A CLASS ACT

by Pamela Burford

  "By a kiss?"

  "Well…"

  "I know I said you were the best, Gabe, but let's face it." She shrugged. "It's still just a kiss."

  "'A kiss is still a kiss,'" he sang, hand to chest, "'a sigh is still a sigh…'"

  "And Ham is still waiting for this hickory," she said, lifting the bucket. "I'm surprised he hasn't started hollering for it yet." She frowned. "You don't suppose he just forgot about it? His memory used to be so sharp. But lately…"

  Privately, Gabe thought their old friend's memory lapses were suspiciously well timed, but he chose not to share the observation. Taking the bucket from her, he started toward the door to the breezeway. "As long as he remembers how to make that killer brisket of his, he can forget his own name, for all I care. If you ask me nicely, I'll help you shuck all that corn we bought at the farm stand."

  "You'll help me? Who was it who insisted on buying two dozen ears?" She held the door open for him.

  "Only because I remembered it's your favorite vegetable."

  "But two dozen ears? It may be my favorite vegetable, Gabe, but let's face it—"

  "I know, I know." He grinned. "It's still just corn."

  * * *

  6

  « ^ »

  "Who are the Mets playing tonight?" Frank asked from the back seat as Dena pulled her dark blue Lincoln Navigator up the long asphalt driveway and parked next to Ham's house.

  "The Atlanta Braves," Scott said, opening the front passenger door and hopping out. "Should be a great game. When are we leaving for Shea?"

  "No later than four-thirty," Rhonda answered. "It's a long drive to Queens, and who knows what parking will be like." Opening the back door, she struggled to descend the vehicle's high step while clutching her denim skirt around her knees.

  Frank grunted as he let himself out the other side. "Don't you know these SUVs are practically passé?" he asked Dena. "I'm surprised you don't drive some kinda sports car. A 'Vette maybe."

  Dena sprang out of the vehicle and slammed the door. "I'm always transporting dogs. This thing fits the bill."

  Ham and Reba had taken their own car on this morning's excursion, and they weren't back yet. Only Gabe and Andrea had remained at the house, working together in his room on some legal case. Against her will, the image of Gabe's cot sprang to mind, the bedding in disarray.

  No! she commanded herself. Don't even go there.

  As far as she was concerned, Andrea was welcome to him.

  Scott's hand on her back rousted the dark thoughts. "So who do you like, the Mets or the Yankees?" he asked. Every New Yorker had a preference.

  "Oh, definitely the Mets. Could you see me rooting for any team that wears pinstripes?"

  There was that yummy, dark-eyed smile again. She'd seen a lot of that this morning as they'd wandered the house and grounds of Sagamore Hill, Theodore Roosevelt's home in Cove Neck, where Scott had turned ventriloquist and put hilarious words in the mouths of the many stuffed trophy heads adorning the walls. They'd also visited Old Bethpage Village, a collection of nineteenth-century buildings that offered a glimpse into the past, complete with a blacksmith, hatter, general store and farm animals.

  Dena had done a lot of driving and a lot of walking. She was tired, but it was nothing that a swim and a mug or two of Reba's strong coffee wouldn't cure.

  "I'd better ride in your car tonight," Scott said, as he accompanied her into the house. "Without my expert navigational skills, we might end up in Pennsylvania."

  "I never claimed to have a sense of direction."

  Dena had taken a lot of ribbing for that particular failing. If Scott hadn't been sitting next to her earlier, with one eye on the map and the other on road signs, she might indeed have ended up in Pennsylvania.

  During their outing she'd learned how Scott had come to be a Presbyterian minister. Academically, he'd been in the top ten percent of their high-school class, but instead of attending college, he'd become a professional ballplayer, eventually signing with the Rochester Red Wings, the triple-A farm team for the Baltimore Orioles. After his wife's death, his initial self-pity had gradually evolved into a more constructive introspection, leading him to his true calling. He'd attended Columbia University, followed by Princeton Seminary, and had ultimately become the pastor of a small congregation in Ohio.

