by Dee Willson
Apparently I’m the only one worried though. Thomas has slid back into place, just as before. Not a word of the fair.
The minister raises his arms and claps his hands three times, yanking me back to reality. This is immediately followed by the congregation’s claps, three times, as if there is an echo. I bite my tongue, keeping amusement at bay. I’ve only seen this type of attention-getting ritual done with toddlers and the hall is filled mostly with adults. Of course, this could be normal, I’ve only been in a church once before. I was sixteen, stoned, and there with a guy who had a foot fetish and pyro problem. When he set fire to the church, I ran. He later claimed he preferred my feet un-charred, but I dumped him anyway. I’d seen him with a match.
Pear-lady pulls small stacks of paper from the cart, handing them to the end person in every pew, belting instructions for the play, the Three Wise Men. While she does this, my mind replays my favorite jokes about wise men and I giggle to myself, stopping when I notice pear-lady staring at me, silently chastising. Thomas does a pathetic job of stifling a chuckle and I elbow him in the side. She tells us to flip our booklets to the second page. Listed are the characters and children chosen for each role. Abby is singing three songs in the choir and playing a shepherd.
“How vogue,” I whisper to Thomas, “a female shepherd.” I chuckle and Thomas follows suit.
I didn’t think I’d feel comfortable here, in a church, but I do. The people are welcoming and I didn’t go up in flames when I walked in. To be fair, I love the idea of organized religion. I love that an entire community can come together on a common thread and share in each other’s special moments, special occasions. Like Christmas. Karen talks fondly of her “family” at Saint Ann’s, and I even felt sort of envious when Meyer died and I lacked that kind of support. Maybe this place can be someplace special for Abby.
Thomas draws my attention to the script, which makes up the next twelve pages. I turn to page sixteen and see my name beside several jobs, the final being: Make sure all costumes and accessories are in the appropriate hands by the final dress rehearsal on Saturday December 12th.
No problem. My only worry is the church’s mammoth forty-year-old sewing machine, aptly named Old Reliable. I doubt she comes with instructions.
Pear-lady approaches with a stack of books slung in her arms, eyeing me suspiciously. She hands me a Three Wise Men storybook and a thick folder. The folder is filled with paper scraps that possibly, at one point, resembled costume patterns. She leans over me, her boob nudging the side of my face, and passes Thomas a thick book covered in weathered red leather. Her stare darts between Thomas and me as she explains the set design on pages forty-four through forty-eight and where to find reusable wood from last year’s play. Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard, and I’m dying to tell her to blink once in a while. When her dictation dwindles to a close, she looks at Thomas, smiles, and says, “A strong, splendid man like you oughta have no trouble pulling all that heavy stuff from the storage room.” She’s suddenly all soft and sweet.
“Sure,” Thomas mutters.
She reluctantly drags her stare from Thomas’s biceps to my face. “And you, do you have any questions?”
A few come to mind. Why are we given instructions for set design? Thomas’s name is clearly noted beside that job, not mine. Where is Karen, isn’t she the director? How do I work a sewing machine? Why did I volunteer for this? And the more nagging question, are you allowed to flirt with your congregation?
I settle for a quick, “Nope, see you Tuesday.”
’Tis the season to be merry.
The next two weeks pass by in a blur. At any given hour I’m in one of three places: my studio, the church, or my bed. The only productive spot is the church. Poor BOB.
Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, Abby and Sofia rehearse with the other kids while Thomas and I work like slaves. Thomas helped me decipher the inner workings of Old Reliable, and he’s been helping with the sewing, so I’ve painted the set. He’s been a good sidekick. I have to admit, it’s been great spending time with Thomas. He’s got this cute way of finishing my sentences and he makes me laugh like Meyer used to.
Only seven days until the big event and we still have lots to do. The sequined belts and head-wraps must be hand sewn and the paper-mache star needs a final layer, along with a coat of glitter glue. Thomas built the nativity set, but we ran out of yellow paint so it requires some creative tweaking, and Old Reliable deserves a good cleaning before being put to rest another year. Still, Thomas insists we call it an early night. He has dinner to prepare.
