by Lisa Patton
I stop dead in my tracks and look at her straight on. “My hand? Don’t be silly. Never going to happen.”
“That ain’t gonna keep him from wantin’ it.”
“Oh Kissie. He’s harmless,” I say, and call the girls to the table.
“Might be. But he’s irritatin’.” She has a point.
“I feel sorry for him, actually.”
She’s reaching in the fridge for the milk carton. “I don’t.”
“Why not?”
She shuts the door to the refrigerator and turns around with a serious look on her face. “He’s got a nice house. A nice car. Nice clothes. Nothin’ wrong with him but the way he talks, and that ain’t all that bad. Hm, hm, hm.”
“Maybe he’s just lonely,” I tell her, pondering the fact that he’s an almost forty-something, living alone and selling Tupperware for a living.
“And that’s exactly why you need to be careful.” She puts our plates down on the table and goes back to the counter for the butter dish.
* * *
The next afternoon I’m sitting at my desk. I’ve only been back from lunch a little while when the station phone rings. “May I speak with Leelee?” a man says.
“This is she.”
“Hi Leelee. It’s Wiley.”
“Oh hi, Riley,” I say, a wee bit frustrated. There’s a no-personal-calls policy at the office, or so Edward insists, and Riley is not someone worth bending the rules for.
“Say, I need to ask you something. I’m coming along nicely in the bathwoom. But I was wondering if you want me to wemove your hardware.”
I feel the need to whisper in case someone overhears me. “That’s funny you should ask. I’ve been thinking of replacing it with something cuter. But since I’m just renting the house I’ll want to put the old hardware back on when I leave. You can remove it but save it for me, please. Just put it in one of the drawers in the vanity if you don’t mind.”
“I didn’t want to get paint on it.”
“Of course not.”
“Why are you whispewing?” he says.
“Because I’m not supposed to take personal calls at work.”
“All wight,” he whispers back. “I’ll get back to work myself.”
“Thanks, Riley.”
“No pwoblem.”
I can’t help but think about Kissie alone with him all day. My hope is that he’ll be so busy, that he’ll leave her alone. Besides, Kissie can easily put Riley in his place. Surely she’s just being overprotective. After all, how much trouble can he really cause?
* * *
When I drive up from work, Riley’s not in the driveway. The minute Sarah and I step in the door I run to the guest bathroom to see the transformation. I’d been thinking about it all day. I even stopped by Restoration Hardware on the way home and found some beautiful green glass knobs to replace the old tarnished brass handles. With the honey-wheat color paint I had picked out, I just knew the bathroom would look gorgeous.
“Hi Kissie,” I say as I dump my purse on the kitchen table. “Does the bathroom look good?”
She looks up from her ironing board but doesn’t say a word.
Issie’s watching TV in the den. Running past her I reach down and kiss the top of her head on the way to the guest bathroom. There’s a little flutter in my heart I’m so excited.
Throwing open the door, Restoration Hardware sack in hand, I switch on the light. I’ve been picturing a cute new soap dish with fragrant soaps, monogrammed guest towels that pick up the green in the new handles, a pretty wicker wastebasket, and my water lily painting that I’d bought from a Memphis artist at the Pink Palace Crafts Fair, hanging over the commode.
Before I even have a chance to inspect the paint job I’m taken aback. There’s a large gaping hole in the wall, right next to the toilet. After a deep gasp, my hands shoot up to cover my face. What in god’s name? I bend down to examine it further and peek inside the hole. Studs, wires, and insulation are all I can see. When I glance around the rest of the half bath, two smaller holes, to the right of the sink, are my next clue that Riley Bradshaw’s definition of hardware must be synonymous with toilet paper holders and towel racks. Not to be confused with the brass, ornamental kind, his idea of hardware means the white porcelain holders built into the drywall. I have to admit I’m wondering if poor Riley has his own loose screw.
Just for the heck of it, I pull out the drawer to the vanity and sure enough, right where I told him to put it, is “my hardware.” It barely fits in the drawer due to the big glob of drywall cement protruding out of the back of each piece.
Out of the corner of my eye, I happen to catch a glimpse of a certain butterscotch face. And it’s not happy.
