes the meal almost as interesting as the company. Did you get your homework done?”
“Nah.”
The kid knew enough to put her napkin on her lap and keep her elbows off the table. She also didn’t talk with her mouth full. Were females born knowing these things?
“Fractions got you stumped?”
Twyla pushed the green beans around with her fork. “I don’t get the denominator thing. It’s complicated.”
“You just have to learn your way around them. Did you bring your math book home?”
“Too heavy,” Twyla said, taking a bite of mashed potatoes. “Man, these are good. We should have company more often, Mom.”
James did not gloat, but he did offer Vera another helping of mashed potatoes, because she’d taken about a teaspoon the first time around, and James would finish off the batch when she’d enjoyed a proper portion.
“They are good,” Vera said. “Can you write the recipe down?”
“You cook with recipes, then?”
“She does,” Twyla volunteered, “but Mom says you have to improvise sometimes too, like with the cookies.”
“I learned the cookie recipe thoroughly first,” Vera said. “And you will not be improvising your way past learning fractions, Twy. I can help you with them when we get the dishes done.”
“Or I can,” James said. “But then, I’m certified competent to do dishes as well. Who’s your math teacher, Twy?”
“Mrs. Corner. She’s old.”
“I think my niece has her for a few subjects too. My nieces.”
“Who are your nieces?”
“Grace Stark and Merle Knightley. They’re in second grade.”
“I know them,” Twyla said, pausing with a forkful of potatoes halfway to her mouth. “That’s so cool. Grace is really good at drawing horses, and Merle has horses.”
Vera shot him a “now you’ve done it” look as James put the rest of the mashed potatoes on his plate.
“I take it you like horses?” James plainly loved them, always had.
“I adore them, but I like all animals. Mom says we might get a cat, because the mice like our house a lot when it gets cold. She says when the cornfields come down, the mice think moving to the house is like going to Florida for the sunshine. What’s for dessert, Mom?”
“Fractions, and maybe a brownie.”
“Mom makes the best brownies. We have them with ice cream sometimes, but mostly I like them plain. I do not like fractions.”
“Fractions aren’t so bad,” James said between bites of very good potatoes, if he did say so himself. “You just have to show ’em who’s boss.”
“How will you do that when she brought only her worksheet home and not her math book?” Vera asked, repositioning the napkin-peacock in the middle of the table.
“Fractions and I go way back,” James said, swiping a neglected crust of bun from Vera’s plate. “Show me a work sheet, and I go to town.”
“Like you and axle grease?”
“Not quite that close a bond, but almost. You have a little piece of green bean…” James extended his pinkie finger to brush the offending morsel off Vera’s lip, but she flinched back.
Well, damn it to hell.
She used her napkin.
“You got it,” he said, determined not to make her feel self-conscious—her, too. “You want my green bean recipe too?”
“We do,” Twyla said. “You probably want our brownie recipe.”
“Then we’ll trade, but let’s not make your mom do the dishes.”
“We can all clean up,” Vera said, “and that way, Twy will get to her fractions that much sooner.”
“Can’t wait to get to those fractions,” James said over Twyla’s theatrical groan. They made short work of the dishes, though without the extra forks and table linen and all the trimmings, the job might have been done much sooner.
But then, James was bachelor, and a cold hamburger occasionally sounded like breakfast to him—lately.
“Come on, sport,” he said, running a hand over Twyla’s dark hair. “Let’s wrassle some fractions.”
She looked pleased at the prospect, which was inordinately flattering. James didn’t exactly have trouble inspiring females to spend time with him, but the lure had never been fractions.
James sat beside the child in the big warm kitchen, and walked her through the business of numerators and denominators. She caught on
fairly quickly, though her attack was marked by impulsivity rather than a methodical approach.
“This is a slow and steady wins the race kind of thing,” he said to her. “Your teacher doesn’t want to just see you know the steps, she wants you to get the math right too.”
“It’s boring, but at least it’s done. Thank you, Mr. Knightley.”
“I think, seeing as we’ve conquered fractions together, you might call me James. With your mother’s permission?”
Vera had been wiping counters for the past ten minutes—they were the cleanest counters in the county by now.
