At five thirty-seven, I could take it no more. Kneeling on the Persian rug in the front room, I ran my fingers through the tassels, straightening each silky queue until not one tangle remained. The intricate crisscrossing pattern was embedded into my kneecaps when I rose. I fluffed pillows, straightened pictures, closed the fall on the piano, scooted in the bench, turned on the ambient auxiliary light inside the china cabinet, and restacked the books on the coffee table. Leaving the room, my legs ached to run to the clock.
Five forty-one.
I felt fleetingly victorious as I stared into the handsome, yellowing face of the clock, an echo of my smile returning. Processing further, the smile collapsed like a bridge, as I realized how foolish I was for determining this good news. All this meant was that Dominic was late. I resituated myself on the antepenultimate step of the staircase, staring at the door, all pretenses of optimism and stoicism vanished. I could imagine the pitiful picture I made, my knees pressed together, elbows fixed on top, knuckles holding up my chin.
The phone rang.
“Ngnh-gaw,” was the strangled noise that arose from my throat. I shot up like a flare, and down in the same inelegant movement, I caught the back of my ankle. Skiing down the last two steps, I somehow recovered and flew to the doorway of the kitchen.
“Hi, Marilyn,” my mom greeted into the phone. I hadn’t even seen her come down the staircase. She must have slipped by when I was in the front room detangling the rug. “No-no, not too busy at all, I’ve got a few minutes before our guest arrives. What’s going on?” Her back was turned to me, the phone cradled between her shoulder and ear.
A sensation equivalent to the Titanic plummeting into the depths of the Atlantic Ocean replicated itself in the southernmost region of my stomach. Dominic didn’t have my house number, I reflected, feeling halfway between embarrassment and sorrow. I turned and left before my mother could see my face, winding back toward the staircase to imminently finish out my sentence. I closed my eyes again and exhaled loudly. Where was my patience now, I wondered, further wondering what Dominic would think if he could see me sitting here.
“Not even fifteen minutes late and already you’ve worked yourself into a panic?”
I hadn’t noticed her approach. Opening my eyes, I found my mother standing barefoot in front of me, a small, spiny red plant in her slight hands. Appraising her appearance, I was momentarily distracted, and a genuine smile emerged on my face. She looked beautiful—her long, wavy hair billowing over her shoulders and down her back, a blanket of soft brown over the bright turquoise blouse tucked into a gray pencil skirt. Spending her days and sometimes nights immersed inside the greenhouse, I rarely saw her this dressed up anymore. With her makeup done exquisitely, and youthful skin that boasted healthy eating and an underexposure of sunlight, she mocked her forty-six years with the body and skin of someone a decade younger.
I stood up, straightening out the front of my dress and met her at the first step. Then, seeing that I still towered over her by half a foot, stepped down to the ground. “You look beautiful, Mom.”
Hey brown eyes glimmered as she tilted her head, returning the appraisal. “Thank you, but I’m certain I look nowhere near as beautiful as you, my lovely daughter,” she replied, reaching up with her free hand to cup my cheek and fiddle with my earlobe. It was cool and felt wonderful on my flushed face. “I love that you’re wearing your jewelry. I don’t think I’ve seen you wear these since . . . well, it must have been the benefit last year, right?” I nodded, holding onto the wan smile for as long I could. The moment of distraction was over. A small furrow appeared between her fine eyebrows. “Okay,” she sighed, “now tell me what happened to that smile? Your dad and I joked that you looked like a sun revolving around the house, so bright and beaming. It appears the forecast has changed since I last saw you. ”
“He’s not usually late,” I remarked instantly, not bothering to deny my mood when my face so clearly depicted my thoughts.
She considered this for a few seconds, eyes rife with words she hadn’t yet spoken. “Tell me,” she began, her tone musing and inquisitive, “are you worried most that Dominic is late, and something may have happened to him, or . . . that he might not be coming at all?”