“Hm, hm, hm. Hm, hm, hm,” she hums, extra loud.
I have no words … or hums.
“I declare. I ain’t seen a man so uncoordinated in all my life. He’s all thumbs. Hm, hm, hm.”
“What was he thinking?” I say, whisking my hand across the bigger of the two holes.
“That’s just it. He doesn’t think.” She waves her arm. “Look at the size of that hole.”
“Bless his little heart.”
“His little brain is what you need to be blessin’.”
“Oh Kissie, that’s awful. Okay, bless his little brai—” I can hardly get the words out because my shoulders have started to shake.
When Kissie sees me she belts out one of her deep, wonderful guffaws and all of a sudden the situation is completely hilarious.
“He was just trying to be help … ful,” I say. “No telling how much his free paint job is going to cos—” Words are hard to come by when Kissie gets me going. We hoot and teehee until tears are streaming down our faces. For a solid five minutes we howl and point at the holes in the wall, bending over, holding our stomachs. The only reason I can let up at all is because my face hurts so bad.
Kissie points to the floor while holding her stomach with the other hand. “At least, at least the toi—toil—toilet paper is in go—good shape.”
At the sight of the lone toilet paper roll sitting on the tile floor beside the toilet, I fall to my knees, avoiding the painted walls and collapse onto the floor, shrieking and snorting until I’m sure we’ve alarmed both the girls.
“Wait, baby, I’m fixin’ to wet. Move out of the way.” She pushes past me and tugs on her girdle before plopping down on the toilet. I push my way back up, shut the door to give her privacy and stammer out to the den. Falling down on the nearest chair, I can hardly contain myself. I’m doubled over in the fetal position. Watching me roar gets Sarah and Issie going, so the three of us continue to fall out laughing until Kissie comes back from the potty. Now all four of us are a mess.
If not for a loud knock there’s no telling how long our sides would continue to split.
“Uh-oh. Here he comes now,” Kissie says, keeping her backside firmly planted on the sofa. “The un-painter.”
I stand up to answer the door.
“I wouldn’t answer that if I were you,” she says.
“He knows I’m here. I’m going to have to open it eventually.” I sling open the door and sure enough, there he is. No longer wearing his painter’s cap, a billowy white chef’s hat now rests on his head. He’s holding a magazine and hands it to me straight away. It’s all I can do to keep my composure, especially at the sight of the poor thing in his new hat. “What’s this, Riley?” My face is wet with tears.
“I thought you might need some pwoducts for your new kitchen.” He doesn’t even mention the bathroom, much less the holes in the wall.
It’s not a magazine after all, it’s a catalog and one glance tells me exactly why he’s wearing a chef’s hat. “You’re a Pampered Chef salesman.” I glance up at him with a grin, biting the insides of my cheeks.
“A Pampa’ed Chef consultant. Just got my kit in the mail today. You are the first person I thought of to host a Pampa’ed Chef pawty.”
“Hmmm. Well—”
Sar
ah and Issie run up to the door and stand on either side of me. He leans down to their level. “Wouldn’t you girls like to host a pawty?”
“Yes.” They’re jumping up and down. “Can we, Mommy?” Issie asks.
Now I’m in a fine mess. Who do I disappoint? My daughters or my next-door neighbor? I turn around to Kissie who has not even bothered to budge off the sofa. Her big lips are puckered and she’s shaking her head.
“Can I have a day to think about it?” I say, rubbing the tops of both my girls’ shoulders.
“What’s there to think about, Mommy? I love parties,” Sarah says.
“Me, too,” Issie says.
“You could invite all your friends, and their mommies!” Riley says.
I don’t even bother looking behind me. The pitiful faces of my little girls are all I need to decide. “I guess we’re having a Pampered Chef party.”
“Would you like to set a date?” asks the consultant.
“Not right now, Riley. Can I get back with you about it?”
“Oh sure. We’ll talk about it tomowow.”
I can just picture Alice’s face now when the Pampered Chef Party invitation, hosted by Leelee Satterfield, arrives in the mail. She’ll have a heyday with that one, not to mention her first introduction to Mr. Riley Bradshaw.
