She quit early and went home to take a shower.
She dressed carefully, choosing a sleeveless dress with a fitted bodice and a fuller skirt than she usually wore, one made for dancing. It was a soft moss green, the color that best accented her almost auburn hair. The green also complimented the collection of gold chains, bracelets, and big hoop earrings she selected to wear with it. And the gold sandals she rarely wore. She pulled her hair back with a glittery clasp, but left it mostly loose. Observing herself in the mirror she thought gypsy, or at least how she imagined gypsies. Or how the movies might portray them. She tried to get herself into that mode, but she didn’t feel gypsyish, if there was such a mood. She was a farm girl getting dressed for a night out on the town. With the wrong man. She dismissed that thought. Firmly.
She picked up a light sweater in case the evening was chilly, and walked down the hill to the stand where Barry would expect her to be. He had never come to the house for her.
And neither has Miles. I have never invited him into my kitchen. Have I not wanted to be that intimate? Not wanted him to see how and where I live? Just meet him in the arbor? Romantically? Is that where I want to keep him, totally separate from my real life? The arbor was made for intimacy. She put that thought aside. She had had too much intimacy there. Her heart wanted more, and that’s where she envisioned him, waiting for her, wanting her.
Connie eyed her critically, but approvingly. “You must be going someplace special to get that dolled up. It’s not like you.”
“Barry didn’t say where we were going, except to The Club after dinner.” She twirled on one toe and watched the flared skirt billow out around her knees. She felt like a teenager, but only for a moment. “I haven’t worn this dress in ages. I bought it years ago for a party I was going to. This seemed like a good occasion to wear it.”
“It’s your color. Really nice.” A car stopped in front of the stand and Connie tuned that way. “Ah. It’s Sally. She said she was coming for some of those plums you got from Glo. I told her about them and she said she’d like to try making some preserves. I was beginning to think she wouldn’t make it before we closed.”
Althea watched an older, rather stocky woman climb out of the car. She was a childhood friend of Connie’s and they would have a lot of gossip, news they called it, to exchange even if they had met for tea last week. She didn’t watch their greeting, but looked instead at the big basket of fat purple-red plums near the counter. She would have to talk to Glo about continuing to supply them, but it would probably depend on how much work Glo and Ted intended to put into restoring old fruit trees.
Another car pulled into the parking area, a dark blue Honda. She sighed and went to meet Barry. He eyed her appreciatively as he opened the door for her. “You look lovely. As usual.”
She smiled her thanks and got in.
“I have reservations at that new Italian place outside of town,” Barry said as he slid in beside her. “It’s gotten some great reviews.”
She recalled hearing about it, and it was fine with her. She occasionally liked Italian cuisine. “That sounds fine. Whatever you want, Barry.”
She glanced quickly around the yard as they left, just to be sure Miles was not, this time, watching from the arbor. She almost wished that he was, and was disappointed that he was not.
~ ~ ~
The restaurant was modest, still showing its newness. It was bright and cheerful, more peasant-style than elegant with red and white checkered tablecloths. They were shown to a table near the wide windows, with a view of the well landscaped grounds beginning to show signs of fall.
“It’s pretty,” Althea said when seated, seeking something neutral to say. “Nice atmosphere.”
“I hope the food’s as good as they say.”
She silently hoped so, too, and agreed to a glass of the house red wine while she studied the menu. Maybe I’ll need it.
The meal was as good as she had expected. She enjoyed her cup of Italian wedding soup, and the light olive oil for dipping the crusty rolls. She ordered a not-too-spicy chicken dish she sometimes enjoyed, while Barry asked for something with an Italian name she did not recognize. She wondered if he were showing off his knowledge, his urbanity.
Finished with his soup, Barry sat back in his chair and regarded her over his wine glass. “You do look extra nice tonight, Althea.”
She resented the comment, as if she usually didn’t look nice, and felt what he left unsaid, for me, maybe? It made her uneasy, as if she were playing a part, just acting, that this wasn’t the real thing. She said, a little more tersely than she intended, “I don’t get a chance to dress up very often. Not with what I do for work.”
He laughed. “I guess you couldn’t wear that dress out in the cornfield, could you?”
“No. Nor these shoes. Or at the storage company.”
“But you should be able to. I mean, dress as you’d like all the time.”
She shook her head, keeping her attention on the roll and oil, quashing a retort and keeping her voice light. “But I do. I like what I do, love my gardens.” Jeans or shorts and tees and grubby sneakers. She glanced up at him, noted the seriousness of his expression. “I can dress up once in a while, often enough to let me remember how much I like my real life.” Like now.
“Ah.”
In the awkward silence that followed, she wondered, is he suggesting that I leave everything I love and go someplace with him? and asked, “So what is it you are doing now?” She recalled what Miles had said, but discounted most of it. And Barry had told her he had a new position.
