by Neta Jackson
When Zia had run back up the stairs, I pulled Josh into my apartment. “I have no idea what to look for! Do you have a list or something?”
“Should be with the rental contract.”
Which was precisely where it was. Good grief, I was such an amateur at building ownership! But together Josh and I took a tour of 2A, which seemed in remarkably good condition to me. All kitchen appliances accounted for and clean—check. No broken fixtures or mirrors in the bathroom—check. Blinds still in decent condition—check. The only “damage” was a few scratches on the wood floor in the bedrooms and living room from moving furniture and small holes in the walls where pictures had hung. Josh eyed me whether I wanted to deduct anything for that, but I gave a brief shake of my head.
“Seems in good order, Ms. Bassi. If you’ll give me your new address, I’ll mail your deposit back first thing Monday.” The security deposits for remaining tenants had been included in the final deal with the former owner.
Zia’s face fell. “Uh, I was hoping I could have my deposit back today. I really need the money.”
I saw Josh give a slight shake of his head. The rental contract said the landlord had thirty days to return the deposit. “I’m sorry.” Keep it professional, Gabby. “I’ll be sure to get it in the mail first thing Monday.” Even that would be doing her a favor.
Once Zia was gone, Josh and I talked a good while about what needed to be done to prepare the apartment for the next House of Hope residents—mostly spackling those holes, a coat of varnish on the wood floors, and painting the walls in all the rooms. I was going with neutral colors this time. Letting Precious and Tanya pick their colors had been too much of a headache.
“That’s your buzzer, I think,” Josh said, poking his head into the kitchen pantry and testing which shelves might need replacing.
Buzzer. I ran down the stairs but didn’t recognize the stocky man in jeans and sweatshirt out in the foyer. “Fairbanks? Apartment 1B?” he said when I pulled open the glass-paneled door. “Got a delivery. Where do you want it?”
“Uh . . . what is it?” He had a clipboard. No flowers. A truck stood out by the curb that said E-Z MOVERS along the side.
The man was already halfway out the front door. “Table and chairs. We’ll bring them in. Just tell us where you want them.”
My mouth hung open. I hadn’t ordered any table and chairs, though I kept meaning to. But a few minutes later two men came in carrying a large flat piece of furniture between them, not in a box, but wrapped and strapped in movers blankets. Still perplexed, I led them down the hall to the dining room. The legs came next, each wrapped individually in a blanket. Then chairs—eight of them, wrapped in bubble wrap.
I recognized the chairs even before the blankets came off the table.
The Belfort Signature dining room set from the penthouse.
The two men—obviously local movers-for-hire—removed their straps and blankets, asked me to sign the form on the clipboard, and were gone.
An envelope was taped to the underside of the table. With shaking fingers, I took out a simple note card. “Happy Birthday, Gabby” it said on the outside. On the inside, in Philip’s distinctive script, I read, “You need this more than I do. Whatever happens between us, it’s yours.” It was signed, “Philip.”
chapter 17
I simply stared at the gleaming mahogany tabletop leaning against the wall. The table and chairs had beautiful lines, decorated with vine-and-leaf scrolls and claw feet. The chair backs were softly curved, the seats padded with patterned gold velour. The dining set seemed far too elegant for the other furniture in my patched-together apartment, but that wasn’t what astonished me.
Philip had sent me our table from the penthouse. As a gift. A birthday gift. He knew I needed a table and sent this one, leaving the dining room in the penthouse empty.
What did it mean? I hardly knew what to think!
Josh Baxter came down with his tools, bolted the curved, hand-carved legs onto the table, and helped me set it in place. Then he graciously took my make-do table—the sheet of plywood and sawhorses that had been hiding under one of my mother’s tablecloths— down to the basement, never asking a single question.
The telephone rang at noon. Both of my sisters were on the line, warbling an off-key version of “Happy Birthday” and making jokes about being “forty and fit” or “forty and fat,” which was it? I let them prattle and didn’t tell them about the table, knowing I’d get an earful of disparate opinions—Celeste’s no-nonsense, practical Alaskan self usually took hot issue with Honor’s airy, California-dreaming flights of fancy.
