by Carol Grace
“Roger,” I said, jumping up, “you should have seen me, I’m really learning to ski. At last. Finally.”
“As long as you stay on the bunny slopes.” Brandon’s voice came from behind me.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get to see your boss ski,” I said loudly to Roger. “But maybe you heard him yelling ‘yahoo’ as he came crashing down the slopes.” When I turned around Brandon raised his hand to me in a touché gesture. Phyllis started biting her lip and hustled us into the car. At least the smug smile was gone from her face. I did feel a little guilty knowing how much she wanted to pull off this arranged match between Roger and me. I was sure in was in for a little sister talking-to when she got me by myself. But who knew how it would turn out? A nice weekend and that’s all, probably, with my luck.
When we got back, my sister prepared her beef bourguignon, and I made the salad dressing. While we were in the kitchen, she threw me a few penetrating looks, but she refrained from asking any questions. We talked about the food, that was all. We were all ravenous.
After we’d mopped up the last of the sauce with our rolls, emptied the bottle of red wine and sat back, I said, “I’ll do the dishes. Any volunteers?” The silence was deafening: Phyllis looked at Roger, but he shook his head slightly. Brandon looked up at me inquiringly, and I stared back, silently willing him to offer. I didn’t care what they thought anymore.
He got up slowly. “I’m even better at dishes than skiing,” he said, carrying a stack of plates into the kitchen.
Brandon washed and I dried. There was no rack, so he handed me each plate after he’d washed it. With the third plate he didn’t let go. I looked up, and while soapsuds dripped on the floor, he bent over and kissed me. His arms went around me, or I might have slid to the floor and dissolved with the soap bubbles.
“Alison,” he whispered, “the plate.”
So that’s what was dripping behind my back. After he set the plate on the drain-board, Brandon put his arms around me again. He kissed me swiftly as if I might dissolve into suds too, then he put his arms on my face and looked into my eyes. I felt his heart pounding through his sweater.
“I feel fibrillations,” I murmured. “Is that your altitude sickness again?”
Brandon’s hand found the small of my back, with his other hand he traced his finger around my mouth. “It might be something more permanent. I’ll have to see how I feel back at sea level.”
“You maybe completely over it by Monday morning,” I suggested, trying to prepare myself for his ultimate departure out of my life forever.
“I was fine until I met you.” He took off his glasses and put them next to the dry dishes. “You’re responsible.” His warm lips on mine sent shivers up my spine and he held me tighter.
“What about you?” he asked finally in a low voice. “How do you feel?”
“Kind of strange,” I confessed. “It started last night, right after you got here.”
“Hmm, I think you’d better get to bed early tonight,” he prescribed.
“What about you?” I asked.
“I’ve had an exhausting day. I’m going to finish the dishes and I’ll be up.” He gestured toward the living room. “They’ll understand, won’t they?”
“Only too well, I’m afraid,” I said with a helpless shrug. I could picture my sister gloating over her success in matchmaking when really there was nothing to gloat about. Not yet.
Brandon put his glasses back on, and his eyes were round and innocent. Then he said loudly, “Good night, Alison. See you tomorrow.”
He didn’t know my sister, if he thought she’d buy that! I tiptoed into the living room. Phyllis was hunched over the checkerboard, and Roger was poking at the smoldering fire. Neither one looked up when I mumbled, “Good night.”
I staggered up the stairs to my room, feeling strangely dizzy. I was standing in the dark at the window watching the fir trees wave back and forth in the swirling snow when I heard Brandon thump up the stairs. This time he didn’t knock. He found me in the dark and put his arms around me.
“This has never happened to me before,” he whispered.
“What? Coming to the wrong room twice in one weekend?” I asked innocently.
He chuckled against my hair. “Alison, they told me all the wrong things about you. Nobody told me you’d make me laugh or lose my balance. I never know what you’ll do next.” He took a deep breath. “Of course it was a big disappointment to find out that you couldn’t ski very well.”
