Friday Mornings at Nine

by Marilyn Brant

  “It is. And it’s an excellent break from typing, too. Been up since five-thirty working on the new issue.” He paused and glanced over his shoulder at the woodpile. “Lived here a year and a half. I plan to actually use my fireplace this winter,” he chuckled, more to himself, she thought, than to her.

  “Are those vegetables I see over there?” She pointed at a small garden patch on the side of the house.

  “Yep. Gonna be doing some serious broccoli harvesting soon.” He met her gaze and grinned. “I dare you to top that, even with your hundreds of juicy cherry tomatoes.”

  She laughed, remembering when he plucked that tomato off one of her plants and, also, thinking of her Aunt Eliza and her reviled broccoli crop. “You dare me, huh? Well, I’ll see your broccoli, and I’ll raise you two bell peppers, a head of lettuce and an eggplant.”

  He blinked at her. “You grow eggplant? Show-off. Fine. Bring it on. We’ll have to compare produce sometime. I know I’ve got a blue-ribbon bunch of superior cruciferous goodness here.”

  She loved it when he pulled out the multisyllabic words. “Ha. I’ll take that as a challenge. And those flowers over there…” She waved her hand at the meager growth of goldenrods in his front yard. “Are they award winning, too?”

  “Hey, just because I don’t do roses like some people—”

  She found herself giggling. “Fine. You admit you’re not skilled enough for roses, but c’mon. No lively snapdragons? No delicate violets? Not even a handful of impetuous poppies?”

  “Neighbor, you’re pushin’ it. I am very skilled.” He ducked his head to hide—unsuccessfully—a smirk. “I just grow dignified, manly plants.”

  “Whatever you say, but I still think I’ve got you beat.”

  “Oh, we’ll see about that.” He met her eye this time. Then, when she sensed she’d stayed long enough and had nodded goodbye at him, he winked, turned his back on her and headed again toward the stack of wood logs littering his driveway.

  She drove the short distance home, her hands trembling faintly as she steered. This was ridiculous. He was just a guy. And he probably used that playful manner when he talked with everyone. She gripped the wheel tighter until she could no longer see the shaking. But she still felt it. Deep inside her fingers. Hidden by a camouflage of skin and jewelry.

  She frittered away the next several hours with mindless tasks like vacuuming, dishes and dusting (Jon would be home that night and he hated “untidiness”), but she was unable to concentrate on much beyond that. Jon’s flight was due to touch down at O’Hare around five, but he was often late and had a habit of just taking a taxi back to the house. So, it would probably be hours before she spoke with another human being in person, and there was an undeniable pang of loneliness at the thought that her only remaining conversation of the day would be with her husband.

  She didn’t want to bother Aaron, even if he worked from home and had flexible hours, but she couldn’t help but think about him when she picked a pail full of veggies from her garden. It would be funny if she dropped some off for him, right? An extension of that light mockery they always had between them.

  So, she spent half an hour trying to choose a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved tee that said “casual and clean,” even while aiming for “cute and clever.” Then, just before four, she clipped three of her most perfect white roses, locked the door but left the garage door open and headed to Aaron’s, a plastic bag of vegetables in one hand, her house keys and the flowers in the other.

  When she got to Aaron’s front step, she noticed the main door was open and the screen allowed her an easy view into his house. She could see him, well, part of him, sitting in a chair one room over, his back to her. She wasn’t sure what he was doing, but his sturdy shoulders appeared stiff and his level of concentration so intense that he didn’t hear the scuff of her shoes on his welcome mat.

  She observed him for a moment, holding her breath, wondering how a woman who’d fallen out of love with him would perceive him. Would the shoulders Tamara considered broad and strong be seen by his ex-wife as rigid, tense and unyielding? Would the verbal repartee Tamara attributed to him as evidence of witty banter be viewed by his ex as examples of argumentativeness and hair-splitting? Would a rose by any other name…?

  “Hey,” he said, spotting her and waving her inside. “You’re back. You can come in, you know.”

