“It's not much, I know,” said Annie.
Lee smiled, glancing back at Alder. “Looks like you have tons of room to run. You're lucky.”
Alder looked at her, solemn, but his big brown eyes portrayed the unflinching honesty of the young. “I can't invite any friends here. I don't want them to see where I live. Do you still like us?”
Lee reached into the backseat to touch Alder's face for a moment. “Where you live doesn't matter one bit to me. I've had a little trouble myself lately. When you're friends it doesn't matter where you live or what kind of things you have. You understand?”
“I guess,” he said, smiling and jumping from his open door to the damp ground.
Annie looked at Lee, touching her arm. “Thank you.”
“He's a great boy. You're obviously a good mother. Maybe you can give me some tips.” Lee gave Annie a slip of paper with her phone number. “Give me a call if you need a lift to your truck or anything.”
Annie gestured at Lee's stomach. “You let me know if you need anything.”
Lee smiled. “Will do.” She waved at Alder. “Bye Alder. I'll see you again soon.”
“Bye Lee.” He ran up to their front door.
As she backed out of the driveway, she saw Alder at the window waving, his hand like a flutter of a bird's wing. She waved back and rested her hand on her stomach. She wondered for the first time about this place she used to call home and if there was something more, some new way she should look at it. There was Tommy and this attraction between them. And this feeling that she wanted to unburden it all, to tell and show him every detail of her life. None of which made sense because she was haunted by Dan's death and this vacillation between anger, sadness and guilt that followed her everywhere she went.
And now to meet Annie and learn she was a chef. Was it a turn of fate or coincidence or whatever Thomas Hardy used to call it? Was it like Clive, did it mean something? She thought about the restaurant and the town and how much potential there was. Mike was right. It was breathtakingly beautiful. The rivers and mountains offered many possibilities for rich tourists if there were any decent caliber restaurants and inns. She wondered about Annie and what kind of talent was inside her. Something about the way Annie's face looked when she crumbled the crust between her fingers gave Lee the feeling that she was good. With a real chef, they could have a real restaurant. She turned down her dirt driveway, her mind spinning with ideas.
It was midnight and Lee tossed in her bed, thinking of Tommy on the steps, the way the light hit his face and his full mouth with his big white teeth. What was wrong with her? This attraction she felt for him must be false, just a way for her mind to twist all the fear and pain about her life onto another track - the ultimate distraction. She wondered what it might feel like to kiss him. Would it be as she imagined, all lust and passion, or would it just be a mouth with saliva and intruding tongue and gnashing teeth?
She should be thinking about the restaurant, and how to make it a success, not about the muscles in Tommy's legs she had spotted under his jeans. She threw off the covers and traipsed downstairs, made a cup of peppermint tea and sat on the back steps. She gazed at the stars sparkling against their black backdrop and remembered as a child counting them and wondering why the Milky Way had the same name as a chocolate bar. The night sky was brilliant without city lights diminishing their brightness. She'd forgotten the stars.
An owl hooted and the breeze rustled in the fir trees. She ran her hand along the wooden railing and thought about her Grandfather, building this house from nothing but the trees in these woods. Something out of nothing. She sipped her tea, sighing. The air was chilly but smelled of lilacs, evergreen's new growth and cut grass. She shivered, pulling her sweater tighter, and kicking the grass with her foot.
What would she tell the child about his or her father? Her mother told her nothing of her own father and she sometimes even now wondered if he was out there in the world. Did he know about her? Did he ever think of her? The one time Lee had the courage to ask her mother about him, the response was, “long gone.” Lee surmised he was a man who passed through town for a brief time, or someone her mother met the one and only year she went to college. As a child she convinced herself he didn't know of her, because the thought of his rejection was unbearable. The fantasies about him started when she was about six and other than details, sometimes he was a Prince, sometimes a teacher, the basic story was the same. He learned of her through a series of fate-like coincidences and then moved heaven and earth to find her, rescuing her from the clutches of her angry mother and taking her away with him.
She shivered and went inside to find a blanket. She pulled the throw off her bed, wrapped it around her shoulders and went back to the steps. Lee left her tea cup on the steps and lay on the grass. The ground smelled of wet dirt and spring grass. She spotted Orion and the Bear in the constellation, which made her think of Clive and her cubs, and Annie and Alder, how they were the same, bonded through naked primal love for one another – a mother and her babies. The stars felt so close they might swallow her and she floated and breathed the night into her chest. She looked for a falling star but there were none and she remembered they showed in August, one after the other plummeting through space, exploding somewhere light years away, never to be seen again. She felt like one of those shooting stars. She'd been a vibrant light in the sky until the big fall, the descent to earth where she exploded, never to be seen again.
August, what was it about August that nagged her? The baby would come in September. The new restaurant could open in August. She watched the stars for many minutes as pieces and ideas stacked together, one by one, until she saw it in its entirety. She said a silent prayer, fastening her eyes to the constancy of Orion's belt, “Please, God, let Annie be able to cook. Give me the strength to want to shine again. Fill me with light.”
