New Year's Resolutions

by Briggs, Laura

  The girl from the opera, he was certain, although from this distance in a moving cab it was impossible to know.

  “Hey, stop for a moment,” he said. The driver eased to the curb as Henry fumbled with the door handle. He climbed out, glancing at the pedestrians moving past. A man in a tattered vest carrying a saxophone case, a businesswoman in a lavender scarf. If he hadn’t felt so certain, he would have believed his eyes played a trick on him a moment before, conjuring the girl out of random elements.

  He was already late for work this morning, not to mention a meeting with an editor about a difficult cover art request. No doubt a stack of manuscripts awaited him, with notes on covers and fonts and galleys with mistakes within their pages.

  A horn honked loudly behind him; an angry driver gestured towards the cab as they attempted to pull out. Hastily, Henry climbed inside again and slammed the door.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Drive on.” With one last glance towards the sidewalk and the vanished girl.

  By now, Dolores had learned to substitute his coffee for chamomile tea in the mornings. She brought him two sugar packets in addition to the red mug, shoving aside a pile of art brochures to make room on his desk.

  “A Mr. Benson from the Loomis Agency called about his client’s new cover,” she said. “It seems the writer has an issue with the choice of daisies...”

  “The Greerson novel?” said Henry. “The whole plot was about daisies...that’s the impression I got from the proofread galleys. Besides, the editor attached a note specifically requesting a daisy motif.”

  “I passed it along,” said Dolores, “having assumed that would be your answer. There was also a call about getting Ky Lars to design a cover for an upcoming thriller...” As she spoke, her fingers were busy rearranging his mess, tidying things even as he emptied his laptop and Ipad from his leather briefcase.

  “Who am I having lunch with today?” he asked. “Please tell me it’s not that overly-eager graphic artist who wants the in-house design post.”

  “It’s not. You’re skipping lunch today so you can finish putting together the book on your desk, remember?” She smiled at him. “Relax, I ordered lunch for you. A Greek salad from that place around the corner you like so much.”

  He had forgotten about that promise. On the other hand, it would give him a chance to move ahead and keep this weekend free for hitting the mountain bike trail. Thumbing through the heavily-bound proofs, he whistled a soft tune under his breath.

  He shifted the manuscript to his left hand as the phone rang. “Harkin Publishing, Henry Weimar speaking.”

  “Dude, it’s me, not the IRS.” He recognized Seth’s voice through the static. “Listen, I’m at a basement rehearsal, so I can’t talk long, but I need to know about those tickets–”

  Henry covered the receiver with one hand. “Dolores, do you have those tickets Paul dropped off for me on Friday?” he asked. Paul’s connections in the world of offbeat rock had come as a surprise to Henry–to his chagrin, an offhand remark on this fact now made him a go-between for his coworker and Seth.

  “The ones to ‘Pluckit Muckit’ in September?” she called back. “They’re right here.”

  “By the way, who exactly is this band?” asked Henry, over the phone

  “They’re the hottest new Swedish group,” he answered. “Only five U.S. concerts this year–that’s why I have to have the tickets. They sold out, like, the first day at most venues ...”

  Henry pictured a long line of desperate rock fans holding out for tickets on obscure websites. “I’ll bring them by your apartment tonight,” he said.

  “Hey, no hurry,” said Seth, his voice momentarily obscured by a loud, whining sound in the background. “You can bring them to that coffee open mike thing in a couple of weeks so I can surprise Sheryl...”

  “Who’s Sheryl?” Henry interrupted. “Wait, is this to impress a girl, Seth?”

  “TTYL, Dude.” Seth’s cell phone clicked dead. With a wry expression on his face, Henry hung up. Picturing Seth’s love of the hour with her affinity for Swedish rock. No doubt she would be sitting across from him at the coffee house in a couple of weeks, much like the palm-reading relationship expert only a few months ago.

  Was she a rocker herself? Or only a fan? One of Seth’s previous girlfriends sported blue hair and a vest beaded with miniature fangs, a drummer in an all-women’s garage band.