Abby and I make the short drive to Thomas’s in silence. We’ve been here before, for Abby’s play dates with Sofia, but we’ve never been invited to dinner.
“Very casual,” Thomas said, “just a dinner date to reward ourselves for a job well done.”
Dinner sounds delightful. It’s the date part that’s making me itch.
I pull into the long winding driveway and press on the brake, pausing to watch dense puffs of snow drift to the ground. The trees surrounding us are draped in shimmering powder, their beauty only slightly tarnished by the claustrophobic feel. Nerves kick-up a fuss in my belly. It might be the date. Or it could be the snow, a reminder of the nightmare I’d had last night.
I was cold, so unbelievably cold. That in itself wasn’t unusual, I’ve had nightmares of dying in the snow before, but this one was different. I was the audience, the casual observer crippled by someone else’s pain. I could hear her cry out, sob, beg for the end. I could feel her under my skin. I wanted her dead. I wanted her gone so she didn’t have to suffer. So I didn’t have to suffer. But when I woke with a thin veil of sweat covering my body, all I wanted was to forget.
I roll down my window, suddenly in need of air. The smell of rotting leaves and wet nips my nose. Winter has arrived. I hope the police find that missing girl soon.
I release the brake, inching forward in small intervals. Thomas’s house comes into view. The ranch-style bungalow is nestled in the woods. A plume of smoke rises from the chimney. The sage green door is adorned with a seasonal wreath, the only embellishment on the otherwise simple facade. It oozes family, which doesn’t explain why I can’t get my foot off the brake. The man inside the house is much the same: comfortable, warm, family oriented, every woman’s dream. So why am I itching to turn around? How can this place feel comfortable yet wrong? I’ve been here several times over the last few months, but this time feels different. Not good different, not bad different, just different. Maybe I’m reading too much into this. Maybe I’m not giving Thomas a chance. I suppose he’s is a great catch. Why shouldn’t I consider him a great catch for me? Perhaps I’m not ready to move on from Meyer. Maybe I am but not with Thomas.
“Mom, you gonna park or what?”
Abby is working on her adolescent sarcasm. It’s coming along just peachy.
An hour later, I realize I was worried for nothing. Between mouthfuls, Abby and Sofia chatter about school friends and the church pageant, and Thomas and I talk about the kids, the weather—safe, easy topics.
“You don’t look thirty-two,” I say, bubbles dripping from the glass in my hand. I insisted on helping with the dishes. It’s the least I can do after Thomas cooked such a scrumptious dinner. The man can cook. Hmm, sweet potato and honey ham, plus apple pie for dessert. All my favorite things.
Thomas grabs a cloth to dry. “Older? Do I look older?”
Abby places her plate on the counter then sprints to catch Sofia running down the hall. Thomas has put a movie on for the kids.
“No, younger.” I wouldn’t peg Thomas for a day over thirty.
“Maybe I am younger. I don’t keep track. My family doesn’t celebrate birthdays.”
I peek at Thomas. He never mentions his family as anything other than him and Sofia. “You mean as adults your family doesn’t keep up with birthday celebrations?”
“I mean never,” he says. “I don’t recall ever doing the birthday thing, even a
s a child. It’s never been important, I guess.”
“Did you grow up somewhere birthdays aren’t customary?”
Thomas focuses on a glass bowl, gently turning it within the folds of the towel. “Um, no. I lived in several countries, wherever my father’s work took us. We were in Europe for most of my childhood, and when I was older, I spent time at a boarding school in the United States.”
This is more than Thomas has ever told me about his childhood.
“Europe, huh? Do you speak other languages?”
“Oui, a few.” He shrugs.
“I’d love to learn another language. I think I’d choose French.” Everything said in French sounds romantic. “Was it hard to have a normal childhood while moving around?”
“I guess moving didn’t help,” he says, “but normal wasn’t really an option.”
Thomas looks uncomfortable so I scrounge for a change of topic. Nothing comes to mind. I kinda like this topic. “You must have had interests. You know, hobbies and stuff?”