I didn’t need that right now.
Saved by the buzzer. “Gotta go! Someone at the door! Love you both!” I smooched kisses into the phone as I hung up and scrunched my curls into a semblance of good behavior before dashing out into the hall.
Lee Boyer stood on the other side of the glass-paneled door with—a bicycle?
“Happy birthday, Gabby!” He grinned as I pulled open the door. He was wearing biking shorts, a lightweight white-and-blue windbreaker, and sunglasses, his hand resting lightly on the handlebars of a sleek, red women’s hybrid bike. A wide, white ribbon had been tied into a bow on the narrow padded seat.
“What?” I laughed. “What’s this?”
“Hm. Seem to remember you made a big deal of getting the boys’ bikes from Virginia so you could ride the bike trails along the lakefront, but you don’t have one of your own. So now you do!”
I lusted after that bicycle. It was everything I’d ever wanted in a bike—trim lines, flat handlebars, multiple gears, and candy-apple red. Even a neat leather pouch behind the seat to hold stuff.
But I slowly shook my head. “I . . . can’t accept it, Lee. It’s too much. You and me, we’re not . . . you know.”
“Now wait a minute, Gabby Fairbanks. Can I come in? Or are you going to make me stand here in the foyer like the mailman?”
I reddened. “Sorry. Of course. Come in.” I led the way into the living room of my apartment and sank into my mother’s rocker. Lee followed, wheeling the bike inside.
“Now look,” he protested. “First off, I didn’t spend any money on this bike. It belonged to my sister, who thought she was going to take up cycling. Then she got married to a New York actor and left town. She gave the bike to me and told me I could do ‘whatever’ with it. That was three years ago! It’s just been taking up room in my storage locker. Might as well get used.”
“Still—”
“Okay, Miss Stubborn. Consider it a loan then. You need a bike. The bike needs a rider. Seems like a match made in heaven, if you ask me.”
I relented with a smile. “All right. A loan. Thanks, Lee. It’s very sweet of you to think of me for your sister’s bike.”
He’d taken off his sunglasses and replaced them with his usual wire rims. His voice got gentle. “Think of you? Gabby, I think of you all the ti—”
“Don’t. Please.” I held up a hand. For some reason my emotions felt all in a jumble and I was afraid I might cry any moment. “Not now.”
He backed up. “All right. Would you like to take a spin? I’ve got my bike on the car.”
I peeked out the sunroom windows. Sure enough, another bike was mounted on a bike rack on the back of Lee’s Prius.
“But I don’t have a helmet—”
“Comes with the bike. Used to be my sister’s, remember? It’s in the car.”
I’d run out of excuses. The boys wouldn’t be home till five at least. “Well . . . all right. Sure, I’d like that. I’ll get my jacket.”
The lakefront was less than a mile away, but I wasn’t eager to ride city streets until I got used to the bike with its zillion possible gears, so Lee put it back on the bike rack and drove to an accessible point. But once on the bike trail that wound its way through Lincoln Park, I soon found a comfortable gear and relaxed, following Lee’s windbreaker as he dodged dog-walkers, couples out for a stroll, and runners plugged into their iPods w
ho stubbornly ran on the bike trail instead of the jogging path.
With temps in the fifties and low-hanging clouds covering the sun, I was glad I’d layered up under my windbreaker and worn my jeans. Even then my ears and nose still got nippy.
We rode south as far as the Lincoln Park Zoo, where I called out to Lee to turn around. “Guess I’m out of condition,” I gasped, laughing and pulling off the path.
Lee rode a few circles around me. “Yeah, sometimes I forget to go only as far as a decent halfway point, because you always have to ride back the same distance!” He nodded toward a nearby bench. “Want to rest awhile before heading back?”
I shook my head. “I’m good.” I could’ve used a break, but resting would mean conversation, and conversation might lead to talking about us. Frankly, I’d been grateful for the single-file bike ride that left me alone with my thoughts and confused emotions. Here I was out again with the man who’d said, “I love you, don’t you know that?” just before he’d given me an ultimatum: leave Philip’s hospital bedside or call it quits. I wheeled my bike onto the path. “I should get home. It’s getting colder too.”