  “Thanks.” She opened the screen door and stepped in. “You seemed involved in something. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  He shook his head. “Just editing. The next issue goes out on Monday, so I’ve got the weekend to finish up.”

  “The next issue of—your magazine?”

  “My company’s magazine,” he corrected. “I’m one of the co-founders. We send e-mail issues out to over one hundred twenty thousand subscribers, twice a month.” He pointed to his laptop, which, now that she was in the house, she could see resting on the table in front of him. He quoted from the site: “‘The Enlightened Man is for today’s Renaissance Warrior. It’s the only e-zine for men that specifically addresses health and fitness matters alongside in-depth features on relationships, clothing, entertainment, cars and culture. We cover everything that a Man of the Millennium needs to know.’” He paused to nod at her. “Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

  “A top-notch publication,” Tamara agreed. “Almost makes me wish I were a Man of the Millennium myself, just so I had an excuse to read the articles.”

  He snickered. “Sure you do.” He logged off his computer. “Well, maybe if your husband is very good, Santa will get him a year’s subscription.”

  “I doubt that’ll happen.” She kicked off her shoes, seeing as his sneakers were there, too, and crossed the light beige carpet with her vegetable and floral offering. Just as she was about to make some flippant remark about how her bell peppers were undoubtedly greener than his broccoli crowns, he made a comment that halted her midstep.

  “Why’s that? Because your husband hasn’t been very good or because Santa already has a different gift in mind?”

  “Um—” She tried to laugh it off, but he was waiting for her reply. What did a woman with a marriage like hers say to a question like this? The approved answer would be the latter, with some well-rehearsed sexual allusion tossed onto the flame of innuendo for good measure. The truth would be the former, but one didn’t make such an admission aloud. Especially not to mere acquaintances. And especially, especially not to other men.

  She cleared her throat. “Jon doesn’t have much time to read,” she said, marveling at her ability to lie so smoothly and, indeed, so often over the course of just one week. What would she claim next? That she was a tennis champ who could rival Venus and Serena at Wimbledon?

  “Oh,” he said, shrugging. “Too bad.”

  “Yeah.” She spotted a snapshot taped to the shelf above the computer. Aaron with an elderly man who looked to be his dad, an elderly woman most likely his mom and another female—a sister, maybe? She pointed to the photo. “Your family?”

  “Two out of the three. My parents are in the middle. The woman on the right is my ex-wife. Isabelle.”

  “Oh.” She studied the younger woman in the snapshot more closely. Long light brown hair, pretty grayish eyes, delicate bone structure. Features so petite they made Tamara feel like a Midwestern version of Xena, Warrior Princess. “You must still have a really good relationship with her to keep her picture up.”

  He laughed, a sound that came so swift and strong it surprised her. “Not at all.” He laughed again until tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. “But it’s a real nice photo of the four of us, isn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  “Exactly. I keep it up to remind me that appearances can be deceiving.” And with that, he pushed himself to standing and took the plastic bag from her fingers. “What have you got in here, neighbor?”

  Her head still reeling from his admission, Tamara mumbled something about how her roses could outdo his goldenrods any ole tim
e, and her vegetables were waaaay better than his vegetables.

  He raised one disbelieving eyebrow. “Are not.”

  “Are, too. And,” she added, “where the hell is this famous broccoli of yours, anyway?”

  He inclined his head in the direction of the kitchen. “Got a fresh bunch on the table.”

  “Well?”

  He plopped her bag full of peppers, cherry tomatoes, lettuce and eggplant on his oak table. “Feast your eyes, neighbor.” Center-table and ready to eat, the broccoli glistened with a just-washed sheen. It was cut in easy to grab florets, and Aaron pulled a small bowl of ranch dip out of the refrigerator. “Try one.”

  So she dabbed a small floret in the dip and took a bite. Smooth stalk. Crisp but baby tender. Flavorful and fresh. “Not bad.”

  He rolled his eyes. “It’s excellent. Say it.”

  “Not till I try it steamed.”