Thomas grins. “I was great at sports. Not just one or two, but any sport. I was captain of the rugby team for three seasons. I played football and baseball and could swim from our boat to the beach and back, which was pretty good considering the boat wasn’t usually visible from shore.”
“Your parents must have beamed with pride.”
“You’d think, but my brother is the one who walked on water.” For some reason this makes him laugh. It’s not a nice, lighthearted laugh, but a bitter stroll down a not-so-good memory lane kind of laugh. “My parents are scholars. They don’t have much interest in sports.”
I grope the sink, empty-handed, and pull the plug. Thomas returns dishes to the dining room credenza, obviously on edge. He’s not comfortable talking about himself and I don’t want to pry.
It’s time for Abby and me to head home.
“The girls didn’t even make it to the best part of the movie,” says Thomas, walking back into the kitchen. “They’ve crashed.” He raises a wine bottle and two glasses. “Time for a toast. Come, let’s take advantage of the quiet.”
Oh no.
My mind races, conflicting emotions crashing into one another. Something feels off, like the vast territory ahead is best left untraveled. I’m not sure being alone with Thomas is a good idea, even though Abby and Sofia are technically here. Thomas ignores my dubious demeanor and wanders into the living room, waving me to follow.
Oh hell, one glass of wine shouldn’t hurt.
My princess is asleep on the floor, in a pink tent, wrapped in a Dora the Explorer sleeping bag. Beside her, Sofia dozes upright, huddled between a dozen pillows from various pieces of furniture. I’m jealous. It’s been a while since I’ve slept with such peace.
Thomas turns the movie off and toys with the stereo. “Sit,” he says when he sees me hovering.
I perch on the end of the couch, a pillow held tight to my stomach. The couch is chocolate-brown chenille, and so soft, so uniquely textured, I run my hand over the surface, almost sated.
An expansive window floods the room with moonlight. The fire pops. Thomas sits a suitable distance from me but not at the other end of the couch. I smile halfheartedly, digging my big toe into the area rug. It’s supple, lush, a deep woodsy shade that reminds me of moss. And Meyer’s car. I push thoughts of Meyer from my head and concentrate on the distinctive voice emitting from the sound system.
“When I was younger, this was my most played CD,” I say. “My mother loved The Cranberries, and it’s been years since I’ve heard this song.” I take a deep breath. “Years.”
I’m nervous. I’m trying to act casual, to go with the flow. It’s not going well. I don’t want to say or do something I might regret. Thomas is a good friend and I’d like to keep it that way.
“A good choice then,” says Thomas. He pours the wine, balancing the glasses on the leather ottoman, then hands me one. He taps our glasses in cheer and the crystal sings.
“Dinner was awesome, Thomas. You’re an amazing cook. Did your parents teach you?”
Thomas chuckles. “Not a chance. My mom and dad aren’t much in the kitchen. Louis, our cook, taught me.” A memory distracts him. “Louis was constantly chastising me for playing in the pantry or swiping food. As punishment he’d put my sticky fingers to work. By the time I was ten, I’d hang out in the kitchen just to watch him cook. He’d listen to classical music, whipping together culinary masterpieces, rarely uttering a word, and as long as I was learning, and quiet, I was allowed to stay in the kitchen.”
“Sounds inspirational. My cooking skills—or lack thereof—contribute greatly to my physique.” I laugh. “We eat a lot of fresh fruit and vegetables.”
Growing up, my mother didn’t use appliances of any kind. If food had to be baked, roasted, or fried, Celeste wasn’t buying it. My mother would sell a few of her photos, and we’d eat fresh fruit and veggies till we puked. Then a dry spell would hit and we’d spend months living on chips and soda, or whatever came out of my mother’s magic purse. I drank a lot of tap water.
“My father says I learned to cook by osmosis. Good thing too. I ate twice as much as anyone else in the house.” Thomas looks away. “And I liked having a place my brother wasn’t bound to be.”
“You and your brother didn’t get along?”
“I guess we did when we were kids. I have very few childhood memories that don’t include him. Once we were older, though, things changed.”