He shrugged, but smiled, satisfied. “Same old company, but in a new section. I do have a chance to move up in this new position.”
“That’s always nice.”
“It is.”
The entrées arrived and she could comment on the presentation, how elegant the dishes looked, how good it all smelled.
As she had hoped, Barry did not return to his former thought and asked if she’d like more wine. She accepted.
Althea managed to keep the conversation pleasantly neutral through the meal, steering it away from work. She talked about how the weather was affecting her gardens, what vegetables were now available, how much she needed more local produce, especially fruits like the basket of plums, and what she was planning for the fall, the traditional harvest season. She needed to know what he thought about such things, but she could see that he was only feigning an interest. It left her saddened. She needed a partner, in spirit if not in actuality. Dancing was not enough any more than Miles’ music was enough.
She declined more wine and dessert, as wonderful as the chocolate concoctions looked, but agreed to coffee. She needed some bracing for the rest of the evening. She really needed to be sure of him, that he understood her position, that she would not leave her home for him.
As he settled the tab, he asked, “So, it’s on to The Club?”
She agreed because she liked to dance and The Club usually provided a good variety of live music. Given an opening, she needed to tell Barry what he didn’t want to hear. She owed him that much. And herself.
The Club was not as crowded as it would be as the evening wore on. Althea hoped to be gone by then, everything having been said. Barry led her to a table conveniently near the dance floor. The server appeared and asked what she’d like to drink.
She needed something a little stronger than her usual pale ale. “A tequila sunrise.” Barry chose rum and Coke. She sat back to watch several couples on the floor execute much fancier steps than she wanted to try: twirls and dips, separating and rejoining. The quartet was very good, especially the drummer. She kept time to the music with her fingers on the table while she watched him.
The Club was not very elegant, part of a converted textile mill, but it was neat and spacious, able to accommodate seve
ral hundred people. The band occupied a stage at one end, and the sound system was good. The hardwood dance floor was excellent, the signs of its former uses sanded out and glossed over, but the old stains remained as an intriguing pattern.
The band finished the set, and after a few minutes started again with a popular big band tune from the fifties. Barry got up and offered her his hand, smiling at her. “Our kind of music.”
It was indeed her kind of music. She accepted his hand and let him lead her onto the floor. He slid his arm around her waist and swung her around and she adjusted her steps to his. She moved easily into his arms and into the rhythm of the music, letting it fill her, lift her spirits. They finished the set with one of Barry’s twirling flourishes that left her laughing and out of breath. They stayed on the floor to wait for the next set.
It was a slower piece, one they could waltz to, and she fitted into his arms again, following his lead around the floor. During the second number, Barry suddenly pulled her closer, his arms too tight around her for comfort. He whispered in her ear, “You are so beautiful, Althea. We should do this forever.”
She tried to move farther away, but he kept her moving with the rhythm of the music, his body against hers, frightening her. “Barry, please, not so close.”
“Why not?” He whirled her around, guiding her into a spin and pulling her back to him, his arm tight around her waist. “I want to hold you close. Forever.”
She said, “No.” It was all she could manage while concentrating on the dance movements. Trying not to hear him, to encourage him, while at the same time not causing an obvious scene, attracting the attention of the other dancers.
“Why not? I’m offering you a whole different life, away from the farm, out in society where we can have fun.”
She pulled away from him again, forcing him away from her. “I like where I am, thank you. That is my life.”
He stopped dancing suddenly, gazed fixedly at her for a long moment, then led her back toward their table without speaking.
She followed him with growing sadness and a little apprehension and sat across from him.
He reached across the table and picked up her hand. “But there is so much more in this world than pumpkins, Althea. You’re smart and beautiful and were made for so much more than that.”
She recalled her years of work with Uncle Raymond, learning to love the land as he did. What they grew, the satisfaction to be had in a bushel of new potatoes or a basket of perfect bell peppers. Her desire, her need, was to have what he had had. To succeed as he had, quietly and competently. She said calmly, “I like my pumpkins, Barry. And all the rest of it.” She took a deep breath. “You would have to fit into my life. I can’t fit into yours.”
She could feel his perplexity. “But that is so wrong. You’re an educated woman, meant for other things. Better things.”
She shook her head and reached for what was left of her cocktail. She needed it. “No. It’s just different. We’re too different. I don’t want to go where you’re going.”
“But I can give you all those things you don’t have now. A chance to wear pretty dresses. A nice modern home. All of the luxuries.”
She knew he was sincere in his offer, at least right now, but her heart was somewhere else, and her future was right where she was. She loved her house with all its history. “I’m sorry, Barry.” She didn’t want to hurt him, but she had to be honest. “Farming is not what it used to be. It’s a business. One I want to run, to succeed at.” She paused a moment, tried to meet his eyes, but he avoided hers. “I love my home, the land, working the same soil where my grandfather planted his garden. It is my heritage.”
“But . . .”