  “What?” He laughed. “You’re a hard woman to please.” He moved to place her roses in a thin, clear vase he’d filled with water, then reached for the steamer pot on the stove.

  “Aaron! You don’t really have to do that. I was just hassling you.”

  He raised his eyebrows at her. “Oh, I know. But you threw down the gauntlet, and I’m gonna win this round.”

  As he steamed a couple of stalks, she glanced outside and saw Sharky chasing after a rabbit in the yard. Then, when the rabbit bolted under the fence, Sharky jumped up and down as if pleading for the bunny to come back. Barking, “Don’t leave! We’re not done playing yet.”

  Aaron caught her watching and said, “He’s an extrovert. What can I say?”

  “Are you going to bring him inside?”

  “In a little bit. He’s been cooped up a lot today. Besides, he’s not real polite about waiting for attention when he wants it. He’ll snatch your keys or something until you play with him.”

  She smiled. “Better to ask forgiveness than to ask permission, though, right?”

  “So they say.”

  And Tamara really didn’t know how or why what happened next happened. It probably wasn’t anything noteworthy in anyone else’s book, but to her their conversation fell into a rare easiness, one almost mystical in origin, at least compared to what she’d grown used to.

  As he inspected her garden’s produce, their chatting took a personal turn. They talked about their favorite relatives. He mentioned his crazy Grandpa R. J., the one who always took him fishing—a couple dozen times at least—but they only caught fish twice. She told him about her Aunt Eliza. He laughed when she explained her aunt’s gardening antics, Al the “younger” man and her latest road trip…this time to a Patriots game.

  He insisted on chopping up her vegetables to accompany his broccoli, both raw and steamed (turned out, she preferred the latter), so they could have a taste test. And, eventually, after they’d tried some of everything, he broke out a bag of molasses cookies and let Sharky back inside. A canine whose love of bacon treats, she soon learned, eclipsed even his love of jumping on people.

  “Your dog’s hilarious,” she said, watching Sharky attack one of Aaron’s running sneakers with the exuberance of youth and the teeth of a baby wolf.

  “Yeah, he’s funny. My very own teenager. But, he’s also kind—energetic, but in a good-intentioned way. And loyal.” He exhaled long and hard. “Never lived with anyone like that. Not as an adult.”

  She shot a look at him, not knowing whether she should ask directly or wait for him to explain, but then she thought, How freakin’ ridiculous. Since when was she afraid to ask a man a question? “So, things with…um, Isabelle, they ended badly?”

  He didn’t hem, haw or remotely hesitate. “Things with Isabelle ended like the Agony of Defeat, Tamara. Like the most disastrous skiing wipeout imaginable.”

  Oh, she wanted to know more. To probe for details and explanations. To have her theory confirmed that Isabelle played the role of bad spouse and Aaron the good one. Because—c’mon—only a female villain would’ve given him up. “She was disloyal to you, right? She let you down?”

  He glanced sharply out the kitchen window, suddenly fascinated with a squirrel or something in the yard. “We let each other down,” he said finally. Then he looked her in the eye. “In a bad marriage, it’s never just one partner’s fault, you know?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose not.” Though she didn’t quite believe that. Then, to break eye contact with him, she glanced at her watch. Seven P.M. Shit. Where did the time go? Jon might actually be home by now. “Oh, God, it’s getting late, Aaron. I didn’t realize…I should head home.”

  “Okay.” He pointed to the veggies and cookies on the table. “Wanna take some with you?”

  She shook her head. “No, but it was delicious. Well, I mean—” She feigned a shrug of indifference. “The broccoli was just okay, but my vegetables were outstanding.” She stood up.

  He stood up next to her and gave her the elbow. “Shut up, neighbor, or I won’t invite you back for the zucchini harvest.”

  She grinned at him, even as her hyperawareness of his body’s proximity to hers intensified. He was so close, and he’d touched her. Not that this meant anything, but it created in her a strange kind of zing she hadn’t felt in years. Decades, perhaps. “You were gonna invite me back? Gonna make me zucchini bread or something?”