I smiled in the dark. “But I’m a fast learner. Doesn’t that count for something?”
A large thump on the roof shook the house. We looked out the window.
“The wind must have blown a limb down,” Brandon said.
“What should we do, get under the bed?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
“You’re thinking of an earthquake,” he said. “The safest place in a snowstorm is actually in the bed.” He stroked the back of my neck.
I never got to answer because Roger shouted, “Oh, no!” from the living room. I flung the door open to look down the stairs on clouds of thick smoke billowing from the fireplace. Phyllis was opening windows to clear the air. Roger was standing next to the chimney with a poker in his hand, a bewildered expression on his sooty face.
Brandon went down the stairs three at a time, and I wasn’t far behind.
“What happened?” I shouted as Brandon looked into the belching fireplace.
“I don’t know,” Roger confessed.
“The chimney, Alison.” Brandon grabbed my hand and pulled me back up the stairs. By leaning out the window we could see that a limb had fallen on the chimney cap and smashed it down against the chimney, forcing the smoke back into the house.
“Roger, come and help me,” Brandon yelled down the stairs. He opened the window and snow and wind blew through the tiny room. Brandon bravely crawled out and onto the steep roof while I stood by not knowing what to do. Roger arrived in time to hold Brandon’s feet as he lay flat against the roof and inched his way to the chimney. Phyllis stood behind me, breathing hard.
“I can’t look. Tell me what’s happening,” she said.
Finally we heard “Got it!” from Brandon. Roger braced his feet against the window frame and hauled Brandon back in. He landed on the snow-covered floor, and immediately wiped off his fogged-over glasses. I beamed at him, resisting the impulse to throw my arms around him, and we all ran back downstairs to find that the fireplace was drawing normally again.
Roger stoked up the fire and then went to wash up. Brandon went upstairs to change his clothes. After my sister and I had aired out the house, we plopped down on the sagging couch and gazed into the flames.
She leaned over to me and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? For what?” I asked in surprise.
“For dragging you up here,” she said. “It wasn’t worth it, was it?”
“I’m not sure. What do you mean?” I asked, giving her a puzzled look.
“Well, it’s Brandon,” she confided in a. low tone. “He’s different up here. When I met him in the city and I heard all the women at Roger’s office were crazy about him, he wasn’t so—so out of place.”
“Out of place?” I echoed.
“I just meant that he can’t ski, and with those glasses he looks—” she paused.
I glared at her. “Go on. “
“Never mind,” she said uncomfortably.
“Were you going to say that he looks like he wouldn’t risk his life on a slippery roof to fix a blocked chimney so you could be warm?” I couldn’t help sounding snippy. She wasn’t even grateful to Brandon and that annoyed me.
If Phyllis thought she could escape my wrath by staring at the fire, she was wrong. “Did you know that even though he can’t ski, he raced down a hill to try to save me today?”
“No!” she exclaimed.
“Yes. He can even wash dishes,” I said. It was no use. I couldn’t pretend to be oblivious to Brandon
’s many charms any more.
She turned back to face me, her mouth open in astonishment, and I jumped to my feet. Before I made my dramatic exit up the stairs, I had to tell her one more thing. “You were right. Brandon is Mr. Wonderful.”
P.S. He really is.
THE END
“After just one date - - -
I’m ready to promise him anything!”
SMALL TOWN HERO
My sister’s voice was overflowing with disgust as she said, “When I told you to take a night class, I didn’t mean a cooking class. I meant something like the Science of Climate Change or Basic Car Repair.”
“But Sophie, I love cooking. Besides, this isn’t ordinary cooking, it’s oriental cooking. The teacher is just great,” I said defensively. But I knew what she was getting at.
“How many men are in the class, Kristin?” she asked.