She finished her drink and set the glass carefully on the table while she collected her thoughts. “That’s how it is, Barry. You can’t understand because you grew up in a different place with different goals and ideas. You aren’t part of the land.”
“I guess.” He took a big swallow of his drink. “I just can’t see you living out there in the sticks where’s there’s nothing to do.”
“Everything I want to do is there.” She tried to pull her hand from his, but he tightened his grasp.
He was not yet ready to give up. “You’ll get tired of it. You’ll think about life here in town. About everything I can give you.”
He picked up his drink again, drank the last of it, making Althea wonder if he would order another. She fervently hoped he wouldn’t.
“Maybe.” She was sure she wouldn’t want what he was offering. And she didn’t want another drink, or to stay here any longer.
“Think about it, Althea.” There was desperation in his voice, and a plea. “Don’t just say no.”
She didn’t want to think about that. And she certainly didn’t want him having any more to drink. “All right, Barry, but will you take me home now?”
He looked down at her hand still in his. “You’ll think about this a little more? Please.”
“I can’t promise that.”
He asked hesitantly, “There’s somebody else?”
“No.” But there could be. Maybe. Somebody a little more exciting than you are. But he doesn’t want the land, either. “There is no one else.”
He dropped her hand and pushed himself up. “All right. I’ll take you home.”
It was not a comfortable ride. Barry said no more, and she could find no words to offer him comfort since there was no hope. She wondered, for a moment, if she had done the right thing. He was fun to be with, and she loved to dance. But I want more than that. I want someone who touches my heart, makes me sing. Someone who wants what I want.
Barry drove around the stand and up the driveway to her back door, but did not walk around the car to open her door. “I’ll be where you can find me if . . .” he didn’t finish the thought.
She opened her door. “I know that, Barry, and thanks for dinner and the dancing. It was lovely.”
He looked up at her. “There could be a lot more, you know.”
“I know.” She slid out and closed the door. She watched him turn around and drive back down the driveway, then went inside. Part of her wanted to cry, but another part was now free, and she relished that.
It was a long time before she fell asleep.
Tomorrow, she would be back outdoors in the garden, getting her hands dirty, and loving it.
WITH MILES
Miles hooked his thumbs on the pockets of his ragged cut-off jeans and studied the broad-leafed vines sprawling over the fieldstone wall that marked the western boundary of the gardens. His gaze was intense, and he seemed much more serious than he usually was as he chewed at his lower lip. “So those vines are hops?”
“That’s what they tell me,” Althea told him. “I’ve never done any research on them. I never had that much interest. I just think they’re interesting, an attractive vine, and I have no other use for that stone wall.”
She regarded him covertly, assessing her feelings on seeing him there, realizing how much she had hoped he might come, a desire she did not admit to herself until he actually showed up. She had heard his harmonica before she saw him. He was playing a rather dirge like version of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” and she wondered about his choice of song. It didn’t seem to be like him, since he hadn’t played spirituals for her before. She had listened for a moment without announcing her presence, and was as usual amazed at his ability to create such lovely sounds on an instrument from which she could only produce a squawk.
He had glanced up at her without stopping, his eyes appraising her with what Althea thought of as his “undressing me look,” which was annoying, if somewhat flattering.
She said, “That’s an odd song for you to play.” She wondered if it had some kind of significance. His choices frequently did.
He moved
the harmonica from his lips and regarded her over it. “You’d like something more cheerful, would you?”
Before she found an answer, he leaned back against the wall and played, very spiritedly, “Rock-a My Soul.”
She laughed. That one would certainly have a message for her. Ain’t no mountain high enough . . .
He slid the harmonica into his pocket and pushed himself to his feet. “Nice to see you, too, Althea. It’s a lovely afternoon.”
She ignored the sarcasm. “So what are you doing here, besides playing old songs that should be played on a banjo? According to your assessments, anyway.”
He shrugged. “The harmonica works fine.” He had turned then to the wall beside him and asked about the hops. “There are a lot of varieties of hops, native and introduced. Which one is this?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t know they came in more than one sort.” Curiosity got the better of her of instincts. Hops did not seem to fit with any of his interests. “So why are you asking?”
He glanced in her direction and then back at the wall. “They aren’t really vines, you know.” The know-it-all quality was irritatingly back in his voice.
“Really? They look pretty viney to me.”
“Bines,” Miles said, his usual grin returning along with his air of superiority, of knowing more than she did. “They’re perennials. Seed themselves. They die down every fall and come up again from the roots. True vines stay year round and grow larger.”
“Yeah, like poison ivy.” She almost added, like you, but didn’t. She didn’t really consider him that way, but almost wished that she could. She had come out to check the last of the corn, which had actually been harvested a week ago, but a neighbor was coming to cut down the stalks. She was not surprised to find Miles there under the oak trees. It was Saturday after all. And she had to admit, after last night with Barry, she was glad to see him.
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