  Pulling a blue pencil from his briefcase, he sketched the outline of a spiky blue head from his memory, an angular neck decorated with chains. Adding a touch of pink along the tip of the nose and the too-loose tank top beneath the vest’s shoulders.

  “Pretty,” commented Dolores. She propped the ticket envelope against his lamp. “The cover for the new sci fi manuscript?“

  Henry laughed softly. “Just for fun,” he said. “We hire real artists here at Harkin.” He flipped the sketch beneath a stack of business letters.

  “Have you ever thought of entering a contest?” she asked. “There’s one for sketches in a literary magazine, a bi-monthly thing.” She thumbed through an issue of Literature Quarterly on his desk. “A lot of comic book art, some Degas-style sketches, pretty much the gauntlet of the art world. Not much money, of course, but the prestige...” Turning the magazine towards him with a flourish, a spread of fantastic monsters and perfect profiles, a long window view of a harbor filled with boats.

  “I don’t think I need to waste my time building a name as an artist,” he answered. “Remember that conversation we had about my poetry days?”

  “Well, I think you do,” Dolores answered. Her glance firm with these words, a stubborn little smile appearing on her face as she turned to go.

  The tips of Henry’s fingers slowly edged the drawing of the blue-haired girl from beneath the letters. The blue tips of her hair, the arch of her eyebrows was more professional than the sketches pinned above his desk at home. Maybe as professional as some of the images in the magazine on his desk.

  *****

  “Are you ready, Miss Abby Nesbit?”

  Abby didn’t answer immediately, aware of a tremor in her knees. Her heels rested on the stool’s rungs, her guitar strap cutting into her shoulder as she poised her fingers above the strings.

  “I am,” she said. The manager of the Java Box flipped to a new page on his clipboard, leaning forward to catch a remark from the earring-studded employee next to him.

  “So what are you doing for us today?” he asked. “A little blues, a little country?” Balancing his clipboard on his knee, he spread his hands as it motioning for her to fill in the blank.

  “A little bit of both,” she answered, forcing a nervous smile in response to the laughter from the short row of listeners. “Actually, it’s ‘Dream a Little Dream’.”

  Her fingers felt for the chords; palms slick, throat dry as she began. The words issued huskily, then gained strength as she progressed through the first verse. Keeping her eyes half-shuttered, she let a smile play around her lips–a nervous fluttering she feared would make them write her off entirely.

  Keep going, keep going. The melody continued steadily from the acoustic guitar, a soft beat that she matched vocally with great concentration. In her mind, she tried to picture herself singing to someone, a tall, dark and handsome stranger apart from her usual beach boy affinity. An imaginary figure seated at an empty table in a coffee shop, listening with rapt attention.

  Her fingers plucked a few notes, dying off with a soft harmonic as she braced her fingers against the frets. Raising her eyes, she scanned the faces of the manager and his team, lips pressed together in an attempt not to bite one out of frustration.

  The man’s pen scribbled something on the page. A few whispers were exchanged between the panel. Then he glanced up and offered her a smile.

  “Congratulations, Abby,” he said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Let go!” Abby’s voice was muffled by Maureen’s heavy caftan sweater, her mouth filled with the fringe of soft wool dr
enched in pear water. Her friend’s bear hug was like an iron grip, however, not to be broken by mortal powers except by the magic words.

  “I can’t believe you did it!” Maureen released her, although she was still gripping Abby’s arms as she beamed. “You’re a star–”

  “A coffee house performer,” said Abby. “Not the same thing, as you well know. But it’s nice to have a musical outlet for once that isn’t classical.”

  She shifted the basket on her arm, wondering how Maureen could wear such a thick sweater in the heat of late July. Probably because there was nothing left of her frame but muscle after months of an intensive yoga-and-pilates-and-more-cardio workout. In the farmer’s market, Maureen was in quest of a low-sugar substitute for apples, of all things–Abby was interested in something that looked slightly easier to cook than the daunting acorn squash in her fridge at home, a gift from one of her students’ parents.