Forty-five minutes later we pulled up in front of the six-flat and Lee unloaded the red bicycle. “Thanks, Lee. The ride was fun.” More than fun. I loved it. But what now? He started to walk the bike up to the door, but I said, “Oh, that’s okay, I can get it inside.” I gave him a grateful smile—but I was walking a tightrope here. A month ago I would have thrown my arms around him and given him a big hug. Instead I said, “I really appreciate you loaning me your sister’s bike. The helmet too. I promise to take good care of them.”
Lee caught my messages: I wasn’t inviting him in, and I was accepting the bike as a loan, not a gift.
“Sure.” For a moment he seemed at a loss for words. “Uh, you should probably get a good lock for that before you go for another ride.” I could feel his eyes on my back as I wheeled the bike up the walk, carried it up the steps, and pushed open the outside door. Then he called after me, “Happy birthday, Gabby! Maybe we can do this again—”
A distant rumble of thunder caught away his last words. I gave him a final wave. “Looks like we got back just in time! Thanks again!”
Just in time was right. For a second there, I’d been ready to take it all back, invite him inside, tell him I loved his birthday gift, tell him . . . what?
Once inside the foyer I fumbled with my keys. Where was I going to keep the bike? I didn’t want to put it in the basement until I got a good lock. Finally unlocking my apartment door, I pushed it open with the front wheel—and nearly fell over when the door suddenly swung wide.
“Happy birthday, Mom!” P.J., Paul, and Philip stood just inside, grins plastered on all three faces. Philip’s arm was still in its cast, but the bruises on his face had faded to a pasty yellow, and his dark hair was starting to grow over the long scar on his skull.
“Wha—what are you guys doing here already?” Had they seen me drive up with Lee Boyer? I busied myself taking off the bike helmet, feeling my face flush.
The boys talked at the same time. “We wanted to celebrate your birthday!” . . . “Did you like Dad’s surprise?” . . . “Come see what we got you!” . . . “Where’d you get the bike? Is it yours?”
The thunder was getting louder. My mind scrambled. Play down the bike, Gabby. “Yes, I got your surprise! Couldn’t imagine what it was when that delivery truck pulled up this morning. But the Belfort Signature table? Oh my, it’s so beautiful! Did you see it set up in the dining room?” I leaned the bike against the closest wall and headed down the hallway, talking all the while, leading the entourage. “I was so surprised! We certainly need a table, but I never imagined getting one this elegant. You can be sure I got rid of that old makeshift table we’ve been using quicker than—oh my, what’s this?”
We’d arrived in the dining room where the table and chairs stood in all their glory, and in the center of the table on a cut-glass pedestal cake server—one of our wedding presents, used only for special occasions—stood an elegant bakery cake. Three layers at least. “Double fudge with almond icing,” Philip murmured, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Your favorite.”
He remembered.
Several wrapped birthday gifts surrounded the cake. “And we ordered Gino’s pizza!” Paul broke in. “You shouldn’t have to cook on your birthday, right, Dad?”
“Absolutely not,” he agreed. “I wanted to order Chinese, but I was outvoted.”
I almost laughed aloud. Good thing. I wasn’t sure I could eat Chinese takeout two nights in a row.
“But where’d you get the bike, Mom?” P.J. insisted. He was frowning and exchanging looks with his father.
“It’s on loan from a friend until I can get one of my own. Remember, I said I wanted to go for a bike ride with you guys before the weather gets too cold.”
“Looks new, though.” P.J.’s tone was just this side of challenging. “How did that lawyer guy have a brand-new bike to loan you?”
So they had seen me drive up with Lee. “Belonged to his sister, but she moved out of state and left the bike with him. I’m just borrowing it.” I laughed it off and clapped my hands. “How about if we get this table set with Grandma’s china before that pizza gets here. Or can we have dessert first and open those presents now?” I tousled Paul’s hair and headed for the china cupboard in the kitchen.
