by Angela Zeman
Mrs. Risk held up a hand. “Please. Enough.”
Rachel heaved a deep sigh. “Gotta open my own shop now, anyway. See you later. Mel Arvin promised to get me more information about gold futures today. You’ll see, I’m doing a smart thing.”
“I’m sure you’re right, dear,” said Mrs. Risk, looking distracted. “Isn’t your pottery class tonight?”
“At seven. Why?”
Without answering, Mrs. Risk drifted away down the boardwalk like a dark shadow in the sunlight.
That night at seven, Mrs. Risk entered Randy’s pottery studio to delighted greetings of ‘Take some clay!’ Mrs. Risk declined the honor, but perched on a stool to observe. The wide room was full of busy men and women straddling whirling wheels, digging hands into wet clay, spattering each other with muddy water, poring over glaze samples, and most of all…laughing. Randy, a tall talented woman overflowing with her own infectious laughter, sprang from student to student. Soft classical jazz filled the background, and the odor of glazes, clay, and fresh coffee perfumed the air.
Mrs. Risk marveled at Harry. This charming man she watched talk with animation to everyone in the room was far from the pale, despairing figure she’d seen this morning.
She soon picked out Christa. Harry was a small man of frail build, but Christa was even smaller. She had ivory skin, masses of fine ash blonde curls, and hazel-green eyes. Her figure was softly rounded and appealing, like a puppy transformed into womanhood. When she spoke to Harry, he seemed to sprout confidence in that instant. And like Geiger counters nearing uranium, each one’s flesh betrayed the approach of the other by flushing rosier and rosier, the color receding as the other moved away.
When all had left except Randy, Rachel, and Mrs. Risk, Randy laughed. “Isn’t it cute? And everybody loves them so much they don’t even tease, which is amazing. This is a pretty frank bunch.”
“What do you know about Christa?” Mrs. Risk asked.
Randy said, “Oh, she works in a doctor’s office in the next village. She has two little girls, ages four and six. Her husband ran off while she was in labor with the second one. Bob helped with her divorce. She once told me she was young and foolish when she married. But now she’s old and smart, she says. Too tough to fall for anyone else.” Randy laughed delightedly. “As tough as a butterfly wing.”
“And as beautiful,” added Mrs. Risk, smiling. “By the way, what is Harry making? He seems skillful for a beginner.”
“He’s good,” agreed Randy.
“Harry’s making flower pots,” said Rachel. “Harry has a whopping green thumb. He’s filled that ugly apartment with plants you wouldn’t believe. He’s really creative.”
“Isn’t that what you’re making, too, dear? Flower pots?” Mrs. Risk asked, glancing from the misshapen lump on Rachel’s wheel to the delicate symmetry of Harry’s piece.
“Yes. I thought I’d sell them in my shop—if I get good enough at this. It’s harder than it looks.”
“I can see that.”
Rachel sniffed. “Want to try it?”
Mrs. Risk arched an eyebrow. “Thank you, dear, but then I might want lessons, and Randy’s waiting list is long enough already.”
“Ummhmm. Right.”
Mrs. Risk drifted to the door. “Is Bob at home now, Randy? If you don’t mind, I’ll drop in on him. I have a rather odd legal problem. See you in the morning as usual, dear,” she said to Rachel.
“Lucky me,” said Rachel.
The next morning after tea, a curious Rachel trailed Mrs. Risk to the coin shop. They found Harry laboring over stacks of paper, as pale and depressed as yesterday morning. He’d begun the intricate inventory demanded by Aunt Margeurite, Mrs. Risk guessed.
“Um, about the commodities market,” Rachel began, but was cut off by Mrs. Risk.
“Harry,” she gushed, “I found the oddest coin. Of course, for all I know it could be a subway token!” Mrs. Risk laughed merrily.
Rachel snorted.
“But it could be very old. The markings are…” She broke off, glancing annoyed at Rachel, from whom again had erupted a muffled snort.
“But you’re so busy now. I have it!” she exclaimed. “Do you ever visit Harrington’s Dock to watch the sunset? It’s so lovely, overlooking the water. Even you will need a break by then. I’ll bring us a lovely wine, and you can look at my find!”