The next morning rain pelted the hood of her old raincoat and boots she'd found in the hall closet as she trudged through the field looking for the path from her daily walks twenty years before. Each day, no matter the weather, she had dropped her school books in the hallway, grabbed an apple and ran all the way to her ‘studio’to lose herself for hours in her art projects. But the path was gone. The light green grasses were wet and came to her hips, pressing against her and soaking her pants as she slogged along, even as she sweated underneath the plastic raincoat. After several minutes she came upon the shed, the siding gray and decayed. The one-sided roof sagged. Lee pulled on the rustic door handle, carved and assembled long ago from her grandfather's tools. Inside, besides smelling of mildew and decaying wood, was just as she'd left it. There was an easel by the window. Old paint tubes and colored pencils were organized neatly on the shelf. She fingered a tray of pastels, their hued dust staining her skin.
She opened one of several boxes underneath the crude table and found it stacked with papers, the corners of which were curled and covered with mildew. She flipped through landscapes of the rivers and the mountains. She paused at a self portrait, an assignment from high school art class. On the canvas was her small white face with empty holes where the eyes should have been. Around the neck was a band of red, like a scarf or a noose.
At the bottom of the box was a painting of her mother, also an assignment. The painting was an image of a twisted body, the face hidden by an arm, and a billow of gray smoke floating around the head. Lee touched her fingers over the brush strokes of oil paint on the canvas, trying to remember the girl she'd been when she painted them. She could still remember what it felt like to paint that way, the release of emotion onto the canvas. She wondered where the girl was, the one that thought art would be her life work. Maybe she disappeared under the reality of tuition loans, rent and the fear her talent was imagined and wouldn't hold up under scrutiny. Maybe she lost the reason for doing it amongst the critiques and competition of art school and the realization that it was a business with no profit potential, instead of an expression of her unique point of view.
Lee stuffed the paintings back in the box and shoved it under the table. She rummaged through a box labeled ‘supplies’ and found a blank sheet of mildewed watercolor paper. She tucked the paper, a bag of pastels and a small portable easel under her arm and opened the door to the outside. The rain had stopped while she was inside. Overhead large rain clouds drifted north, letting the sun cascade down on the wet land. She walked along until she came to a spot along the river where water splashed over large rocks as mild rapids. She sat on a boulder near the water and propped the easel in her lap. She sketched images that leapt to her mind for the restaurant with the pastels: pear green for the walls, a bar and tables in dark brown, a blue awning facing the street. The water gurgled through the rocks and she began to think of it as a song in accompaniment to her drawing. The river had its own song, she mused, like Tommy. The song of the river. The river's song. Riversong. She would call the restaurant Riversong. She wrote Riversong in the left hand corner of the paper with black letters and then closed her eyes to better hear the river's voice.
The oatmeal sat cold and crusted over on the table as Lee's fingers flew over the computer. The business plan, corresponding financial spreadsheets and a slide presentation for Mike were nearly completed. Her back ached and she realized she hadn't gone to the bathroom in hours. Her legs were stiff as she rose to her feet, stomach growling.
There was a rustle at the back door and she saw Ellen on the stairs with a basket in her arms. Lee opened the door for her, pleased to see her. She breathed in the aroma of butter and cinnamon and it felt like medicine to her aching spirit.
Ellen's eyes took in the laptop and her eyebrows knit in surprise. “You working on something?”
“The plan for the restaurant.”
Ellen opened the basket, pulling out a cinnamon roll and plopping in a chair. “Let's hear it.”
She handed Ellen the financial spreadsheets and went through the presentation, computer slide show and all. She proposed an intimate romantic setting with gourmet food, fresh ingredients found locally, full bar and an extensive wine list. The space would be renovated to accommodate a new bar area complete with a curved counter and mirrored shelving for liquors, wines and glasses and an upgraded formal dining area. There would be two menus, one for the dining room and one for the bar. The bar menu would begin after 9 p.m. with reasonably priced appetizer offerings to get the late night crowds looking for live music and drinks. Revolving art exhibits by local artists would be displayed on the walls of the dining room. There would be monthly local wine ‘tastings’, paired with the chef's custom tailored meals, and quarterly Sunday afternoon art openings with wine and light appetizers.
After she was done Ellen knitted her brows. “Where will you get a cook?”
Lee sat on the edge of the table. “I met a professionally trained chef the other day. Matter of fact, she prompted the entire concept for the restaurant. I hope my instinct about her is right.” Lee shuffled the papers on the table.
“Where are you going to get the customers?”
Lee laughed. “I forgot to tell you that part. I'm using my instincts here, which I hope to God are right, but I think it will be a combination of tourists, retirees with disposable income, professionals like teachers, our doctor, the dentists, and people celebrating special occasions.”
Ellen nodded her head, pursing her lips. “That sounds right. Anniversaries, stuff like that?”
“Exactly.”
“Yeah, and the bridge ladies.”
“What's a bridge lady?”
“There's these ladies around town here, most of ‘em widows, play bridge three or four times a week. They've got money and time. They're always talking about how they wish there was a decent place to eat here in town.”
Lee bit into a cinnamon roll. “This is good. It's kind of flaky like a croissant. We could sell these at the restaurant.”