* * *
Later that night, after crawling under the covers, I reach over for my book, which is resting on the nightstand. When I notice my cell phone, I’m reminded to charge it for the night and as I’m reaching to plug it up I notice the voice mail icon on the screen.
In haste, I dial my voice mail box and wait for the prompts.
“Hi Leelee. It’s Peter. I’m, well I know it’s been a while since we’ve talked. Thank you for your messages letting me know you made it safely to Tennessee. I don’t know why I didn’t call you back. I … I don’t know…” He pauses a moment. “It just feels a little weird. You’re there. I’m here. I’m not sure what’s going on. My job is working out well, though.” He laughs. “They’ve already given me a raise. Anyway, I hope all is well. Tell Sarah and Issie hi for me. Call me when you get a chance. I … Take care, okay?”
I play it again. And again. Analyzing every inflection, every word. Why has it taken him over two weeks to call me? There’s just no explanation for it. I mean, what about our kiss? What about our darn kiss?
Mustering up all the courage I can find, I dial his number. Even though our schedules are completely different—I work during the day and he at night—I take a chance that he’ll pick up his phone. When it goes to voice mail, I’m terribly disappointed but I leave him a message urging him to call me, no matter the time.
When I hang up the phone my heart beats, well blasts, inside my ears and it’s nearly impossible to rest. I try reading but my mind is clearly not on Mr. Darcy, no matter how much he’s changed. Jane Austen’s prose, although beautiful, doesn’t seem to be able to hold my attention.
The TV helps a little, a mindless episode of All in the Family seems to do the trick, followed by reruns of The Jeffersons and The Nanny. I must have fallen asleep sometime between The Nanny and Roseanne because it’s after midnight when I hear my phone ringing. I fumble around; it’s somewhere tangled up in my covers. Four rings later, I barely catch it before the call goes to voice mail.
“Hello.” There’s a bit of desperation in my voice.
“Hi.” It’s him. It’s finally him.
“How are you?” I ask, my voice lifting upon hearing his hello.
“I’m fine. How are you?” Something about his voice is different. I can’t put my finger on it, but fear screams inside my gut.
“I’m pretty good. Just trying to get myself settled,” I tell him.
“I bet.”
“So much has happened, Peter, you wouldn’t believe.” I sit up in bed, propping a few large pillows behind me. “I don’t even know where to begin. Helga, the ride home, my new house—oh my gosh, you won’t believe my neighbor, bless his heart, he reminds me of Jeb. And my job. Wait till I tell you all about my job.”
“You’ve got one already, huh?”
“Yes, it’s a miracle how it worked out. See I ran into this old friend of mine whose husband works at this TV station here in town and she called her husband…” I ramble on and on. I’m not sure why I’m doing it but … “And then he called me to tell me about a job opening on the radio side and I called the program director, who basically offered me the job right on the spot. It’s turning out to be pretty fun, actually.”
I tell him all about it and he tells me all about his job and how he’s really enjoying it so far. With every word he speaks, though, I’m growing more and more leery of the diffident tone in his voice.
“Leelee?” he says, seizing a pause in our conversation.
“Yes?”
“I’m happy for you. I truly am. You deserve all the happiness life has to offer.”
“Thank you. So do you.” What are you saying? You’re sounding like this is good-bye.
“You are the sweetest most wonderful girl I know. I’ve been thinking about us every day since you left. You know, about you living in Tennessee and me living here in Vermont. And honestly, I don’t think it’s fair to you, to keep you tied up in a long-distance deal.”
I close my eyes and fall back on my pillow, unsure how to respond. Cautiously I say, “But, what about our good-bye, just a little over a week ago? Didn’t that mean something to you?” I reach up and pinch my lip, rubbing it nervously between my fingers.
“Of course it meant something to me. It means a lot to me. But think about it. We are something like fifteen hundred miles apart. I don’t see you ever moving back up here; like I told you when you left, you’re not meant to be a Vermonter. You’re happier back down South. I would never want to be the one to take that away from you.”
I can feel my eyes fill with tears and every one of my nerve endings seems to have caught fire. Not only are my feelings hurt but I can actually feel the pain seeping through my pores. “So, you don’t think … you would … ever be able to come here?” I say. By now my sinuses have started to close and I’m sure he can hear the affliction in my voice.