A rush like a gust of wind blasted me. That was it, precisely. The former hadn’t occurred to me remotely: Dominic, to me, seemed almost invincible. The truth was that I feared he would not come. This, I was certain, accounted for my overreaction. I sucked in a gulp of air, striving for calm, and nodded once.
She mimicked the gesture, then lowered her head, but kept her eyes on mine, steadfast and firm. “He’ll be here, Foster,” she said very softly. “I think giving him the benefit of the doubt is fair in this situation.”
Something prickled at the base of my spine at the word doubt, and continued to wiggle its way upward. I squirmed involuntarily, the slithering sensation stirring up a fleet of goosebumps over my arms and legs, ending with a crashing wave over my skull. Had I given in that easily? Offered nothing in defense to its attack? How many times, I wondered, would I have to fall into this trap before I was able to recognize the danger and step over it? My mother had left, went into another room, but I hadn’t noticed. She reappeared now at the foot of the stairs, giving me a small start with her voice.
“Oh, I forgot to mention—oops.” She grimaced slightly and grabbed hold of the banister. “Sorry, baby. I should know better by now to check your face before I barge in to your daydreams.”
I smiled, shook my head, both to shake away any compunction she might be feeling and to the disturbing thoughts. “Just thinking.” She smiled in way that said she understood, and I knew she did.
“That was Marilyn on the phone, she called to say she’d be dropping by in a little while. She has an aloe vera plant that doesn’t seem to want to grow. She may just leave it on the doorstep, but in case she shows up before Dominic”—at this she gave me a pointed look—“I wanted to mention it.”
“Okay,” I said, nodding with a confidence I wanted to feel but didn’t. “Should I come get you if she does?”
“Please,” she said smiling warmly. She released the banister, preparing to leave again. “I’ll be in the garden picking rosemary. I thought I might blend some into the butter?”
That sounded delicious, actually. “Good idea,” I agreed, and tried not to consider the possibility that we may not need the butter—or the bread, or the lasagna, or—
“And Foster?”
I raised my eyes. “Mm?”
She stood in the archway of the front room, watching me. “He’ll be here.”
At that moment I was struck with blinding awareness that Dominic was right: my mother and I, we did communicate without words. It was such a natural exchange between us, I hardly noticed when and how it happened. I lowered myself back onto the stairs, determined not to be such easy prey for the doubt; however, it was only a few moments until I was craning my neck, peering through the wooden slats of the staircase. The gold pendulum swayed back and forth at a horrendously slow pace.
Five forty-six.
I counted the crystals on the chandelier.
Five forty-eight.
I picked loose fibers from my dress.
Five fifty.
I panicked. Twenty minutes late. Where was he? Why hadn’t he called my cell phone to say he was running late?
I recited the words, he’ll be here, though my internal voice wasn’t nearly as assuring or convincing as my mother’s. And with each passing minute the nagging doubt chipped away at my newly built confidence—even picturing it as revolting bacteria helped very little. I began to look for signs of this inevitability, searching back to our last conversation. Had I missed something? Said something wrong? Or was it that I’d misread him on Monday? Maybe I had only seen what I had wanted to see. Held tight in his embrace, I was so certain of his acceptance. Now, without the comfort of his arms, the reassurances whispered against my hair; I was not so certain. He could have changed
his mind, decided it was too much to deal with. Also, it was possible he—
“Doorbell. That is the doorbell.”
It took me a moment to realize that the fuzzy, distant voice I heard belonged to me. My heartbeat, pounding inside my ears like a parade of steel drums, made hearing difficult. I stared at the door, torn between wanting to launch myself at it and flee in the opposite direction. Terribly bad I wished to know who stood on the other side. There wasn’t any way I could know that though—not without actually opening it. I rose to my feet. My knees shook, my whole body wobbled. Gripping the banister hard enough to turn my hands bone-white, I took one step forward. Dominic? Ding-dong. Or Marilyn?
“Fost?” The muffled voice was my father’s, calling out from upstairs inside his bedroom. “Are you going to answer the door?”
