The Light of Hidden Flowers

by Jennifer Handford

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The next day at Fletcher Financial, I entered my office, turned on my computer and the three screens, and headed to the kitchen to fill my mug with coffee. Once at my computer, I checked the markets, reviewed the portfolios’ returns, and scanned the to-do list. I opened the calendar, pondered the clients and the prep work needed for the meetings, and most importantly, penciled in a half hour for lunch. Then I checked e-mails.

  “You have a message from Joseph Santelli.” I smiled, logging on to Facebook. I pulled up the message. It had come in late last night. I was wondering why I hadn’t heard the message alert on my phone until I found my phone dead in my purse.

  Okay, then. A message from Joe.

  I couldn’t stop smiling. I wanted to savor this moment. I sipped at my coffee. I needed a doughnut. I returned to the break room, found a leftover Krispy Kreme from yesterday’s breakfast meeting. I zapped it in the microwave, then returned to my office. I sat at my computer, clicked on the screen, and read the message.

  I’d loved Joe more than anyone other than my father. I was glad to hear he was happy, and his joy inspired mine. Lucas wasn’t Joe, but Lucas was great, and he and I could build what Joe and his wife had made: a home, a family, a lifetime of memories.

  I wrote Joe back. I told him about Fletcher Financial and how Dad was the same great guy and how everyone still loved him and how he still loved everyone. Then I told Joe about Dad’s forgetfulness, and how I wanted him to have a brain scan, and how Dad was resisting. “I just hope he’s okay,” I told him. “Thanks for writing me back, Joe. It’s amazing to hear from you.”

  The following weekend, Lucas came to dinner. I cooked him Italian. It took me most of the day, but I managed to master saltimbocca. And while I was keenly aware that Lucas would eat only a portion of this plateful of food, I did it anyway. I wanted my house to burst with the aromatic smells. I wanted him to understand my passion. All the while, I sipped from my glass of Barolo.

  While I finished up the dinner preparations, Lucas sat at the counter, sipping water and watching me.

  “In Italian,” I said, “saltimbocca means ‘to jump in the mouth.’” I cut a small piece of veal and prosciutto and jabbed it with a fork, then leaned over the counter toward Lucas. “Open up,” I said.

  He took the bite, chewed. “That’s cool that you’re learning Italian.”

  I was being a bully; I realized this. But I wanted to know: “So what do you think? Is the food so good it ‘jumps in your mouth’?”

  “It’s the best saltimbocca I’ve ever had,” Lucas said.

  I grimaced at his offhanded compliment. It was delicious, if I might have said so myself. During dinner, Lucas ate, but he didn’t devour. Tomorrow I would savor our leftovers in private, and enjoy it a thousand times more.

  I gritted my teeth and fought every urge in my body not to hold this against him, because after all, he and I were the same—except for this one point. So he wasn’t a foodie. So he didn’t drool at the thought of salted caramel, or ravioli pillows stuffed with creamy goat cheese, or Merlot sliding down his throat.

  He was so much like me—a safety guy happy to stay put, a risk-averse chap who believed that testing the waters or working outside of the box could only lead to problems. I poured and downed another glass of Barolo. If we were so much alike, why was it taking me a half bottle of wine to get through dinner?

  When I was a teenager, I was obedient and good. I never once rebelled against my father. His guidance didn’t send me in the opposite direction. When he warned me not to cozy up with the boys too early, I listened. When other girls were pushing themselves into the arms of unsuitable boys just to spite their parents, I took Dad’s advice to heart. He knew what he was talking about. When Dad told me to listen to his cache of Dale Carnegie tapes, I did. When he suggested I learn tennis because “country club sports” were essential to business, I grabbed my racquet. When he advised me to buy near the water because real estate proximity would always matter, I put in an offer.