  Dena couldn't help wonder, as she watched Scott descend the basement steps to the fifties-style rec room he referred to as Knotty Pine Estates, whether his offer to ride shotgun was motivated purely by a desire to keep her from getting lost.

  Did she want it to be?

  "Don't go there either," she grumbled to herself as she made her way upstairs to her room. It was confusing enough just seeing Gabe again, when she'd long ago archived that youthful chapter of her life under "Excruciating Learning Experiences." Romantic speculation involving Reverend Yummy was more than she could deal with at the moment.

  Dena thought back to last night as she changed into a one-shoulder leopard-print swimsuit complete with ragged cavewoman fringe, which she'd bought because it reminded her of Raquel Welch in One Million Years B.C. The reunion crowd—forty or so including spouses—had attended a local theater production of a play written by a Long Island playwright and starring a well-known movie actor. Gabe had none-too-subtly maneuvered to sit next to her in the theater, and had stayed close to her at the dance club where the more energetic members of the group had congregated later.

  She hadn't danced with Gabe since high school, and had been unprepared for the rush of carnal awareness that had stormed her senses like a fever. Recalling the way he'd looked at her, the smoky potency of his gaze, she suspected he'd felt it too.

  Back when they'd been dating she'd allowed her emotions free rein, delighting in their mutual attraction, in the exquisite anticipation of the act that would embody their love and seal their commitment. She recalled her innocent fascination with the physical aspect of their relationship, the petting and fondling, the bottomless kisses and constant, bone-deep craving.

  Now, fifteen years after it had all fallen apart, she grappled with the resurgence of that mutual attraction, recognizing it for the rudimentary chemical reaction it was. Hormones. Pheromones. The same thing that used to happen between Mildred and Horace.

  Yeah, right.

  It was turning into a long week.

  Dena slipped on her orange satin robe and pink glitter mules, grabbed a towel from the bathroom and headed downstairs.

  She was about to push open the screen door when Gabe's voice came to her from across the breezeway separating the workshop from the house. One of the workshop's open windows was directly across from the door she stood behind. She saw him cross the room, his stride lazy, unhurried. He was talking to someone.

  "…wish I could be there. Give Aunt Caroline my best."

  He disappeared, and reappeared walking in the other direction. Dena now saw he held a cordless phone to his ear. He stopped by the worktable and idly flipped through a file as he conversed.

  "Well, sometimes plans change at the last minute, Mother. It wouldn't hurt you to be more flexible."

  An image of Cynthia Moreau popped into Dena's head, the epitome of understated elegance with her Chanel suits and carefully tinted honey-blond hair and brittle plastic smile. And what colleges are you applying to, dear…? A dog groomer? Well, I suppose you can always change your mind later.

  "No, I won't be back until Saturday," Gabe was saying. "That's right, the whole week. We're staying with Ham Conklin, me and Andrea and some others."

  He looked up then, straight out the window, and Dena shrank back into the shadowed hallway, though she knew he couldn't see her.

  "No one special," he said, "just a few people I went to school with." He slapped the file closed and parked his hip on the edge of the table.

  No one special.

  Silently she turned from the door and, in a spineless move worthy of the old Dena, retreated down the hallway.

  * * *

  From
her field-level box seat five rows behind first base, Dena watched John Franco pitch a high fast ball to the Braves batter, who fouled it off about ten rows behind her. Bedlam ensued as fans vaulted over seats in a mad scramble for the ball.

  Next to her, Gabe was grinning. "I haven't been to a game in years. Didn't realize how much I missed it."

  "My friend Margaret and I come here to see the Mets play at least three or four times each season," Dena said. "She's in love with Mike Piazza."

  Dena pitied Gabe the grueling work schedule that kept him from the simple pleasures of a ball game: The crack of the bat, the din of the crowd surging to their feet to cheer in a home run, the blare of the sound system trumpeting our boys to victory. Da-da-da-DUM-da-DUM…CHARGE!!! The mingled perfumes of cold beer and hot frankfurters. The sticky patina of spilled soda underfoot. The unrivaled ambrosia of stadium peanuts.

  Heaven.