“Changed how?”
Thomas thinks about this for a minute, gulping his wine. “Have you ever known someone who is good at everything? Not just good but the best: top grades, awards, all the praise, all the girls.” His eyes pierce mine. “That’s my brother, Mr. Perfect.”
“He’s a jerk?”
“Yeah, a real piece of work . . .” He snickers. “Well, I don’t know, I guess he’s a jerk sometimes. My brother is the one who was born to be. I was the surprise, the mistake. My parents adored him.” He swigs his wine. “Still do.”
I wasn’t planned, and my mother never told me in so many words, but I think she loved me from day one, even facing odds.
“Your parents didn’t want a second child?” I ask.
Thomas slams his empty glass to the ottoman. “They wanted a girl.”
“Seriously? They told you that?”
“They didn’t need to say it. It’s complicated.” His mouth says complicated but his face says not to be discussed further.
I don’t push.
“Where does your family live now? You never mention them.”
“My parents retired in the south of France. We don’t speak much.”
“And your brother, does he live in France as well?”
Thomas leans forward, nodding, spinning the empty glass between his hands. “Like I said, we don’t talk much,” he says. He pours himself another wine.
I sip from my glass, wondering why Thomas doesn’t communicate with his family. My half-brother, Stephen, lives in Paris, and although we weren’t raised together, we email each other weekly. Stephen was conceived on one of my mother’s bipolar highs when I was six. She’d yanked me out of school to catch a flight to Spain, determined to see the running of the bulls. We never made it to Pamplona. Our overnight stay in Barcelona was extended when she met Gregory Tindell, a corporate lawyer for some investment firm, in Barcelona on business. The whirlwind affair lasted four days and ended when he returned to Paris, to his wife and kids. I got a black eye from the hotel’s on-staff babysitter, and Mom got knocked-up. Fun had by all.
“My family didn’t approve of my choices,” says Thomas.
“Choices . . . they didn’t like your wife?”
“They didn’t want me to marry her. They said I wasn’t ready, the timing was wrong, she wasn’t the woman they’d choose for me, etc, etc. They refused to acknowledge what I wanted, how I felt. And they were against us having children.” He looks tortured, staring into his wine glass. “All I wanted was a family.”
&n
bsp; Now that’s an emotion I can relate to. Stephen moved to Paris six weeks before my seventh birthday. By then my mother had renounced medicine, allowing her illness to bloom, and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t raise a baby on my own. Stephen got a new start with Gregory Tindell and his family. I was never the same.
Thomas plops his glass on the ottoman then falls back into the couch, hands tucked behind his head, long legs stretched out. He stares at the ceiling, eyes glossed over. “I wanted a son,” he says. “I wanted Sofia to have a brother and maybe a sister. I wanted a wife that loved me and only me. I wanted to be happy.”
He wanted it all. Just like I did—like all of us do. We want the pretty picture, the perfect life, the happy days, the endless nights, the kids, the good health, and the money to enjoy it all. Nobody wants an ex-wife. Nowhere in this pretty picture does the husband die.
Shit. Now I need more wine. I fill both glasses to the brim.
Thomas releases a gust of air, pulling his hands from under his head. In one fluid motion, he grabs the glass and swallows the entire contents. He stretches, this time turning onto his side, eyes fixed on mine. We’re close. Too close.
“I want a family, a whole family. I want a wife that loves me as much as I love her. I want . . .”
No, no, no, please don’t say it.
The space between us is paper-thin, and I can smell wine mingled with sweet ham on his breath. Thomas reaches out and tucks strands that have fallen over my face behind my ear, and I freeze. Part of me wants this: to be touched, to be wanted. His fingers are gentle, lightly caressing my ear, my cheek, my chin. I’m caught between desire and dread. I hold the pillow tighter to my chest, fingers anxiously moving through the chenille trim. I can hear my heart pounding.
“Your eyes are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”
Blood races to my head, making me dizzy. “Thomas, I—”
“We want the same thing, Tess. I know you want a family, siblings for Abby. I’ve seen it on your face, a longing I recognize.”