  “I won’t be performing for another two weeks,” said Abby. “In the meantime, I have to worry about that stack of forms on my desk for Mr. Gyvers. I’ve decided to back up my claims on a school performance with a signature drive. I think support from a third of the parents in the school system would make my point that there’s community interest in a special needs orchestra concert.”

  “I’ve never thought signature drives were effective,” said Maureen. “I mean, just because we sign a form doesn’t mean we’d actually participate in whatever it is.” She sniffed a wilted-looking green fruit from a display of Asian imports.

  “I’m not asking them to come, just sign a form saying it’s a good idea,” said Abby. “How will Principal Gyvers know the difference? And if I can get the funding from a couple of bake sales and a few business donations–there’s a music shop that offered–”

  “Talk to Richard, maybe his firm would be interested in sponsoring you,” said Maureen. “They have a lot of ties to the music business.” She lifted a sack of organic black beans and tossed them in the basket.

  Abby glanced from the piles of fresh peaches to the fruit stands ahead. Where a man was scooping cherries into a carton, snapping it shut as he glanced towards the next variety. An angular face framed by dark hair, a pair of glasses low on the bridge of his nose.

  She poked Maureen in the shoulder. “Maureen, does he look familiar to you?” she asked. “The guy over there buying cherries.”

  “The guy over where?” Maureen looked up from bundles of thick carrots that looked unappetizing from Abby’s point of view.

  “In the fruit section–by the cherries.” Abby peered around a customer struggling with a heavy load of tomatoes, seeing the man disappear in a crowd near the bushels of plums. Abby plucked her friend’s sleeve as if to pull her along as she waded into the crowd.

  “I don’t know, it could be anybody,” said Maureen. “Maybe it was one of Richard’s friends...”

  “No, it wasn’t,” said Abby. “But I know I’ve seen him somewhere before. Something about his face was familiar. Maybe from a concert or a restaurant or something.” She maneuvered in the same direction as the man ahead, who was barely in range of her vision. She traced the outline of his shoulders beneath his dark jacket, the waves of his hair. Was it in a shop she frequented, the place she first saw him?

  “Abby, wait.” Maureen sounded plaintive, her sweater snagged on a bushel basket filled with grapes. The sight of her stretched to the capacity of a thick wool leash was comical; a slight laugh escaped Abby as she turned around.

  “Hold on,” she said, setting down the basket to have both hands available. Customers diverted around them as she crouched down to pull the threads from a long wood splinter.

  “Don’t unravel it,” Maureen begged. “It was an anniversary present from Richard from an organic woolery we visited last fall.”

  “An organic woolery?” said Abby. “What–sheep on a green diet?”

  “No, as in no chemical dyes used in the yarn’s creation,” Maureen retorted. “Just don’t fray it, please.”

  Abby glanced over her shoulder, feeling a tug of curiosity about the mystery figure despite Maureen’s predicament. He had long vanished in the tide of customers, no sign of his tall figure or dark jacket in the crowd. Disappointed, she turned towards the barrel again. A few careful tugs and the sweater was free. Maureen caught hold of the end and inspected it for damage, releasing a long sigh.

  “Perfect,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Abby. “Although you owe me an apology for being absolutely no help on face recognition” She bent down to retrieve their basket next to the strawberry display.

  “I told you, I didn’t recognize him,” said Maureen. “What does it matter? Unless he borrowed your dvds and didn’t return them, it wouldn’t matter if you never crossed paths again, would it?”

  “I was just curious to know where I saw him before, that’s all,” said Abby. “What if we met and he expected me to say hi?”

  “Then I think you would remember him as more than a face in the crowd,” Maureen said. “He was a little attractive.”

  “Did I say anything about that?” Abby retorted, feeling her face flushing hot. “I just ...” Fumbling for words, she gave up, aware of a strange sense of deja vu mingling with her interest in the now-absent figure. Maybe her imagination was conjuring a nonexistent attraction from some hidden fantasy.

  “What do you think of a recipe involving pea mousse?” mused Maureen. “I’ve heard it’s incredibly low calorie.”

  “Pea mousse?”

