by Terri Kraus
She leaned against him. There was a strong scent of flowers in her hair. It was nice, Oliver thought, nice and pleasant. He liked The Nest, though he didn’t go there often. It was even more expensive than Angelo’s but served more than just pasta dishes.
They drove to the restaurant in silence. While Oliver had steeled himself for a more talkative Paula, this quiet, reserved part of her personality was beguiling. She didn’t speak until they were inside the restaurant and seated.
“And how was your week at work?” she asked, placing the napkin on her lap, then demurely adjusting the neckline of her blue dress. Oliver thought her adjustment didn’t serve to cover more skin, but actually showed a bit more. He told himself that he would not stare, but he did notice.
“It was fine,” he replied and told her about the progress they had made and the quirky things the Pratt brothers had said, and how Robert had seemed to be so relieved to get back home. “I miss being home too. I like having my things around me. I may not have a lot, but I like knowing I can get to them.”
Oliver expected Paula to launch on a discourse of material things, but she simply said, “And I like having you home as well, Oliver.”
They gave their order to the waiter. Oliver ordered crab cakes. Paula ordered shrimp, as she had hinted, and only an iced tea.
“I’ve been going to church during the week,” Paula said. “To the Wednesday-night service. And there’s a women’s Bible study on Tuesday nights. I’m learning a lot.”
“Really?” Oliver said, surprised.
Paula nodded as she broke a breadstick in half. “I know you know so much more about the Bible and all that than I do. I figured I needed to do a little catching up. And Bridget loves their child-care people, so I don’t have any excuse. It’s good to learn.”
Oliver had no reply.
“And you know what one of the things I asked the pastor about this week?”
“No,” Oliver replied, knowing she wasn’t really asking him to guess.
“I was trying to figure out a way to say it politely, but I couldn’t. I asked him about remarrying and all that. Obviously I’ve been with another man. But the pastor said that since my ex abandoned me, it would be okay to remarry. I mean, as believers and all that. Born again. Right?”
The pressure was slowly being turned up, and Oliver knew it.
“He went on to say that if a woman made a mistake in the past, and if she stayed away from making the same sort of mistake now, then she’s like … well, he called it being a ‘born-again virgin.’” Paula averted her eyes as she said the word virgin, as if she would blush had she stared into Oliver’s eyes as she said it. “So he said if I’m not with anyone now, I guess that means I’m sort of like a virgin again. I mean, I know I’m not, but—”
Oliver stopped her. “I know what you mean, Paula. I’ve heard about this before. And I’m proud of you for making that decision. I know you’ve been with another man. But God makes sinners pure again. And so, if you’re right with God now, then, well, that makes you pure again too.”
When Paula averted her eyes again, Oliver assumed she was at the verge of blushing or crying or however it was that women responded when talking about these sorts of personal issues. Oliver was surprised she had brought the subject up, but was, in one way, happy that she had. It was important to Oliver that any serious relationship he had would be with a woman who was right with God.
An image of Samantha flashed in his thoughts, and he realized with a start that, perhaps, she would never be right with God. Never.
Paula looked up and took his hand. “I’m so happy that you understand, Oliver. You don’t know how happy that makes me feel inside.”
After dinner, after a long, pleasant conversation over coffee and tiramisu, Oliver ran out and brought his truck around to the restaurant’s entrance. He hurried outside to open Paula’s door. This time she accepted his offer with a sly grin.
He parked the truck outside her house.
“What time is it, Oliver?”
“Nearly ten.”
“I wish we could stay out longer, but my mother said she needed to get home tonight, and I don’t want to keep her up too late. And I can’t invite you in while she’s here.”
“It’s okay,” Oliver replied. “I had a great time tonight, and we’ll see each other tomorrow.”
Paula slid over to him and wrapped her arms around him, under his arms, and held him very tightly. She lifted her head, obviously expecting a kiss, and he didn’t disappoint her. She reached up and put her hand on the back of his head and pulled him close, moving even closer to him, if that was possible. She slid her hand down past his shoulder and on his side and then to the outside of his thigh, where she let it rest.
