Breaking the Ties That Bind

by Gwynne Forster

  “She’s counting on that, Kendra. What’s keeping her under control these days?”

  “My uncle. Her older brother. If she contacts me, he’ll have her bail revoked, and she’ll have to serve out that jail sentence for driving an unregistered car with a suspended license.”

  “You told me about that. Why was her license suspended?”

  “She had numerous traffic violations, and didn’t pay any of her fines. Then, she drove down a one-way street the wrong way, and when the police caught her, she was rude. She lost her license.”

  “I see. She’s antisocial.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  It was not the time for what he wanted and needed with her, although it would have been perfect if she hadn’t seen her mother. “Can we be together tomorrow after you finish studying?”

  “Great. That heavy snow made it possible for me to catch up with my studies, so any time after one will be fine. I’m going to church with Papa, and I’ll be home by eleven-thirty. Say, why don’t we come back here for dinner? It won’t be as fancy as I’m capable of making it, but it will be nice.”

  “I like that.” And he did. He wanted to know if he could be comfortable in her environment, and so far he wasn’t sure.

  “Okay, dress casually and comfortably, but not in sneakers or jeans.”

  “All right.” His jaw nearly dropped when she looked up at him and said, “I love being with you so much. I’m never ready to leave you.”

  Quickly gathering his aplomb, he said, “I thought it was only I who felt that way.” He got no warning for the unprecipitated and uninvited stirring in his groin.

  “We’ll be together tomorrow,” he said, as much to himself as to her.

  “I’m looking forward to it. By the way, I think your dad and Edwina are on a one-way trail. They’re like teenagers.”

  “Yeah. They’re not letting any grass grow under their feet. But that’s the way my dad moves. He studies a problem, decides what course he’ll take, and doesn’t look back. I think he’s fortunate, and I like her more each time I see her.”

  “I guess you do. She’s besotted with him. I like her too, very much.”

  He sprinkled kisses over her face and on her lips. “I don’t care what you cook tomorrow. I just want us to be together.”

  “I do, too, but if I was home all day before you got here, I’d present you with a first-class meal.”

  “You mean you can cook?”

  “Do cats like mice? What a question!”

  “See you at one o’clock. Give my regards to your dad. Good night, sweetheart.”

  “Good night, dear.”

  Sometime Monday, she would know whether she won one of the prizes for travel abroad. She would be disappointed if she didn’t win, but she suspected that her life would be less complicated if she stayed home.

  She went into her bedroom, saw the red message light flashing on her phone, walked over, and was about to pick up the receiver when she saw Ginny’s phone number. That was one call she did not plan to return; her mother must have glimpsed her from the washroom mirror. When would it end?

  It was time she found out where she was headed with Sam. As natural as it seemed to be with him, she held back, as she knew he did. For her, it wasn’t a matter of trust; she trusted him. But you didn’t wade shoulder-high into the ocean waters if you couldn’t swim. If she let herself love Sam, she didn’t know whether she’d sink or swim. She hadn’t wanted him to leave her tonight, but her reaction to seeing Ginny had killed their joy. She meant to do her best to make up for it.

  She took a filet mignon roast from her freezer and put it in the bottom of the refrigerator to defrost. Then, she got ready for bed and called it a night.

  “You’re looking very nice this morning,” Bert told her when he came by to take her to church with him the next morning. “You’re just shining. Seen Sam lately?”

  “I saw him last night.” She told him about the previous evening, how she got the tickets and the interview. “If it hadn’t been on Saturday, I would have asked you to come.”

  “Thanks, but Saturday is my busiest day. We were still taking orders at eight o’clock. I sure would have loved to hear Raymond Feldon play that dobro. He’s a master at it. I’ll be listening for your special program with that interview. Howell’s going to like that. Don’t put it off too long. Some other radio jock might beat you to it.”

  “I didn’t think of that. Clarissa gave me her card, so I think I’ll call her.”

  “Well . . . If you think she won’t mind.”

  They left the church around twelve fifteen. “Do you want to have lunch somewhere?” Bert asked her.

  “I’d love to, Papa, but I’m spending the rest of the day with Sam.”

  “Glad to hear it. Give him my regards.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  She jumped out of her father’s car and raced into the building, but it seemed ages before the elevator arrived. She got off at her floor, sped down the hall, and came to a sliding stop in front of her apartment. “I’m losing my mind,” she said when she couldn’t find her key at once. She found it, went in, and began undressing as soon as she closed the door. Ten minutes later, she had on a pair of beige pants, the burnt-orange turtleneck sweater, and her gold-plated hoop earrings. She stuck her feet into a pair of loafers and raced to the kitchen. She prepared two pots for steaming vegetables, put tiny red potatoes in one and shallots in the other. Then, she washed cremini mushrooms and laid them on a towel on the counter to dry.

  “He can sit here in the kitchen this evening while I clean the asparagus and make the leek soup,” she said to herself. She found a package of frozen raspberries in the back of her freezer, and relaxed; raspberry sauce on vanilla ice cream was good enough for the president. She would have been happier if she’d had two packages, but one would suffice. She didn’t have any wine. Too bad. Next time, she’d cook him a decent meal. With six minutes to spare, she brushed her teeth, combed her hair, and put on the jacket that matched her beige pants.