Ellen flushed and waved her hand in the air. “I'm too old to make my baking a business. I like to bake for friends. But, I'm interested in this idea you have about local produce. I could help you find some local farmers and such.”
Lee clapped her hands. “Perfect. Y'know, there's a whole ‘eat locally’ trend across the country.”
Ellen chuckled and said “I know there are some local farms in the area that would love to grow for a restaurant like this.” She nodded her head. “I think this is a hell of an idea. I'm proud of you.”
“Really?”
“You bet. Now listen, I found a little something for the baby while I was out yesterday.” She pulled something from a plastic shopping bag next to the basket and handed it to Lee.
It was a yellow onesie with a duck on the front and matching socks that seemed no bigger than her thumb. “Ellen, this is so sweet.” She fingered the socks and then held them to her cheek. “Will the baby really be this small?”
“Only for what will seem about two days. They're grown before you know it.”
Lee had the urge to hug her suddenly but instead put the gift back in the bag. “This is nice. Thank you.” Feeling awkward, she backed towards the door. “I should get dressed.” She looked at the clock. “It's four in the afternoon!”
Ellen thumped the side of her head. “Shoot, I almost forgot the whole reason I came over here. I hired you a handyman.”
Lee stared at her. “What?”
“He's more of a carpenter I guess. Anyway, he's coming by this afternoon at five.” Lee opened her mouth to say no but Ellen put up her hand. “I won't take no for an answer. You're never gonna get this place finished at the rate you're working.”
“I can't pay for it.”
She waved her hand in the air. “Don't worry about that. You gotta learn to accept help. Otherwise you'll turn out like me, old and lonely.”
“But it's so expensive.”
“Pay me back when you sell the house.” Ellen walked toward the door. “I need to run. I'm picking up some plants at the nursery. It's supposed to rain this afternoon.”
The handyman came at five minutes after five. He had long gray hair in a pony tail, shorts, and Birkenstocks with socks. “Hey, how's it goin'?” His voice was mellow. “I'm early. I hope that's cool.”
Lee looked at her watch. “I have five after.”
“Really? Weird.” He elongated the words, swinging his pony tail and lifting his arms above his head. He stretched his torso into a half backbend and the stench of his underarms mixed with the smell of patchouli made Lee feel light headed. He popped upright and closed his eyes for a few seconds. “Wow. Stressful day. Yeah, man, I'm working for this lady in town. She's so uptight. I mean, really uptight.”
Lee gestured for him to come in and showed him around the house. They discussed a plan which included painting, refinishing the floors, repairing the stairwell, getting rid of the rest of the junk and rebuilding the porch. “I don't know what Ellen discussed with you regarding how much this might cost?”
“She's cool. I've known her for a long time and told her I'd do the whole thing for five grand plus material. All together I think we can get it done for ten grand.”
“Really? The floors too?”
“If you don't mind laminate instead of real wood.”
“I guess.” Lee wrinkled her brow. “I'm repairing this house in order to sell it, so it's important the job is professional.”
“This is a cool house, man, and I'll get her humming again.” He stroked the wood of the stairwell. “You have to respect the materials, you know, merge the past and the present into something beautiful.” He pulled the ponytail holder from his hair, shaking his long gray tresses. “You mind if I do some yoga on your grass here before I go, clear my head for the drive home?”
“I guess.”
And right there in her yard he took off his shirt and began the yoga practice of salutation to the sun.
Lee closed the door, resting her forehead on it for a moment, trying not to laugh out loud. At least she wasn't bored, she thought. She had the urge to call Tomm
y and tell him that for such a small town, there was an endless supply of interesting people. He'd agree. She knew that for sure.
Chapter Fifteen
Mike marched through the front door of the restaurant, threw his hat on the table and gripped Lee's hand in a firm handshake. “Good to see you, young lady.” He plopped in a seat and thrust his hands behind his head. “Been looking forward to this all week.” Dust floated in the streaks of sunlight that streamed through the grimy restaurant windows. He sniffed the air and shook his head. “This place always smells of old grease. Makes me think of nothing but big bottomed women, and I don't mean the good kind. Sure hope your plan doesn't include a deep fryer.”
Lee squared her shoulders. “We keep the deep fryer and I'll tell you why.”
He crossed his legs and leaned back in his seat. “I'm all ears.”
Using the presentation software on her laptop, she ran through the concept of the restaurant. After the fourth slide she glanced nervously at his face, hoping to discern his reaction. His face was impassive but attentive. She swallowed her nervousness and continued. She explained the numbers on the spreadsheet next, how she came to them and why she believed they could make money. “As you know, margins on alcohol are fifty percent at least and when people drink they want bar food.” Mike pulled on his ear and he leaned forward a few inches. “This will bring in another type of diner, one that won't want to spend money on a full dinner but are willing to pay for appetizers and drinks.”
Next she pulled a sheet from the concept board and propped it against the table. It was complete with her sketches of the dining room and bar, fabric and paint samples, ideas for the furniture, pictures of glassware, silverware and the linens she would choose. She concluded with the budget, the hiring plan and projected profits for the first year.
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