  It was the top of the eighth and the Mets were leading three to one. The floodlights ringing the top of the stadium were on, illuminating the field, while overhead the sky was dark and overcast. A sudden breeze blew in, cool and moist and smelling of rain. Dena prayed it would hold off for another inning and a half.

  Their group occupied several rows. Dena sat on the aisle. Just like last night at the theater, Gabe had lost no time snagging the seat next to hers.

  "So tell me," she asked, as the batter hit the ball into shallow left field for a base hit. "Even with the incredible workload, the ungodly hours, missing all those Mets games and who knows what else—are you happy?"

  "Yes." He didn't hesitate. "I'm doing what I've always wanted to do."

  "And doing it very well, by all appearances. So that's it, then. You've executed your master plan. You've got the corner office, the centerfold condo. Life's complete."

  He wore a wry grin. "Do I detect a trace of sarcasm?"

  "No, you detect a whole big heaping shovelful of it. But hey…" She shrugged. "Different strokes for different folks. I bet you could never imagine playing innkeeper to dogs and cats, either."

  "When I was younger I'd have dismissed something like that out of hand as flaky in the extreme."

  "Not to put too fine a point on it, but my flaky business is hauling in the green stuff by the bucket-load."

  Gabe raised his hand. "I said that's what I would've thought back then. Youthful tunnel vision." He met her gaze directly. "I'm not the same stupid kid."

  Studying his earnest face under the cool stadium lights, Dena knew he wasn't just talking about business. They stared at each other even when the skies opened like a tipped bucket, dumping rain on their heads, even when everyone around them leaped out of their seats to wait out the storm in the enclosed perimeter of the stadium.

  Dena finally moved to rise. Gabe stopped her with a hand on her arm. He produced the umbrella she'd razzed him for bringing along—"there's only a thirty percent chance of rain, Gabe!"—and opened it over their heads. It was enormous, a big, black executive model, covering them both with room to spare.

  "A family of six could live under here," Dena said, as rain battered the surrounding orange plastic seats and drummed on the taut nylon fabric overhead. The great bowl of the stadium, packed to capacity two minutes earlier, now appeared deserted, save for a cluster of fans huddled under the overhang circling the top. The floodlights mounted there turned the downpour into a glittering curtain. The grounds crew were lined up behind an enormous cylinder, unrolling a blue tarpaulin over the infield.

  Gabe's eyes glowed like polished amber in the murky half-light of their domelike shelter. Dena pushed her wet hair off her face and rubbed her arms, rough with gooseflesh. Gabe transferred the umbrella to his other hand and put his arm around her. She leaned into his heat, knowing she should get up and join the others, but lacking the will to do so.

  "It's funny," she murmured, snuggled against his shoulder but not looking at him, "you saying you're not the same stupid kid. I never thought of you as stupid back then. I adored you. To me you were … perfect. You were all I wanted, all I could ever imagine wanting."

  "I guess on some level I knew that," he said after a moment. "You put me up on a pedestal, and it never occurred to me that there's only one place to go from there."

  Straight down. But he'd toppled himself, Dena silently argued. She might have been young and naive and hopelessly besotted, but his actions were his own doing. He couldn't claim she'd driven him into the arms of another.

  Dena felt Gabe turn his head, felt his warm, humid breath on her face. He was looking at her. "I've thought about it a lot over the years," he said. "About what led up to…"

  A gentle sigh wafted over her. The hand draped over her shoulder shifted and he stroked her bare upper arm. Outside the haven of their umbrella, the downpour continued unabated. The grounds crew had finished their work; the infield was now one giant blue patch.

  "I had blinders on, too, in a way." He seemed to choose his words with care. "My world back then was strictly circumscribed. I mean, I went to public school, I played basketball, I did the drama club and all that, but that was only part of who I was. And not the biggest part."

  "You mean you didn't have to work a paper route to buy shoes? I kind of knew that already, Gabe."

  "What I mean is, the way I was brought up—it was all I knew, all I was really comfortable with. My parents raised me to think the world revolved around me. I was the only son, crown prince of the family empire. We only associated with people like us, people who lived the way we did, who'd gone to the same schools, joined the same clubs."