“Several,” I lied. There may have been two. I wasn’t sure. I had been so intent on copying recipes and learning how to chop with a cleaver, I really hadn’t noticed. To my sister, whose life revolved around meeting men, it would have been inconceivable to go to a class just to learn something. She spent her waking hours thinking of activities that would bring her in contact with eligible men. Did she know that men are often great cooks? Probably not. My theory was that men cooked by instinct, without recipes or the benefit of classes.
My sister joined a hiking club. Why? Not to get exercise. Not for the view from the top. Oh, no. She didn’t go to singles bars anymore, though. I was glad of that. She said she wanted to meet someone with other interests than picking up women. That seemed kind of funny to me, since her main interest was picking up men.
I don’t know why I let her give me so much advice. She was actually five years younger than me. But at twenty-two, she’d been married and divorced, so that gave her some seniority over me--at least that was her excuse. Even though I was twenty-seven, I’d never been married, not even engaged. But I did have a good job as a kindergarten teacher. That was another thing that drove Sophie wild.
“How can you ever meet anyone being a kindergarten teacher?” she often asked me. “It’s got to be the worst possible place in the world.”
“I’m not a teacher in order to meet anybody,” I’d reply. I shouldn’t have to explain it. I loved teaching. I especially loved kindergarten. Every fall when those little kids got off the bus on the first morning of school, so full of curiosity and innocence, I knew I was in the right field. I’d explained that to Sophie over and over, but it just went in one ear and out the other.
Still, we were the best of friends. It always amazed our parents, because growing up we had no use for each other at all. She was a spoiled little kid, as far as I was concerned, and by the time she was a teenager, I had gone away to college. But I was in her wedding when she married Jake, and I was her shoulder to cry on during the divorce. It was painful for me too. It hurt me to see her suffer. I should be grateful she’d bounced back and was in full form husband-hunting. Not just for me, but for herself as well.
Fortunately for Sophie, she was able to put it all behind her, and now she seemed to lead the charmed life of a swinging single.
“Look at this place.” She threw up her hands dramatically, and looked around the cottage I rented in the suburbs. It was convenient to my school, but as she reminded me, not to much else.
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked. We stood in the middle of my living room. A chintz sofa was along one wall, with my cat Ginger curled up on it. Braid rugs lay on the wide planked floor, a leather reclining chair was by the fireplace, and my antique oak roll-top desk stood in the corner.
“It’s like you,” she stated, “old fashioned, even frumpy.”
I guess I could have taken offence at her assessment of my taste. But I figure one person’s frumpy is another person’s cozy. Sisters are the only ones who can get away with saying things like that. I liked the room the way it was. If it was old fashioned and frumpy, it was comfortable and it suited me. But I did let Sophie talk me into getting some new clothes for school that fall, and that very day we headed for the shopping center.
We had a great time shopping. Sophie would flip through the racks of clothes like an expert and pull out skirts and pants, tops and dresses. While I stayed in the dressing room, she’d shuttle back and forth with the same dress in two sizes just to be sure one would fit. We got hysterical with laughter as I tried on a red linen suit that hung on me like a tablecloth.
“Perfect for the holidays,” she hooted. “Especially with a garnish of mashed potatoes around the edges.” The saleswoman did not appreciate her attempt at humor and glared at her purposefully. I admitted I could probably stop traffic in that suit, but did I really want to? We found some nice things too, like a pale peach dress with a long jacket in a soft knit fabric. The outfit seemed to bring a glow to my face.
Something to wear to Open House, I thought. That was the first event of the school year when I’d meet the parents of my little cherubs.
We stopped at the chocolate-chip cookie counter in the mall, and I was trying to decide between milk chocolate and semisweet, when I felt a tug at my denim skirt. I looked down and the face of one of my former kindergartners looked up at me shyly.