“Is 6:30 too late?” asked Harry, suddenly cheerier.
“Just what I was about to suggest myself. See you then.” And abruptly, Mrs. Risk grabbed Rachel’s arm and hurried her outside.
Mrs. Risk said crossly, “In future, refrain from crude noises, dear. I worried that you were about to blurt out something embarrassing.”
“Like how expert you really are about coins? Gee, why would I say that?”
“Tchah! Compared to Harry I know very little!”
“Oh, I see. You told a relative truth, then. Not a flat lie.”
Mrs. Risk gazed fondly at the young woman, then sniffed the air. “I have the oddest craving for a mocha latte. Join me?”
Rachel laughed. “Watch out. You might lose your taste for herbal tea! Can I come too, tonight?”
Mrs. Risk looked suddenly disturbed. “I don’t think so, dear. Your friend Harry would probably rather not have any friends nearby.”
Rachel paused, surprised. After a moment, she nodded gravely. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”
At 6:30 that evening, Harry arrived at Harrington’s Dock. Over the clustered tables, umbrellas fluttered gaily in the breeze. The last rays of the blushing sun stained the water red as it drooped towards Wyndham Bay and seagulls swooped low, scouting for possible treats. Nearly the whole village had collected there to salute the day’s end.
Mrs. Risk detached herself from a table occupied by two men in conservative suits and beckoned to Harry to join her at the next table over. A bottle of wine and glasses stood waiting.
“What a gorgeous time of day to share with friends,” she exclaimed, and insisted he relax before looking at her coin. They discussed her wine—a Simi Private Reserve Alexander Valley Cabernet that he declared outstanding—ordered a snack, and pondered the weather. Soon he was laughing, and as she watched, the lively man from Randy’s class reappeared. They’d begun their second glass, when a voice from the table behind them became loud and easily overheard. She paused, and so did Harry.
“I’ve drawn up the wills of most of the villagers around, but I’m glad I had nothing to do with that one.” The voice was Bob Blume’s, Mrs. Risk’s friend and attorney. Mrs. Risk wondered if Harry had ever met Bob, who was as popular in the village as his wife, Randy, but Harry gave no sign of recognition. He seemed content to wait until the speakers quieted again so that he and Mrs. Risk could continue their own conversation.
The second man, who was elderly, answered, wheezing loudly, “I just do my job.”
“If you handle her affairs, though,” pressed Bob, “you must know how she underpays this guy, dangling that damned will over his head to keep him in line. It’s abuse, no less. He’s like her slave.” He refilled the older man’s glass.
“If I could tell him, I would. You know that. But it’s not done. Where are the ethics?”
Bob leaned forward and exclaimed, “It’s not ethical to reveal what’s IN a will, but what’s wrong with saying what’s NOT in it, Leon!”
At the word, ‘Leon,’ Harry’s eyes suddenly widened. He listened openly now, his expression uncertain. Mrs. Risk stayed quiet.
“Whattaya mean, what’s not in it?”
“What’s not in it. You could, out of decency and respect for a really fine guy, go to this employee and say, fella, you’re not in the will. I mean, I could say the same thing to every single person for miles around without revealing that the dishonest bitch left every dime she owns to that foul, shriveled up nephew of hers. Right?”
Harry’s wineglass snapped off at the stem in his hand. Without seeming to notice the bright liquid that splashed like spilled blood
across the white table, he pulled himself to his feet. His plastic chair tumbled over behind him. A few people glanced up, startled.
The older man considered Bob thoughtfully. “You know, I’m gonna think it over. I am. Might be worth it, givin’ the poor guy a break. I’ll consider it.”
Harry rushed, stiff-legged, from the pier. He didn’t say good-bye to Mrs. Risk, and in his reeling flight seemed to see nothing around him. His eyes burned with a painful light turned inward.
Mrs. Risk sighed. Bob turned to her, his eyes worried. Mrs. Risk patted the back of his hand. “Thank you, darling. I know it was difficult.”
Bob glanced at his colleague, whose nose was buried in his fifth glass of wine and shrugged. “Leon won’t remember a thing tomorrow.” He tossed his napkin on the table. “I’d better drive him home.”