“I’m here for you, Oliver,” she whispered in his ear. “I’m here for you. If you ever need anything, just ask me. I mean that. Anything.”
And with that, she slowly leaned away from him, kissed him once more, then slid out of the truck and was on the landing in front of her house, waving good-bye, even before Oliver could find the handle to the door.
Samuel Cohen was not the most intuitive behind the wheel. Had he been just a bit richer, he would have hired a driver, but since he was not exactly to that level of wealthy, he was forced to drive himself to most places. His preferred cars for the past decade (much to Samantha’s chagrin) had all borne the Cadillac nameplate—big, plush, not horribly ostentatious nor pretentious, but expensive enough to make a statement. The trouble, he thought, was that Cadillacs were not built for some of Pittsburgh’s narrower streets. Concentrating hard, holding onto the steering wheel with an almost-white-knuckle grip, he maneuvered the big white auto into the parking lot of the Marriott hotel. There were no valet-parking attendants there: a suburban Marriott offered simply a large self-parking lot, meaning Samuel would have to park the large car by himself.
Beside him sat Judy “Pixie” Allen, a short blonde woman, attractive in a past-middle-aged, well-worn manner, with a snappish laugh and an eager, pleasant smile. A neighbor of Samuel’s cousin Grace, from Long Island, Judy had been divorced for over a decade, had no children, and worked as a buyer for Macy’s in Manhattan. She was dressed very well in an exquisitely tailored pantsuit, and everything matched just so, down to her brick-colored alligator shoes and handbag.
Samuel found a stretch of four empty spaces and pulled in without having to worry about finessing the car into a narrow slot. He hurried from his side and opened the door with a flourish.
Judy exited and slipped her arm into his as they walked toward the front entrance.
“Dinner was lovely, Samuel. Pittsburgh is much more cosmopolitan and cultured than I would have imagined. Us New Yorkers think that nothing exists west of the Hudson.”
She drew out the words New Yorkers into almost a caricatured turn on a clichéd New York accent. Samuel found it charming.
“I know. The rest of my family thinks we’re Yankels, living in the wilderness out here. But Pittsburgh has its charms, for certain.”
“So far, I really like it,” she said, “but I can’t imagine how anyone finds their way without getting lost. If you dropped me off, I’d have no idea how to find my way home.”
Idea became idear. Samuel liked that, too. “Once you’re here for a while, you get the hang of it, Judy—”
“Pixie, remember. People call me Pixie.”
“Pixie, right, I keep forgetting. Pixie … you up for a nightcap?”
“Sure. We’re still on New York time.”
They found a table in the nearly empty bar off the lobby of the Monroeville Marriott. Samuel waved at the cocktail waitress who was seated at the end of the long bar, uncluttered with patrons, each bar stool setting exactly equidistant from the next.
“Now, when am I going to meet your daughter?” Pixie asked as she stirred her drink with a narr
ow plastic straw.
“Sometime soon,” Samuel answered.
Pixie made a face like someone tasting a raw lemon.
“I know it’s silly,” he explained, “but I wanted to spend some time here with you and not have her worried about things. Maybe it’s a Jewish thing. Parents keep secrets from the kids and the kids keep secrets from the parents. Keeps everyone safe. And everyone is happy.”
Pixie nodded as if she understood, but her eyes gave away the fact that she didn’t, really, and wasn’t too happy about it. “Maybe it is. But in my family, once the child is out of college, they leave. It’s for the best that they become independent. Like a bird who has learned to fly. We don’t want them to be shlumps, staying in the nest any longer than necessary. Don’t you think your daughter should be out on her own? Establish her own life? She’s old enough, isn’t she?” Pixie asked.