  But now, at age thirty-five, it seemed I was at last experiencing rebellion. The steadier Lucas was, the more reckless I wanted to become. When he ordered water, I ordered wine—one glass typically would have been fine, but now I ordered two. When he spoke of the safety of staying within the contiguous fifty, I argued for the value of adventure, of experiencing different cultures, not just watching them on television. Even with our tax discussions, as he argued for toeing the line of prudence and staying way below the IRS’s radar, I argued that some techniques were lucrative enough to take the chance. The words coming from my mouth weren’t my own, but those of a mutinous teenager arguing for the sport of it.

  Home alone, I rebelled in another fashion. I planned trips. I’d spend hours on Expedia charting flights and finding hotels. I would fill my virtual shopping cart with all of the requisite pieces to make for a fine excursion: the flight, the hotel, the cooking school. The guided tours, the visits to the churches. Boat rides down the rivers bisecting cities. With ten different windows open, I’d work until I was only a click away—one “Submit” button on each page—from booking a trip.

  Then I’d click on Facebook and stare at Joe. I would trace my finger over the delicate lines that now fanned from his eyes. I would close my eyes and imagine what a great father he must be to his children, what a wonderful husband.

  And then I would exhale, open my eyes, and—one at a time—close out of all the open pages. Who was I kidding?

  Lucas washed dishes while I put the coffee on. Deliberately, I sliced a piece of tiramisu for him—larger than I knew he would want—and one for me.

  When I handed it to him, he covered his belly and shook his head no. “I can’t eat another bite.”

  “But it’s tiramisu,” I said. I detected my mean tone, like a bully goading a weaker kid. Still: How on earth could he turn down tiramisu?

  “Save it,” he said. He stood up, slid his arms through mine, kissed my neck. “I’m hungry for you.”

  I wiggled away. “I think we should eat dessert first.” I never picked a fight with anyone, but I was itching to kick Lucas for not wanting the tiramisu. I excavated a massive forkful of cake and crammed it in my mouth. Lucas took the plate from my hand, set it on the table, and then led me to the bedroom.

  “But, wait . . .” I stuttered through my stuffed mouth.

  “I don’t want to wait,” he said, laying me on the bed. He slipped off my flats, unbuttoned and unzipped my pants, slid them down my legs. He lifted my shirt and planted hot kisses over my belly. I allowed the full weight of my head to sink into the soft, downy mattress. I closed my eyes and tried to focus, strained to conjure up an ounce of desire, but my mind had only two thoughts: the tiramisu melting in my mouth, and Joe. I pretended Lucas was Joe: his olive skin, the blade of his hip bone, our beachside cottage. If I focused deep enough, I could feel Joe’s lips, the terrain of his arms.

  “You have no idea how beautiful you are,” Joe used to say. I wasn’t beautiful, I knew that, but at that moment, with my milky-white skin pushed up against his, the color of a perfect latte, I felt luminous.

  My brain, my trusty ally, providing me with my faultless memory, remembering perfection.

  And Lucas—so sweet, so adoring, yet so predictable. When I opened my eyes and looked at him—all the exotic tastes of Joe and tiramisu turned to boiled ham.

  Later, Lucas fell fast asleep. I slipped from his grip and tiptoed into the kitchen, reclaimed the obscenely large wedge of cake, poured a cup of coffee still hot in the pot, and sat at my computer. I logged on to Facebook and stared at Joe’s photo. “I love you,” I whispered, and then exhumed another shovel of cake. You would have loved this cake, Joe. You would have eaten it until you were sick. And I would have delighted in your gluttony.

  He had messaged me back: “Missy, sorry to hear Frank’s gotten forgetful. Hard to believe he could ever a
ge. I’m sure you’ll convince him to see a doctor. Please keep me posted. I’m thinking about the two of you.”

  Following Thanksgiving break of our first year of college, Joe and I remained close. He’d given me my Christmas present early, a gold necklace with a seashell charm. We stood at his car, shivering, huddling together against the November wind, yet not wanting to leave the moment. We hugged and kissed and hugged some more. We stared into each other’s eyes, professed our love with Romeo-and-Juliet passion. I cried when Joe finally slid into the driver’s seat. When we said good-bye, I was sure that we’d be together forever. But only a few weeks later, Joe e-mailed that he wouldn’t be coming home for Christmas break; that the residential assistant for his dorm had to go home because of a family illness and had asked Joe if he would stay on campus and do his job. It was a good opportunity to make some money; also, an internship had opened up in the ROTC office and Joe had taken it.