“Move there you mean?”
“Well, yeah. I think you’d like it down here.”
“It’s not a matter of whether I’d like it or not. I’m just not the kind of guy that can move somewhere without a job. I guess maybe I’m a bit practical when it comes to that.” He chuckles slightly but I know him well enough to know it’s out of nervousness. He doesn’t find that funny at all.
I honestly don’t know what to say. The awkward pause in our conversation grows even longer. He finally breaks the silence by changing the subject. “My new job up here is pretty good, actually. Besides the raise, I’m designing a new menu.”
“That makes me happy for you.” My voice cracks and I’m sure he can tell I’m crying.
“I always want to be your friend, sweetheart,” he says. “Always. I never want to lose touch with you. This is not about me not thinking you are the perfect girl. It’s about me not thinking I can give you what you deserve. Can you understand that?”
I shake my head no, even though he can’t see me.
“I’ll always be here for you if you need me. Okay?” His voice is tender, one of the things I love about him the most. “Please tell me you’ll be okay.”
“I’ll be okay,” I manage to eke out, even though I don’t think I will.
There’s more silence in our conversation. Honestly it’s because there’s nothing more to say. It’s not like I can beg him to move here. And it’s not like I’m ready to talk about life as his friend instead of his girlfriend. In the end instead of sealing our relationship, our kiss killed our friendship.
“I’ll talk with you soon,” he says.
Instead of responding, I’m silent.
“You can call me anytime, Leelee,” he says.
I can barely speak. “Yes, we’ll talk soon,” I manage to say.
“Bye, Leelee.”
“Bye, Peter.”
And then he’s gone. Our phone conversation is finished and I suppose, so is our relationship. Lying flat on my back with my arms straight down at my side, my bed feels like a coffin. Why is it that even though we never really had a long romantic relationship, I feel like I’m dying? Love seems to be screaming at me from the other side of the room, Why can’t you hold on to me? What is it about you that can’t keep me alive?
It’s not my fault! I want to scream back. How can I argue with him about not wanting to move down South to a place he’s never even visited?
Peter Owen, the boy from New Jersey, the finest chef I’ve ever encountered, the dad who lost a baby to SIDS and had his wife leave him for his baby brother, the wonderful man that I just happened to meet and fall in love with, doesn’t see himself as anything but a true Yankee. He might not know it, and I suppose that’s just the way it is, but I’ll always think of him as the best thing about the North. He’ll always be my Yankee Doodle Dandy.
Chapter Six
Six weeks later, I’m a little sorry to say that my beloved Memphis seems to be letting me down. The weather is freezing for the end of March. Normally everyone would have shed their jackets by now but the chill in the air won’t seem to let go … it’s hanging on as steadily as my somber mood ever since Peter told me that he wanted to be “friends.”
It’s hard as heck waking up in the mornings but by the grace of God I’m doing it. The girls are getting to school, almost always on time, and they’re getting used to the after-care. It’s not the perfect situation but it’s manageable. Thank goodness for the preschool program I found for Issie. She seems to enjoy her school even more than Sarah does.
More surprisingly, I’m getting to work on time and despite Edward and Stan both, I’m starting to feel comfortable. I’m gaining confidence and I can feel my self-worth returning. As Johnny predicted, the two of us are having fun together. He’s quite a prankster, that one, continually hoodwinking poor unsuspecting souls (like me), naïve to his tomfoolery.
One morning during a rare early March snow shower, Johnny told the listeners that the morning show was broadcasting live from a parking lot on Mt. Moriah Road. Jack, Johnny’s sidekick, recorded an ad, or promo as they say in radio, inviting folks to “Ski Mt. Moriah.” People actually showed up ready to ski, wearing ski clothes and hats and toting their snow skis, even though the snow accumulation was merely a dusting. Mt. Moriah Road is as flat as a pancake, just like the rest of Memphis. The station phone never stopped ringing all day. I was the one taking the calls, explaining to the folks that it was just another of Johnny’s signature stunts. “Sometime people just have a hard time using their noggins,” Mama would have said. Daddy, never having much of a tolerance for ignorance, wouldn’t have been quite as kind. “They don’t have enough sense to get out of the rain,” he would have said.