Samuel drank and nodded. “Of course she is. And she’s got a lot of chutzpah, that one. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it is time to encourage her. Since my wife … well, since then, I think she feels obligated to stay with me. I think she thinks her dad can’t handle being alone.”
Pixie reached out and took his hand. “I know. That I understand. But … maybe you don’t have to worry about being alone. A handsome man like you. You should never be alone.”
When she offered the come-hither smile that most middle-aged women would give so freely to a past-middle-aged man, and then some, Samuel knew exactly what she meant.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
OLIVER NEVER HAD SAT this close to the church organist. Not that he had anything against sitting so near the front, but he had allowed Paula to pick the seats. It was just that he hadn’t ever seen the organist move his feet so much, attacking the row of wooden pedals underneath the massive keyboard. In fact, Oliver wasn’t sure if he had even known there was a keyboard for feet under the keyboard for the hands. It had taken him by surprise and was enough to keep his mind off the songs and the sermon.
Instead of mentally focusing on the pastor’s subject, he reviewed the activities of the night before. He had brought a huge half-cheese, half-cheese-and-sausage pizza to Paula’s, along with three animated movies—one about dinosaurs, another about talking cars, and the old Disney classic Cinderella.
The evening did not start well. Bridget had examined all the movies carefully, turning the video cases over and over, not being able to read, but pretending to. And then she’d declared, very emphatically, “I don’t like these stupid movies,” and threw them on the floor.
The child’s mini-tantrum brought an immediate rebuke from Paula, who had reminded her firmly that those sorts of words were not used in this house, and Bridget had yelled that the movies were stupid. No pizza was consumed until a time-out was completed, and by then, Bridget had been in no mood to eat anything.
Oliver had felt out of his league. He’d only occasionally spent time with children, so he was in no position to expect or demand any sort of behavior. Paula had appeared at the edge of being distraught but had remained calm and even in her tone. Just before Bridget’s bedtime, she’d relented and offered both Oliver and her mother a mumbled, near-to-angry apology and had managed to eat a whole slice of cheese pizza without once uttering the word yucky.
By the time Paula had gotten her daughter to bed and asleep, it was nearly 10:00—hours past her regular bedtime. The two of them had sat at the table and eaten ice cream, talking softly for another hour until Bridget woke, came out into the hall, and complained of a stomachache.
Oliver had taken his leave then, not willing to make a tense situation any worse, knowing that a male visitor was bound to increase the anxiety.
Paula had given him a good-night peck on the cheek, apologizing over and over.
“It will take time, Paula. She’s a good girl. I know that. But it’s hard for her—me being in your house. She doesn’t know how to say that she’s upset, other than acting out, right?”
Paula had shaken her head, her expression filled with admiration. “You know how to make a mom feel better. I just wish I could have had you alone for an hour … you know what I mean? I could have made the end of your week a lot better.”
Oliver tried not to ponder here in church what she’d meant by that offer.
And now the two of them sat in the front pew together. Bridget was safely and happily ensconced in the child care downstairs. Paula was next to him, wearing a demure black dress that buttoned almost to the neck, though the fabric was more clingy and tight than might be standard for a “church dress.”
Oliver never liked standing for hymns, but with Paula next to him, it was better. She had a sweet voice, clear, and always on pitch, if that was the musical word for it, Oliver thought. She could have been an alto, but Oliver was never good at those musical identifications. He really liked listening to her as she made her way, with the rest of the church, through all four stanzas of a hymn that Oliver found impossible to sing.
They did not leave hand in hand, nor arm in arm, but together walked down the side aisle, greeting people, saying hello, waving. Oliver noticed something that morning—a confirmation of what his mother had said a few evenings ago. The women who looked over to them, seeing them as a couple, all seemed pleased and nodded, as if their being together was the most natural thing in the world. The men, on the other hand, offered sidelong glances, keenly aware of Paula’s attributes. Oliver could see it so clearly—perhaps because he himself had been the author of many of those sidelong glances in the past.