  *****

  The acorn squash had strange bug bites on one side. Henry felt decidedly less tempted as he handled one, the dreams of melted butter and toasted breadcrumb toppings vanishing. For a casserole, he could remove bug bites, but not for stuffed squash boats.

  Tucked at the bottom of his basket, a new copy of Daniel Deronda from the Harkin Scholastic line. He was surprised to discover he didn’t own a copy when perusing his library–for a title chosen at random from his college reading list. Eyes closed, he let his fingers hover over the list with a red pen, arbitrarily marking a title. If it was one he never covered in high school or college English class, then he read it.

  Those were the rules, at least for the last three volumes. Thus far, he had finished Maria Edgeworth’s The Absentee, Scott’s Rob Roy and an annotated edition of Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.

  Fresh tomatoes looked more promising than the yellow peppers he initially planned for his menu, forcing him to mentally switch tactics. Something Tex Mex with a heavy red sauce was in order–chilis instead of mild bell peppers. Stepping aside for a woman carrying a heavy load of plums, he selected a half-dozen tomatoes, a bundle of fresh parsley. The afternoon crowd at the farmer’s market was unusually noisy, the sound of voices laughing and shrieking amidst the hum of conversation, the steady thunk of produce in shopping bags and baskets.

  At home, he popped in a recording of Chrysler’s compositions, background music as he peeled and diced, set a saucepan to simmer the juices with a generous layer of cumin and chili powder. Fresh cilantro parsed beneath the blade of his knife moments before he reduced a yellow onion to fine segments and sliced beef into thin planks for grilling.

  He heard the door of his apartment open and close, a sign that Dolores had arrived. His assistant carried a spare key for weekends Henry was out of town, although today she was bringing tamales instead of watering his plants.

  “Smells lovely,” she called. “My husband won’t be making it tonight, his plane was delayed–so I brought my niece instead.” He heard the sound of the coat closet door in the entryway, the shuffle of footsteps across the wood panels.

  Niece? He pictured a voluptuous college girl in high heels and makeup, a setup filled with eyebrow waggling and nine-pound hints on the part of her aunt. Or a girl dragged into his kitchen and stood before him in forced introduction, her eyes sliding away with embarrassment. Already a red wave crept from his collar to his face in an uncomfo
rtable flush not caused by the simmer saucepan of chilis.

  Dolores appeared with a covered basket in hand, her dark hair pinned high and two small coral earrings glinting against her tan skin. Behind her trailed a gangly high school student, a glittery cami tank top untucked above a pair of skinny jeans.

  “This is Gloria,” she said. “Gloria, this is Henry. He’s an expert cook, so his beef chipotle should rival your mother’s recipe.” The girl, obviously shy, made as minimal eye contact as necessary when shaking his hand. A slender brown hand sliding into her pocket where the outline of a iphone was visible.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Henry. “Make yourself at home. Feel free to toss Ron off the leather chair in the corner if you want,” he added, as the girl eyed the most private seat in the house, currently occupied by a snoozing cat. He offered her a sympathetic smile, suspecting an evening spent with her aunt’s grownup friends was far from appealing at her age.

  Dolores slipped a spoon into his sauce, then tasted it. “Mmmm,” she said. “This is good. This is what my grandmother used to make. She baked her own tortillas then–a brick oven in a backyard in Jersey.” She pulled Henry’s spare apron from a hook beside the steel kitchen shelves.

  “What can I do to help?” she asked. “Assemble the pico de gallo? Crush ice for the pina colladas?”

  “You can stir this pot while I turn the beef strips,” he said. “Do you prefer onion with yours? Or sun-dried tomatoes? I have both.” As he spoke, he unwrapped the dishes beside the stove grill, where the beef was taking on shades of brown as it sizzled.

  There was a buzz from the intercom. “Mr. Weimar?” called Gloria, in a hopeful voice.

  “Just buzz them in, Gloria,” he answered. “It’s probably Seth and his ... his friend.” It wasn’t Sheryl–he knew that much, given Seth’s casual mention to their meeting at an upcoming coffee house concert. Most likely it was one of his friend’s exes. Or the next girl on his list once Sheryl vanished.