“Hi, Shauna,” I said, stooping down to give her a hug. She was one of my favorites, shy and sweet and very proud of knowing how to print her name. I looked up to see who was with her. I was fond of her mother, Susan O’Donnell. But it wasn’t Susan who was towering above me in the cookie line, but a rugged-looking man who would have been more at home logging trees than in a suburban shopping center. A glance at my sister told me she was in danger of losing her place in line if she didn’t stop staring at this rugged, outdoorsy stranger.
I finally got to my feet, and feeling Shauna’s hand reach for mine, I felt I ought to explain.
“I’m Shauna’s teacher. I mean l was in her kindergarten, as her teacher I mean,” I stammered nervously. As if as a kindergarten teacher I was unaccustomed to conversing with adults, especially adults who oozed masculinity.
“You must be the Miss Kissinger I’ve been hearing, so much about,” he said, neglecting to tell me who he was which just made me more curious.
Out of the corner of my eye. I saw my sister buying enough cookies for an army, so I stepped back and let some other people get ahead of me. I wanted to know who he was. Suddenly Shauna solved the problem for me.
“Uncle Steve,” she said, “can we get the balloon now?”
“Not until we get the present for your mother. Then we’ll get the balloon,” he replied.
I saw my sister pretending interest in the window of a shoe store. I would have thought she’d been hanging around like glue with a man who looked like this in the vicinity.
With a pained expression on his face, Steve said to me, “Shopping centers are not my favorite places. I’m only here under pressure.”
I must have looked surprised, because he smiled a very disarming smile and explained. “It’s my sister-in-law’s birthday today, and I’m stuck without a present. We’re having a family party tonight, and I can’t show up without one. I just don’t know where to go or what to get.”
Later, Sophie marveled that I’d had the sense to offer to help him. But I did. After I told her I’d meet her back at the cookie counter in a half hour, I guided Steve to the arts and crafts shop where I helped him pick out a wicker basket lined with a homespun fabric.1 told him I knew his sister-in-law rather well. Susan was on the parent council, and I’d had lots of conversations with her, so I knew she’d like the basket. What I didn’t know about her was that she had a handsome brother-in-law. What I wanted to know was why didn’t he bring his wife along to help shop. Or was it possible someone who looked like him and was good with kids was not married?
In half an hour we’d bought the basket, had it gift wrapped, gotten Shauna her balloon, and exchanged some information about ourselves. The reason Steve looked like a woodsman was because he
was one, sort of. He lived in a small town several hundred miles north of here in the redwoods and he made furniture—not out of redwood, but out of pine. He’d been at his brother’s house the last few weeks selling it to stores. This was the first time he’d tried to sell to an urban market, and he said with pride that the pine tables were selling like hotcakes. I didn’t find out much about his personal life, though.
“Didn’t you even find out if he was married?” my sister asked on the way home in the car.
“How could I?” I didn’t know how to find out tactfully if someone was married.
“Did you check to see if he had a ring? she asked.
“I never thought of it,” I had to admit.
Back at my house, I fed the cat while my sister continued thinking out loud.
“One good thing, why would he ask you to help pick out the present if he had a wife? Wives always pick out the presents.” She spoke as a former wife.
“How come you disappeared, if you’re so interested?” I’d almost forgotten to ask her that.
“I’m basically unselfish.” Her eyes were wide and innocent. “I may be wrong,” she continued, “but there was something in that woodworker’s eyes—”
“Steve’s eyes,” I cut in. “Go on about what was in his eyes.”
“There was something special about the way he looked at you, I’m sure of it,” she said. “I’m a student of interpersonal relations, you know.”
I wondered if she could be right. I could only hope so.
Chopping vegetables together for the Chinese dinner I’d promised to make her ever since I’d started my class, we talked more about men. For once I paid close attention. Just as I’d heated up the wok to begin stir frying, the phone rang.
“Kristin?” asked a breathless voice. I recognized it as belonging to Susan O’Donnell. She was probably going to thank me for my part in picking out the basket. But she hadn’t even opened her presents yet. “I can’t talk,” she began. “We’re right in the middle of things, and my whole family’s here.”