  Dena said, "So I was what? Your walk on the sleazy side?"

  She tried to pull away, but Gabe wouldn't let her. His face a hairbreadth from hers, his golden eyes burning into her, he said, "No. I was sheltered and shallow—and too damn full of myself to admit it or even recognize it. If I failed to appreciate you—your strengths, your potential—it was because I had no frame of reference. I couldn't compartmentalize you. You didn't come with a label."

  "Such as 'Debutante Daughter of Daddy's Law Partner.'"

  "This has nothing to do with her," he said sharply. "It has nothing to do with what happened. Well, it does," he amended, "but I won't get into that. Not until you're ready."

  "I've said it before. We never really knew each other." Dena stared out at the rain, now dwindling to a light shower. "I practically deified you. And as far as you were concerned, I was this loose cannon you could never quite figure out."

  Despite everything, she grinned. Poor Gabe. What courage it must have taken for the crown prince to bring Elly May Clampett home to meet the king and queen.

  "I've become a bit more broad-minded since then," he said dryly. "I've had to. Losing you may have been my most painful learning experience, but it was by no means my last."

  I'm not the same stupid kid. A telling comment, considering how confident Gabe had always acted in high school. It had been one of the things that had initially attracted her to him. The man he'd become had depths to him the boy could never have foreseen or appreciated. He didn't pretend to have an answer for everything.

  "Dena."

  She looked at him, and in his eyes she read his stark sincerity.

  "I don't believe that," he said, "that we never knew each other—and I don't think you believe it either. There was always something there—something very special."

  Then why did you throw it away? she wanted to ask, but she didn't. Clearly he'd done a lot of soul-searching, but she wasn't ready to hear more.

  Perhaps Gabe sensed that, because he didn't try to pursue it. Rising, he closed the umbrella and shook it out, and only then did Dena notice it had stopped raining. Fans were drifting back into the stadium, wiping down the seats with whatever was handy. On the infield the grounds crew began the laborious task of rerolling the tarp.

  Dena rose, too, and stretched. Gabe glanced up the aisle. Rhonda was returning to her seat. Ever efficient, she carried a stack of restroom paper towels to dry the seats. Frank fo
llowed close behind, his own arms laden with nachos, caramel corn and beer.

  Gabe wasted no time. "Dena, you don't want to go on that garden tour tomorrow. Don't lie to me."

  She didn't even try. To her, flowers and gardening were a major yawn. "What did you have in mind?"

  His gaze shot to Rhonda "the Mouth" Peterson, fast approaching but still out of earshot. "Come with me to the beach. Just the two of us. We'll bum around for the day."

  Just the thought of it brought such pure, incandescent bliss to Gabe's face that Dena had to laugh. When was the last time he'd lazed around on a beach? She'd bet her prettiest pug he spent nearly every weekend working. Still, she had to point out, "They're relying on us to drive."

  "They don't need us to chauffeur them around. Ham can drive a couple of them, and one of the locals can swing by and pick up the rest. Shouldn't be too hard to line up a ride—close to twenty people are going on that garden tour."

  "Well…"

  Rhonda was three rows away, her progress hampered by her self-imposed role as distributor of the paper towels.

  Gabe sidled closer to Dena and whispered, "Tell them you're sick—allergic to the flowers, there you go. I'll claim I have transmission trouble and have to take the car in. As soon as they're gone—" his arm skated straight out"—we blow the joint."

  A date? With Gabe? What was she thinking?

  He said, "It's not a date, if that's what you're thinking. Say yes. Nod your head. Send up a smoke signal. Anything."

  Dena thought of all those weekends Gabe spent poring over law books and depositions and who knew what all, when he should have been adding to his seashell collection. She said, "I'll pack the sunscreen."

  * * *

  7

  « ^ »

  From her bedroom window Dena watched Gil Reyes's station wagon pull out of the driveway, with Rhonda and Frank inside. She figured Scott and Andrea must have gotten a ride earlier with Ham. The day was pleasantly warm but not blistering, the vivid blue sky studded with puffy cumulus clouds. The perfect day for a garden tour. Or the beach.