  Joe came home after Christmas—briefly, for just a day and a half. I saw him once before he was whisked away by his big family. He looked different to me. All he could talk about was the military, the Marines. What about us? I wanted to scream, but Joe’s intensity had transferred from his parochial life in Alexandria to a larger world in need of his services. He was a man on a mission, a guy with a goal, a world to save from tyranny.

  By spring, our communication had almost stopped, but when I e-mailed him before Easter break, asking if he’d be coming home, he said no. I asked if I could come to Lexington, to see him, but he said it was against the rules, and besides, he had been handpicked to do research with the commandant of cadets.

  Summer came, and although I was home at the end of May, Joe didn’t arrive until July, having decided to stay through June to finish up his research project. When we finally saw each other, he tried to act normally, as if we were still a couple, and I clung desperately to the hope that we were. But we were hardly ever alone, as if Joe had contrived our meetings around his family or my dad. As if he didn’t want to be with just me. When I finally orchestrated my own moment, sending Dad out to the store, I stood in front of him.

  “What happened to us?” I found the courage to say.

  “You’re my first real girlfriend—”

  “And you’re my first real boyfriend,” I said.

  “That’s the problem,” Joe said. “We can’t be each other’s first and last.” He looked down, and that’s when I knew he had been seeing other girls.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Missy,” Joe started. “I love you. Please don’t doubt that. But there’s a big world out there. For you, for me. We need to see what’s out there. Before we settle down.”

  “I don’t,” I said. “I’m perfectly happy to stay here in Alexandria. With you, with Dad.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “Because I think there is more to you than that.”

  “There’s not,” I said and huffed away because Joe had just unwittingly maligned me the same way my father always had: revealing that me, as is, didn’t cut it.

  In the fall, Joe returned to VMI and I resumed my studies at W&M. After a few disappointing attempts, we soon fell completely out of touch.

  Two years passed. I occasionally saw Joe’s mother. Her eyes welled with tears when she told me of Joe’s new girlfriend.

  Then 9/11 hit. Could any of us claim to be the same after that?

  If Joe were ever on the fence about joining the military, he wasn’t after the attack on our soil. From his mother I knew that he had finished his degree in three years and then went to the Basic School in Quantico to become a marine officer. I also knew that he had married his girlfriend and that they had a baby on the way. By 2003, Joe was fighting in Operation Iraqi Freedom.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  By the end of September, Lucas and I had settled into a routine as predictable as a forty-year-married couple’s. And while, admittedly, such a depiction of our relationship sounds disparaging at best, there was much that I appreciated about our stable schedule. Lucas was always on time. In fact, early. Lucas always had a full tank of gas, an immaculately clean car, and a wallet full of cash. Lucas called every night at seven o’clock on the dot. Lucas didn’t care what I ate or drank, wore or didn’t wear. Lucas accepted me exactly as I was. Correction, Lucas adored me exactly as I was.

  We saw each other every Saturday night. For a number of weeks, we took turns picking restaurants. I mined the list of the top one hundred restaurants in the Washingtonian magazine, hoping Lucas might find a cuisine that appealed to him: Vietnamese? Russian? And on the nights when it was Lucas’s turn to choose, we ended up at a chain restaurant like TGI Friday’s or Applebee’s. Even there, Lucas showed no interest in food. Even there, I did, delighting in the scorched swiss cheese edges atop a bowl of French onion soup. It seemed my affinity for food crossed all borders, both cartographical and star-rated.