Mrs. Risk nodded. She stayed to see the sun safely tucked away for the night before she walked to her own home.
Throughout the next few weeks, Mrs. Risk kept track of Harry. To her amazement, he didn’t quit his job.
Nothing seemed to have changed except that he suddenly began showing up twice a week at Randy’s instead of just once.
One morning, Rachel called Mrs. Risk. “You won’t believe this! Uncle Harry proposed to Christa at Randy’s last night! You should’ve seen Christa’s face! What’s happened to him in the last month? When Aunt Margeurite finds out, she’ll pop!”
“Which would break your heart, obviously,” said Mrs. Risk dryly. But when she hung up, her expression was grim.
Then came the fire.
Mrs. Risk watched with the others as the Volunteer Fire Brigade tramped through the soggy, still sizzling, blackened site. Uncle Harry had been helped to safety across the street, where he was breathing from an oxygen tank, surrounded with worried friends.
Margeurite, after a bellow of rage at the damage to her property, had theatrically clutched a mammoth breast with both hands. She weaved about drunkenly, stumbling into the paths of the feverishly working firemen. The medics politely took her pulse, then moved her out of the way. Rachel said, frowning, “There hasn’t been a fire here since Uncle Harry came. That has to be…ten years ago?”
Margeurite, miffed that her distress had been unappreciated, began uttering threats against the ‘simp who let this happen,’ meaning Harry. That brought the attention she sought, but not quite the sympathy she desired. Her audience, most of which were Harry’s friends, glowered menacingly.
The fire chief asked Harry how he thought the fire had started.
“Could be somebody dropped a smoldering cigarette into a wastebasket without me noticing, I guess. After all, stamps are dry pieces of paper, and in an old building, it wouldn’t take long—”
“In that gloomy dump, the fire probably caught before you could see the smoke,” consoled Jesus, who ran the nearby shoe and leather repair shop. He was avidly conscientious about flammable materials.
“And if that same person had been smoking in your shop, at first you might think it was leftover smoke you were smelling,” added Rachel.
The fire chief asked, “But who’d smoke in there? You got ‘No Smoking’ signs all over.”
A sheepish expression came over Harry’s face. He didn’t answer.
The thought occurred to Mrs. Risk a half beat before the others. Following her lead, everyone turned to stare at Aunt Margeurite. She paused in the act of lighting a cigarette. “What!” She turned her back on them.
The Fire Chief left to consult with his men. In passing Aunt Margeurite, he snarled a few words about criminal disrepair, fire hazard, reckless endangerment, and an inspection. Aunt Marguerite’s face paled beneath her scabs of face powder.
In the next few weeks, the shop received the attention it should have gotten decades ago and soon it and Harry were both restored to a brighter, fitter ability to conduct business. The damage had been mostly smoke. Insurance covered the inventory loss—a series of rare stamps—and Harry lost his cough.
Mrs. Risk, on hearing that only one group of stamps had perished out of the entire inventory, spent the rest of the afternoon in the coffee shop, musing over an iced cappuccino. At about six p.m., she decided to visit Randy’s studio. Students wouldn’t be arriving for another hour and Randy would be free to talk.
Once there, she asked Randy to show her Harry’s latest group of pots. She examined them closely, then questioned Randy. “Oh, dear,” she muttered as she listened to Randy’s information with dawning awareness.
Immediately Mrs. Risk hurried to Uncle Harry’s apartment. At his door, she answered his surprised look, “Harry, the time has arrived for us to get to know each other better. May I come in?”
Harry gazed at her thoughtfully, then invited her to enter. “Will you join me for coffee? I’m sorry I forgot all about your coin. Did you bring it?”
“Thank you, I’ve had enough coffee for a while. No, I didn’t bring my coin. Frankly, I forgot about the silly thing. I actually came to congratulate you on your recent engagement, rather belatedly, I know.” She entered, then paused, taken aback by the riot of color in Harry’s apartment. “Rachel told me about your green thumb, but I expected nothing like this! You’ve made your home a garden!”
He nodded morosely. “In pots, though.”
“Mostly made by yourself, too, I see. I recognize your style. Beautiful work, dear. Do you have any empty ones I may examine closer?”
“Sure. Here.” He handed three to her, one by one.