  “Not if you keep being so mouthy.” He called Sharky to come say goodbye.

  “Thanks for talking,” she told him, completely serious for a second. Completely meaning it.

  “Welcome. It was a nice break for me, too.” His Adam’s apple jumped as he nodded at her, and then the man and his dog watched her as she walked away—she’d glanced back to check—Sharky wagging his stubby tail, Aaron just standing there, a half smile on his handsome face.

  She shivered as she strode back toward her house. There was a chill in the evening air that hadn’t been there during the afternoon. Though maybe her emotions contributed to that. She felt a range of them, managing to be both excited and at peace simultaneously. Maybe because being with Aaron at his house had been that way: interesting and engaging without being overstimulating, but equally quiet and calm without that pervasive sense of loneliness she’d grown so accustomed to in her own home. She could relax in his company in a way she hadn’t been able to do with anyone, not even her best friends, for a long time.

  That sense of peacefulness was shattered the moment she spotted the closed garage door. Oh, damn. Jon had beaten her back. She sped up, unlocked the front door and there he stood, in full reprimand pose at the top of the staircase, glaring down at her.

  “It’s after seven,” he spit out. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Just down the street—” She pointed her thumb behind her as if to say “right there” without giving away specifics.

  “Didn’t you remember when I’d be back? I’ve been wondering for an hour when you’d show up, Tamara.”

  “Well, now that burning question has been answered, hasn’t it?” She slammed the door shut, her temper rising, a predictable thing these days. It twisted and snapped like firewood into shards of well-practiced irritation. “You’re gone for days at a time, but what? You expect me to wait by the door for your return like some little nursemaid whose only purpose in life is to attend to your fucking needs?”

  “No. But the garage door was wide open—like you were just out for a few minutes. You didn’t have your cell with you. I couldn’t reach you. I didn’t know if you wanted me to makeshift a dinner or if you were out picking something up. Your car was still here, though, so, unless someone else drove you somewhere, I didn’t think you’d gone far.”

  “So, that’s the real reason you’re so pissed off? It’s about dinner? Because you didn’t know if you’d be required to make yourself a sandwich or heat up a can of soup?” Of course, he was upset because of that, not because he was worried about her.

  He shook his head. “Look, I’m tired of always arguing with you. It just would’ve been cour
teous to let me know where you were. A note or something.”

  She kicked off her shoes. “You know nothing about courtesy, Jon.”

  He laughed. A nasty, sarcastic sound. “Well, you’re so damned angry and aggressive, I’m not sure you’d be one to recognize it.”

  She stared at him. “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You don’t want to have a meaningful discussion with me about anything. All you want is to incite a new argument. Even when you’re clearly in the wrong.”

  What she wanted was to yell at him, to react in some way, but her interest in engaging him for one more measly second of debate suddenly abated. A bad habit she’d grown weary of keeping. Instead, she studied him. His fair skin, black eyes, dark hair still thick even as he approached fifty. That crease between his brows where he collected his frustration. The hint of stubble on his tensed jaw.

  How could he know so little about her? How could he, after nearly two decades of marriage, not realize how much she craved a true conversational connection with him? It wasn’t that she didn’t want it. No. It was that she’d given up—years ago—the hope of ever getting it.

  She shrugged and said, “Think whatever you want. You’re going to anyway.”

  He regarded her with an expression she’d most closely describe as contempt before shrugging and turning away. “Oh,” he said, making it clear he wouldn’t waste unnecessary words on her. “Your cell kept ringing. I finally checked the number. Wasn’t one I recognized. Vermont area code, but not your aunt’s number.”

  “Thanks for telling me.” She waited until he’d disappeared into the black hole of the hallway, more than fine with the prospect of him not returning for a few hours. She saw the light in his office switch on. The door closing behind him.

  She spotted the day’s mail. Jon had brought it in but left it in a heap in the middle of the living room coffee table, of course, so she would have to deal with it. She sifted through the stack as she listened to her cell phone messages. The caller had tried three times but only left one message. It was the voice of an older man unknown to her, at least not at first.