“Y—” The word died in my throat. I swallowed and tried again. “Yes,” I said, my voice still barely more than a whisper. I stared forward with an intensity that made my head ache. One foot after the other, I padded across the marble floor, walking on tiptoes in attempt to gain the upper hand by sneaking upon disappointment rather than the other way around. My fingers coiled around the cold door-handle. I pressed my thumb down, squeezing the flat lever down until it clicked. I inhaled deep enough to feel a tug in my stomach and pulled back the door the entire way, revealing the person standing on my porch.
It happened so quickly, descending on me with the speed and force of an avalanche, that it took a blunt moment before I was able to differentiate the switch from fear to relief. I stood there, gawking, my tongue gone leaden as my brain struggled to make sense of the wary, tense, incredibly beautiful face standing before me.
Dominic. Saying his name, even silently, produced clarity. Immediately I was suffused with only joy.
“Foster.” He was slightly out of breath and my name departed on an exhale. A light sheen covered his face and tiny beads of perspiration dotted his brow. He’s sweating, I determined, joy moving aside to make room for alarm. I looked him up and down unabashedly, deciding that he didn’t appear to be frightened or injured—just winded. Still, showing up on my doorstep too indisposed to speak, called for concern.
“Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”
He waved a hand. “Fine,” he panted, and took three deep breaths. “I’m fine, I promise. I was just”—another deep inhale—“running,” he concluded. About to pull a hand through his hair, a thought registered and he stopped, choosing instead to ball the hand into a fist, pounding lightly on the doorframe. “Before you say anything else, though, please let me explain.”
“You ran here?” I asked incredulous, my voice rising on the word “ran.” The look he gave me was divided down the middle: one half reluctant to admit this, one half impatient to get on with explaining.
“Yes,” he confirmed, his breathing evening out. His chest heaved up, then down. “I ran here. Oh, and just in case you were wondering,” he said just a little dryly, “we really don’t live all that close. Not when your legs are the mode of transportation. That last hill . . .” He tossed a narrow look over his shoulder. “It just about killed me.” Yes, I thought in agreement, picturing the nearly vertical incline that took you through our gate. Hattie barely made it up that hill every day, and not without a fair amount of momentum. Blatantly gazing into the house, his eyes roaming from the hallway to the staircase, Dominic shook his head dejectedly. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this. Your parents must think I have no respect for their time.” He checked my face to confirm this.
Clearly he was distressed, something that simultaneously touched my heart and filled me with remorse on his behalf. “No, not at all,” I said, infusing my voice with sincerity and certainty, both of which were necessary if I was to allay his fears. “In fact, I’m pretty sure my dad’s still upstairs getting dressed, and my mom, she stepped outside a little while ago to do some work in the garden.” The word “work” was a bit of an overstatement, but I thought the occasion merited a slight exaggeration, nervous as he was. “Neither of them are punctual people,” I added, this part one hundred percent truth, my father the ultimate offender.
He exhaled. “You’re kidding, really?” The relief took effect instantly, this information seeming to grow on him; his shoulders squared with renewed hope of someone revitalized. “In my family, being late is the same as a death sentence,” he quipped, laughing through his nose. “My mother doesn’t allow anyone to eat until everyone is present. So, not only did you tick her off, but the whole family. And if someone did have the nerve to come to her dinner table after the predetermined time—oh, it was bad.” He made a moue of distaste, but it was softened by an immediate smirk. “First,” he went on emphatically, “you would walk into a silent room, everyone watching you shamefully take your seat. Then, right about when you were beginning to squirm, my mother would walk over, your empty dinner plate in her hands, and bend down real close to whisper, ‘Even beggars know better than to show up late. Only the delinquent and the pompous do such things—so which are you? Rude or stupid?’” I must have made a face because he laughed again, nodding his head. “Yeah, she doesn’t mess around.” The way he said this reminded me the level of respect Dominic had for his mother, and the strong influence she had in his life. Sometimes when he was talking, I thought I could hear the woman who raised him inflected in his words.