“You’ve been productive in these last few weeks.”
He shrugged, then turned to tend the bubbling coffee pot on his hotplate.
She watched while he stirred cream into his cup. His shoulders sagged, and his expression seemed duller than she’d ever seen before. A man engaged to a woman like Christa ought to look happier, she mused.
She put down the three pots he’d handed her, selected one from a nearby table, held it up and said, with a playful note in her voice, “I would very much like to own one of your pots, Harry. This one is exquisite. Could I buy it from you?”
Without looking up he replied, “Don’t be silly. Take it as a gift. You—” he looked up, spotted which pot she held, and paled. “No, not that one. It’s poorly done. I couldn’t let you—”
“Oh, but I insist that I want this one. Although,” she lifted up another from the floor, “this larger one is also lovely. Oh, look. You’ve inserted small decorative plugs where the bottom drainage holes should be. How clever. I suppose I just pop it out if I need the hole to be open?”
“That’s right.” He leaned to seize the pots from her hands, but she withdrew them just out of his reach. Then, with a sigh, she put them down.
He stared at her, his arms hanging limply at his sides.
“You’re right,” she said. “How inappropriate for me to choose my own gift. I’ve forgotten my manners. Which pot would you pick for me?” But before he could answer, she continued, “Are you free tomorrow evening? Rachel and I want you to come to my house for dinner, a small celebration of your coming marriage. I’ve already mentioned it to your delightful Christa, and she’s coming. Bring along whichever pot you choose for me, a memento of our growing friendship, Harry. You see, I think so very much of you, dear. Our village has been richer in all the qualities that matter since you came to live among us.”
Harry sat down suddenly, looking depressed.
She moved towards the door. “And 6:30 would be perfect. Such a lovely time of day in May.”
When Harry pulled his car into the witch’s glade the next evening, he was dismayed to discover that despite his early arrival, Christa, her two small daughters, Rachel, and an older man were there already, seated in old aluminum lawn chairs in the velvety grass fronting the witch’s cottage. The little girls rushed to seize his legs and propel him to a chair. Christa nestled contentedly in the grass close beside him. Although it was clear how much they loved him, he sunk into a deep gloom.
“You already know most of these prese
nt,” said Mrs. Risk with a smile, ignoring his misery. She handed him a glass of red wine and in return received from his trembling hands her gift—the pot she’d first selected yesterday evening, although missing the decorative bottom plug. The smaller girl climbed into his lap and nestled there.
“Thank you, Harry. How forgiving of you to give me the exact pot I selected. I shall treasure it.”
Tears welled in Harry’s eyes. “I took away the plug, the—the hole’s empty, but I want to explain…”
Mrs. Risk turned her back on him. “Who’s ready for more wine?” She busily passed around the bottle. “Harry, dear, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, a retired industrialist, Aisa Garrett. He owns, among other things, the North Shore Industries Corporation that occupies part of the bayfront in the village. I’m sure you’re familiar with it.”
Harry nodded, but politely, not really interested.
Mrs. Risk patted the back of his hand and continued, “I hope you don’t mind, I don’t normally interfere in people’s lives—”
At this statement, Rachel and Aisa hooted in wild laughter. Christa smiled, but looked puzzled. Harry gazed about in bewilderment.
When they’d subsided, Aisa, still chortling, said, “What she means is, Harry, without interfering in the slightest in either my life or yours, she’s decided my corporation should go into a small sideline business, with a partner who knows what’s what—meaning you.”
Harry frowned. “I don’t follow—”
Christa said firmly, “Just listen to Aisa, Harry.”
Harry blinked at her in astonishment.
“Here’s the deal,” began Aisa, and then he outlined a partnership proposal in a coin and stamp store, with generous terms to Harry, resulting in Harry’s ultimate sole ownership of the store.
After a stunned pause, Harry gasped, “Why?”
“Blamed if I know,” admitted Aisa.
“Are you interested in coins and stamps? Are you a collector?”
“Absolutely not. I fish, as it so happens.”
Rachel beamed. “Which means you’ll be in complete control, Harry.” She picked up a platter of appetizers and began passing them around. “Dinner will be ready in a while. More lemonade, girls?”