In the narthex, Paula went off in one direction, chatting with a group of ladies that Oliver imagined were in her Bible study, which left Oliver to shake Pastor Mosco’s hand. The pastor’s grip was much tighter and more vicelike than Oliver thought necessary.
“Oliver,” he boomed, even though no one was near since the crowds had thinned out. “How are you? How’s the latest project coming? Schenley Park, was it?”
“No. Shadyside. An old church. Used to be a church.”
“That’s right. Things going well?”
“They are, Pastor. We’re right on schedule.”
Pastor Mosco looked about the entryway, just his eyes moving. “I see you came in with Paula. She’s a nice girl. Started coming to service on Wednesday nights. And my wife tells me that she’s attending the women’s Bible study on Tuesday nights. Asks lots of questions. That’s a good thing. Shows that she’s growing. Growing in her faith.”
“It is.”
The pastor leaned in close to Oliver, closer than he liked, and Oliver wanted to step back. Then he wondered how that would look: two men, one of them dancing backward. He decided to stand his ground.
“You’re okay with her having been married, aren’t you, Oliver? I mean, it’s not her fault that she’s alone now. If you two were to … get together … you’d be doing her an honor. So don’t be worried—from a spiritual standpoint, I mean.”
Now Oliver did lean backward. “Thanks, Pastor Mosco. I won’t be worried. I guess I wasn’t. But knowing the church thinks it’s okay … that makes it easier.”
“That’s my boy,” the pastor called out, louder than he needed and slapped Oliver on the shoulder, a behavior Oliver did not like but tolerated.
Paula came back with Bridget in tow.
“You two ready for breakfast?” Oliver asked. “Eat ’n’ Park? Mickey Mouse pancakes?”
Bridget didn’t say a word. She merely smiled, her smile growing broader as the three of them descended the church steps.
They arrived at Paula’s car, and as Paula strapped Bridget into her carseat, the little girl called out, pointing at Oliver, “He’s coming with us, isn’t he, Mommy? I want him to come with us!”
“He’s coming with us, sweetie. Don’t worry,” Paula answered.
And as she handed Oliver the keys to her Toyota, she whispered to h
im, “You’ve made a friend. She’s never done that with anyone else.”
“It’s the Mickey Mouse pancakes,” Oliver whispered back. “Drives women crazy.”
Paula looked back at her daughter and gave Oliver a quick peck after she decided that Bridget was not watching.
Oliver arrived back in Shadyside late on Sunday. He had spent most of the afternoon at Paula’s watching the Pittsburgh Pirates through the static and dancing fuzz on her cranky old analog TV. Bridget had gone for her nap, and he and Paula sat comfortably close to each other on the sofa.
“We need to be careful. Bridget sneaks out of her room sometimes during a nap. I don’t want to upset her,” she had said.
Now it was dark, and back at the “Blue Church,” and during the drive into the city, Robert the Dog appeared almost irritable, perhaps owing to the fact that he had been alone most of the day.
“I’m sorry, Robert. Next time I’ll take you along. Or have Paula over at our place.”
But I couldn’t have Bridget there. It’s not childproof, or whatever they call that. Too many things she could get hurt on.
Oliver parked his truck under the port cochere, grabbed his duffel filled with clean clothes, and Robert ran to his spot at the back of the lot. Oliver placed his key in the door and was about to turn it when he heard muffled noises inside.
Didn’t the Pratt brothers lock this door? Do I call the police?
He pulled his key out and was about to open the door, just a crack, when it swung in and opened all the way, seemingly by itself.
“Oliver!” Samantha called out. “I thought that might be you. I thought I heard your truck.”
Oliver was so surprised he nearly fell backward, off the steps.
“I scared you,” Samantha said, apologizing, putting her hand over her heart. “I should have rung a bell or something—to warn you.”
“It’s okay,” he insisted as Robert the Dog bounded in, sniffing and grinning, accepting Samantha’s effusive greeting with glee. “It got my heart started again.”