“He who spares the mom the Battle of the Fractions can choose his own moniker,” Vera said. “Who wants a brownie?”
They were good brownies, damned good, in fact, but James limited himself to one the same size as Twyla’s. “I do want the recipe.”
“I’ll write it down,” Twyla said.
“You need to pick out your clothes for tomorrow, pack your lunch, and get into your jammies,” Vera countered. “Then we can have some princess time. Say good night to Mr. Knightley.”
Twyla’s lower lip firmed as if she were preparing to stage a post-fractions rebellion, so James stuck out his hand.
“Pleased to have made your acquaintance, Miss Twyla. I never in my whole, entire, long, and illustrious-nearly-to-the-point-of-being-famous life met another Twyla, and I will never forget you.”
She grinned at him, mutiny forgotten. “Never?”
“Never one time,” he said, “and I would not lie to a lady.”
She shook his hand and scampered up the stairs, yelling good nights over her shoulder.
“A good kid, Vera. I hope you’re proud of her.”
“Very, but I’m also anxious. I’ll blink, and she’ll be a teenager.”
This prospect appeared to daunt Vera, while Donal the Slasher had merely pissed her off. Had her priorities straight, did Vera Waltham.
“Nobody likes teenagers,” James said, indulging a need to speak up for his younger self, “but I think they’re wonderful. They can mow grass, do laundry, keep an eye on the little ones, make dinner, run the vacuum cleaner, and work on engines. I can’t wait until my nieces are teenagers.”
“When they are, their parents will gladly hand them off to their favorite uncle James. Thank you for showing Twy the math, though. She and I do not operate on the same wavelength when it comes to schoolwork.”
“Parents and their offspring never do,” James said, considering a second brownie now that the kitchen was adults only. “If it weren’t for my brothers, I’d probably have flunked out of high school.”
No probably about it.
Vera worked the controls on some high-tech coffeemaker thing, her movements as efficient as a short-order cook’s.
“You’re a lawyer and an accountant,” she observed. “How could school have been hard for you?”
“I was a boy, that’s how.” A boy whose brothers had simply expected him to make good grades. They’d made good grades—how hard could it be?
“Time I was heading out,” James said, though he’d watched a few princess movies in the line of uncle duty. “You should get your tire repaired, or at least buy a functional spare. I can take care of that if you like, but for now, the damaged tire is sitting in the truck bed.”
“Thank you, James. I’ll get to it tomorrow.”
James had known Vera would refuse his help, but had felt compelled to offer anyway. “You’ll tell Trent about the messages Donal is leaving?”
“I don’t see what Trent can do,” she said, crossing her arms and leaning back against the counter. The coffeemaker gurgled and steamed behind her as a beguiling caramel aroma filled the kitchen.
“Trent can put the state’s attorney on notice,” James said. “He can send a threatening letter to Donal’s lawyer, he can rattle swords like nobody’s business, and create a paper trail that will incriminate the daylights out of Donal when you do catch him violating the order. You should tell Trent.”
“If I don’t, you will?”
Vera remained braced against the counter, arms crossed, her expression carefully neutral. From upstairs, Twyla started bellowing the lyrics to “Can You Feel the Love Tonight.”
Vera turned to the coffeemaker, but James would have bet his best set of jumper cables she was smothering a smile.
“Wanting to keep a woman safe doesn’t make a man a bully, Vera Waltham. If you can’t see your way to calling Trent for yourself, do it for Twyla.”
She nodded, though James knew it was no guarantee she’d call Trent; but then, he hadn’t promised to keep his mouth shut either. He was about to yell a final good night up the stairs to Elton John’s latest competition when Vera half turned, her gaze straying to the window and to the darkness beyond.
And instead of “good night, thanks for a wonderful meal,” what came out of his mouth?
“I live less than two miles away.” James scrawled his house phone number on a notepad beside the phone. “That’s my number. We’re neighbors, Vera, and you owe me a brownie recipe, while I owe you a battery for your Ford.”
“You don’t owe me anything, and even a CPA lawyer needs his beauty sleep. Good night, James, and thanks for wrangling those fractions.”