  Eventually, though, it grew easier for me to cook him a simple meal: grilled chicken with rice pilaf, a steamed vegetable, and a loaf of bread. So long as Lucas wasn’t forced to choose among a menu replete with foie gras and sweetbreads, he was happy. And I was relieved not to confront this part of my boyfriend. So long as I wasn’t antagonized directly by his aversion to fine dining, it was easier to cope.

  Tonight I cooked a variation of the same. Roasted chicken, but this time with orzo rather than rice. Lucas wanted to know the deal: Is this pasta, or is it rice?

  I gulped my wine, dislodging the dry chicken and orzo roadblock in my throat, then I tried some shock and awe. “Wouldn’t it be great to take a trip to Italy?” I lobbed it in the air and waited for it to fall.

  Lucas set down his water. “There are pickpockets in Italy. And I heard the food is nothing like the Italian we’re used to. And Rome, it’s dirty, I hear.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, “but do you think you’d ever consider it?”

  “Going to Italy?”

  I looked at him levelly. “Yeah, with me. Going to Italy with me.” I persisted in bugging Lucas this way, and I wasn’t sure why, other than the fact that I knew it was a safe game for me to play. I’d ask, he’d say no, and in my mind I’d be able to blame him for our staying put, rather than my fear of flying. It was twisted, and had me questioning who I was, but questioning who I was had been the name of the game lately.

  “I would love to go on a trip with you!” Lucas said, and when he did, my stomach turned. What if Lucas actually said yes?

  “It would be awesome,” I said, reaching across for his hand.

  “But we might want to test the waters first.”

  “Test the waters?”

  “Something local. A weekend trip to Williamsburg, for example.”

  I withdrew my hand. Another swallow of wine. “Williamsburg, Virginia?”

  “It’s so interesting there. All the Colonial buildings and the tradespeople and shopkeepers dressed in Colonial garb,” Lucas went on.

  “You know I went to school at William & Mary, right? In Williamsburg?”

  “Perfect!” Lucas said. “You’d be a great tour guide.”

  “What about Italy?”

  “I’m not saying never,” Lucas said. “But we’d need to travel together first. Do a ton of research. I wouldn’t want to just hop on a plane and take our chances. I wouldn’t want to cause you any undo anxiety.”

  “Because of my fear of flying?” I asked.

  “Yes, Melissa, of course,” he said, taking my hands. “I care about you. I don’t want you to be scared. Ever.”

  Hmm. Did Lucas Anderson ever stop thinking about my needs?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A month later, Dad and I met with the Longworths to review their portfolio. Dad was smoking hot, remembering every detail: (1) Mr. Longworth’s father-son golf tournament in the Outer Banks, (2) Mrs. Longworth’s board meeting for the One by One Foundation, (3) the granddaughter Loralie’s s
occer tournament.

  After we said our good-byes, Dad pulled me into a hug.

  “It’s a beautiful day, Daughter,” Dad said. “Let’s take a quick walk. Get some fresh air.”

  “Go ahead,” I said. “I want to check e-mails before the Hoffmans come in.” Our next meeting was in just half an hour, clients who needed to stop by to drop off some material.

  When Dad hadn’t returned in twenty minutes, I began to worry. The Hoffmans came in fifteen minutes later, and I had to apologize for Dad because he wasn’t back yet. I led them into the conference room, took some notes on the changes they wanted to make. A half hour later, Dad was still AWOL. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Dad must have run into someone.”

  The Hoffmans were oblivious; they just wanted to relay to someone—Dad, me, Jenny—the amendment they wanted to make to their trust. They were happy to leave it with me. “Just have him call us,” they said.

  As soon as the Hoffmans turned the corner, I grabbed my coat and hollered to Jenny that I was going to look for Dad. I walked down the cobblestoned sidewalks of King Street, peering into the coffee shops and diners. I crossed Callahan and went into the train station—maybe Dad was there at the candy shop. He’d been known to frequent it before. I made a loop, checking the benches, in the restaurants, the shops. Back on King Street, I walked up to Duke. I eyed the steps, around the corners, down by the water. The memorials, the gardens, the firehouse museum, the Freedom House. Where are you, Dad?