The rain finally arrived, complete with lightning and thunder, but we hardly noticed it in the back of the apartment. And when all was said and done, I realized I’d had the best fortieth birthday party I could have wished for, but hadn’t even considered was possible: supper around the same table with my family. Just the four of us. I tried to enjoy it simply for what it was, pushing aside awkward thoughts about Philip giving me such an expensive gift and being there, given the dubious nature of our current relationship.
At their request, I did indeed open the boys’ presents first, which turned out to be scented pillar candles in different sizes and a couple of decorative candles in jars. “We know how much you like candles, Mom,” Paul blurted. “We actually wanted to—ow!” He glared at his brother, whom I surmised had kicked him under the table. What was that about?
Let it go, Gabby. I lit all the candles and turned out the lights, bathing the room in candlelight, then cut the cake, finishing up with Gino’s stuffed pizza when it arrived. P.J. told us all about the regional meet that day—both the boys’ and girls’ cross country teams at Lane Tech had qualified for the sectional meet next weekend—and I mentioned that Lucy Tucker wanted to go on the Manna House Fall Getaway the following weekend and might need someone to look after Dandy.
“I will! That’d be cool,” Paul said, mouth full of pizza.
“Well, we’ll see,” I said. “Have to work out what you’ll be doing next weekend.”
Philip finally pulled out his keys and said he’d better get home. “Wait a doggone minute!” I said. “How’d you guys get here? Philip Fairbanks, don’t tell me you drove.”
He shrugged. “I did all right, didn’t I, boys? Had to start sometime.”
Shaking my head, I walked him out to the foyer. He declined my offer of an umbrella. “Thanks again for the table, Philip. I mean that. You didn’t have to do it, you know. What are you going to do for a dining room table now, anyway?”
Philip’s eyes shifted to the dripping trees outside along the sidewalk. “Don’t need a table like that for just me, do I? And I’m thinking of getting out of the penthouse anyway, Gabby. Can’t really afford it right now.”
Gabby. He’d been calling me that a lot lately instead of Gabrielle.
“I’m sorry about that, Philip.” Not knowing what else to say, I took a chance on bringing up the next weekend. “Say, I’m wondering if next week you could keep the boys all weekend? I’ll be gone until Sunday on this Fall Getaway. Of course, they’ll be with you half the time anyway, so I was just wondering . . .”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“Don’t worry about the dog,” I hastened to add. “If the boys stay with you, I’m sure Lucy can find someone else to look after Dandy—maybe even someone here in the building. Edesa Baxter is going, but Josh will be here.” That was fairly presumptuous, since Josh would also be taking care of little Gracie all weekend, but I didn’t say so.
“Can I get back to you? It might work out, but let me think about it.”
“Sure, of course. If it’s too much, you know, while you’re still on the mend, just say so. Uh-oh. It’s still raining. Are you sure you don’t want the umbrella?”
Philip didn’t seem to hear. Turning to me he said, “Thought you might want to know the boys really wanted to get you a bicycle for your birthday. They even pooled their allowance but came up short. They asked me to help them out, but . . .” He almost seemed to wince. “I had to tell them I couldn’t. I’ve been advised to cut up my credit cards so I wouldn’t be tempted to use them until I get my finances straightened out. P.J. got pretty mad about it, reamed me out about gambling myself into a hole.” His mouth twisted sardonically. “Nothing like having your own kid give you a lecture. But he’s right, of course.”
I was too startled by Philip’s honesty to say anything.
“So maybe you can understand why P.J. got upset when that Boyer fellow drove up with you and unloaded that fancy bike. Have to admit, I felt like a heel that I wasn’t able to help the boys get a bike for you—but he was.”
My throat caught, realizing the boys had wanted to do something special for me.
“It’s just a loan—” Philip held up his good hand to stop me.
“I know. You said. But what I’d like to know, Gabby . . . is Lee Boyer the reason you haven’t been able to forgive me and talk about mending our relationship?”
chapter 18
The usual before-service hubbub swirled around me as I sat by myself in one of the folding chairs at SouledOut Community Church the next morning waiting for worship to begin. But I barely noticed. My mind was still wrestling with Philip’s startling question the night before. It was the first time the subject had come up again since he broke down in the hospital and begged me to forgive him for how he’d messed everything up.