Good night, James? Wrangling fractions? No, James did not want to become entangled with this lady, but neither would he accept a brush-off. A guy had standards to uphold. He’d made his signature mashed potatoes for her, after all, and tamed the dreaded, fire-breathing least common denominator.
“If you asked me to stay,” he said, as upstairs, Simba and Nala caterwauled their way toward a litter of lion cubs, “I would. You and Twyla are isolated here. It’s pitch dark out, there’s no moon tonight, and that fool man means to upset you.”
Vera tore off the page that had James’s phone number on it—a phone number he’d stopped giving out months ago.
“Of course Donal’s out to rattle me. You think I don’t know that, James?”
“I think you don’t know what to do about it,” he said gently.
Vera affixed James’s phone number to the fridge with a rooster magnet. “I’ll call your brother tomorrow.”
Her promise relieved James more than it should have. “I’m your neighbor,” he said. “Around here, that still means something. You can call me too.”
Except Vera wouldn’t, which was probably all that allowed James to make the offer.
* * *
Vera put the kettle on as James Knightley’s SUV rumbled off into the night—the coffee would have been for him, had he stayed. Olga had disparaging things to say about caffeine in anything more than moderation—Olga had disparaging things to say about much of life—so Vera got out the chamomile tea.
The phone rang as Vera turned the coffeemaker off.
Her first reaction was to stick her tongue out at the machine, but the caller ID assured her Donal wasn’t making a further nuisance of himself.
“Hello, Olga. I was just thinking of you.”
“You think of me,” came the accented reply—tink uff me, “but you do not call. You are a bad girl, my Vera, making a lonely old woman wait by the phone for you to call.”
A shameless old woman, also ferocious and endlessly dear. “I’m sorry. Twyla has just now finished her homework, and I did mean to call you.”
Soon, not tonight.
“Homework, bah. You should find a man to flirt with you and take you dancing.” The way Olga said “dancing” suggested even a ninety-four-year-old veteran of four marriages might relish an occasional flirtation.
“We had company for dinner tonight. My lawyer’s brother brought me some paperwork and then joined us for hamburgers.”
A considering silence from the other end. Vera could picture the older woman having a sip of chocolate from a translucent porcelain service that p
robably cost as much as Vera’s useless security system.
“He’s nice,” Vera added, because Olga would not pry, but she’d wield a silence more effectively than some conductors wielded their batons.
“The nice ones are often overlooked,” Olga said. “What did the child think of him?”
Insightful question, which from Olga was to be expected. Olga Strausser was a living legend among classical musicians. As a girl, she’d been introduced to Rachmaninoff, whom she’d referred to forever after as, “that poor, dear man.” She’d taken tea with Serkin, and given a private four-hands impromptu recital with Rubinstein that was still talked about.
She’d traded licks with Eubie Blake, and known Brubeck as a young man, “before he could read music, much.”
Vera had been sixteen when she’d snagged a slot in one of Olga’s rare master classes, and so nervous she’d barely been able to eat for a week prior. Once the class had begun, Olga had become a fairy godmother to the music, the auditors had fallen away, the nerves had fallen away, and Vera had learned as she’d never learned before.
How to be present to nothing but the music.
How to listen and play.
How to make judgment calls as a piece unfolded, crafting the music as it wanted to be performed on that instrument, in that hall, on that day by the person Vera was on that occasion.
Olga had continued as a benign presence in Vera’s musical development, gently steering her toward her first international competitions, when the professors at the conservatory had suggested Vera wait another year, or two, or three.
“They are old men,” Olga had said. “They think if you don’t win, they lose. We know better. We know you are ready, and you can still gain experience worth having if you come in last. But you play what I tell you, the way I tell you, not what those old men have been teaching for the past fifty years.”
Vera had won, and won again.
Olga had steered Vera into Alexander’s hands as a manager.
“He’s a good man. Look how patient he is with the wife, and her such a child. He will pace your career, so you can still perform at one hundred, like me.”
About Donal MacKay, Olga had been mostly silent, but her distaste for Vera’s agent had come through.
The First Kiss Page 3