“That sounds . . . terrifying,” I said, filing away this bit of information. Though it seemed a ways off in the distance, if I ever had the opportunity to meet Mrs. Kassells, I would make sure to be there early—days early if possible.
“Manners are important,” he said earnestly. “They determine whether or not you are the kind of person people aspire to be like, or determine not to ever become.” I smiled, thinking that this was one of those times I had just reflected on.
As Dominic launched precipitously into a repentant exposition, divulging the reason for his tardiness, my mind began to pull away, as if being reeled in by a fisher’s line. I clamped down, struggling against it, but was only able to remain half-tuned in, my attention lacking in the way of total immersion. Reassured that Dominic wasn’t injured or fearing lambasting from my parents, my mind decided it had other plans for my train of thought. Veering away, a summation occurred to me. Being reunited with Dominic after significant time spent apart was probably a lot like being struck with a taser gun: you could do no more than just wait for the effects to wear off and fuzzy insensibility to wane.
By now, though, I had a chance to look away from his face and take in the rest of his appearance, no less spectacular. He wore a white button-down linen shirt, the first two buttons undone, revealing the smooth rutilant flesh and the long arc of his neck. Over that was a light gray blazer, buttonless, save for the two on each cuff. A black belt wrapped tightly around his waist, accentuating both his elongated legs and the slim-fitting charcoal jeans. Dominic had the type of chimerical beauty that required no effort; still, one could easily notice when effort had been put forth.
“Will you come in?” I asked, not wanting to make the same mistake as last time. I glanced down as he entered, fighting to regain self-possession. As I did, I noticed his usually exposed toes were covered in simple slip-ons. They were a deep black and glossy, much like his hair. Fixing my eyes on him after I closed the door, I realized he had combed and styled it today, the product rendering its effect even more sleek and luminous.
He marched to the middle of the foyer, turned, and blew out a breath. “Can I tell you what happened?” he asked, expectantly.
“But didn’t you just—” My mouth shut with an audible clap. I really didn’t know whether or not he had explained anything because I hadn’t the faculty of mind to pay close attention. Instead of bringing light to this, I considered that perhaps a pass for both of us was necessary. “You don’t have to explain anything,” I said, moving toward him, “You’re here.” I could hear the smile in my voice and it affected the real thing on my face.
; I enjoyed watching his posture change, the lines in his face ease, but even smiling he maintained a sense of resignation. “I didn’t expect you would make things difficult for me.” He took my hands at my side and began massaging my fingers gently, though maintained a respectful distance from me. We were, though I hardly noticed, on display in the middle entryway. “I appreciate the gesture, but I’m not going to have you thinking I was late without good reason,” he said, his tone both adamant and sincere. He glanced to his left, raising his chin. “Can we go in there and speak privately for a minute, or do you think it would best to wait until after dinner?”
Since neither of my parents had yet to make an appearance, I didn’t see any harm in delaying dinner a bit longer. After accepting his request, he took me by the hand and lead the way into the front room. We remained standing as he went on to tell me a story about his Mustang, something called a “starter” failing, and then not able to get a hold of his aunt or uncle to locate the spare set of keys, he had made the decision to walk—run—here. I was having trouble focusing again. This was no surprise as Dominic had wound his arms around my back, interlaced at the small of my back. His voice, lilting and deep, was a little hypnotic.
“The plan was to call you on the way,” he continued, his tone of voice roughening with agitation. “Of course I left my phone in the car, so I couldn’t even let you know I was running late. But I thought for sure I’d be able to find a shortcut, hop a couple fences or something. I don’t think you have one neighbor that doesn’t own a dog—or four. Big ones,” he elaborated, his eyebrows shooting up. “Not to mention I probably would have gotten myself arrested for trespassing.”
With a warmth inside of me that radiated joy, I said softly, “You went to a lot of trouble to be here.” I squeezed his arms lightly, the silky material of his blazer soft beneath my hands. “I’m sorry it was stressful for you.”
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