  Sam looked at his watch. Right on time. He rang the doorbell.

  When she opened the door, he flung his arms wide, lifted her, and hugged and kissed her. “I can’t say why, but I feel great, and I hope you feel the same. How’s your dad?”

  “Whew! Let me recover from your mind-blowing greeting. He’s fine.”

  A grin spread from his lips to his eyes. He winked at her. “Think that was mind-blowing? Sweetheart, I’ve got enough stored up to blow a race car off its course. Nothing is going to derail me today.”

  As she thought back, she knew that her reaction to Ginny had derailed them last night. She didn’t reassure him and congratulated herself for having the presence of mind—or was it an understanding of men—not to do it. He kissed her again, a fleeting, sweet thing that caused her to gaze at him with a question in her eyes.

  Caution be damned. “You’re so sweet,” she said.

  He stared at her for a long minute. “Where’s your coat? Let’s get out of here.”

  “We’re going to a matinee,” he told her. “It’s kind of like Comedy Central, maybe a little cleaner. There’s nothing like laughter to banish the stress. Besides, this guy is good. Reminds me of Bill Cosby in his younger days.”

  “I like witty stuff.”

  “Oh, I would never pay to expose myself to slapstick, and I can’t stand pie throwing.”

  She slid down in the leather seat of the Enclave and made herself comfortable. She’d never thought that luxury could be so appealing. “Dick Gregory uttered one of the funniest lines I ever heard from a comedian. With a nonchalant demeanor, he said he knew a lot about the South—‘I spent twenty years there . . . one night.’ That’s what I call wit.”

  “What would you like for lunch?” he asked her. “There are a lot of restaurants near this little theater.”

  “Any pizza nearby. I haven’t had a slice of good pizza in ages. That’s one thing I’m going to learn to make.” />
  “You’re on. I’m told the difficult thing about making pizza is the crust.”

  “I imagine so. I’ve seen guys stretching that dough. At least right now, I don’t have to worry about that.”

  “You don’t, and we’re in luck. Here’s a parking space half a block from the theater and the restaurant. I’m going to have half a bottle of beer with my pizza,” he said. “Think you can drink the rest?”

  “Beer should be good with pizza.” This man was bringing so many new and wonderful experiences to her life. It was becoming increasingly difficult to recall precisely what her life was like before she knew him, but there was one thing she didn’t want to recall, and that was the loneliness. A loneliness that neither her friends, coworkers, nor her father filled, but which she hadn’t felt since their first evening together.

  Throughout the show, they held hands, laughed, clapped, and enjoyed the fun. “Maybe next time, we can stay for the second show,” he said as they left, “but we’re not far from the Corcoran Gallery. They have a new show. Dad went Saturday before last, and he said it’s spectacular. Half an hour would be long enough.”

  “I’d love to go with you.” She knew very little about art, so whatever she learned there would be a plus, and she might even enjoy it. “I haven’t studied art, so I’m not good at appraising it. I rely on my gut instinct. Let’s go.” They walked hand in hand four blocks to the gallery. As they approached it, he said, “Music and art are two things I’m glad I don’t have to live without.”

  They passed works of some American painters, and she liked what she saw, but she didn’t understand it. Most modern paintings didn’t speak to her. “Don’t they have paintings by African Americans?” she asked him.

  “Of course, but not in this particular show. The National Gallery has wonderful paintings by Romare Bearden, Jacob Lawrence, William H. Johnson, and others, and works by the sculptor, Elizabeth Catlett. We can go there next weekend, if you’d like.”

  “That would be wonderful. I’m learning that we have to feed the soul as well as the mind and the tummy. Speaking of tummies, if we don’t head home, yours will be paining you before I put food in front of you.”

  His hand tightened almost imperceptibly on her arm, but it touched every nerve in her body. “You wouldn’t starve me, would you?” It struck her as significant that he didn’t smile.

  Her fingers stroked the back of his cheek while, without trying to make a statement or to send a message, she searched his eyes. “I wouldn’t intentionally do anything to hurt you, Sam. In fact, I’d take great pains to avoid it.”

  He stared at her. Then, his face brightened in a smile. “Right. I forget that we don’t eat until after you cook.”

  Wanting to clear away anything that might cause a misunderstanding or otherwise put a damper on their evening together, she decided that she’d better warn him about the travel contest. “I haven’t been able to make myself tell you that tomorrow’s the day I turn in my assignment for the travel abroad prize.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Maybe you would welcome not seeing me for a month, but I’m not sure I want to be away that long.”

  “A month? I thought you said six weeks. And what about your evening job?”

  “Mr. Howell said that if I win, he’d ask my professors to allow me to go for only a month. He doesn’t want me to be away for six weeks.”

  “Of course he doesn’t, but after he hears that interview, I’ll bet you can call your shots.”

  “I wasn’t aiming for anything like that. My goal is to get through school and to do my job well.”

  He parked the car, helped her out, then opened the trunk, and removed a package. With an arm around her waist as they walked, he said, “I know what it means to reach a coveted goal, and I’ll do all that I can and all that you allow to help you achieve yours. I’ll be routing for you to make the highest score on that assignment.”

  She stopped walking. “Sometimes . . . like right now, I could . . . Oh, nuts! You’ve got me bamboozled. I have to watch it with you.”

  Inside her apartment, she hung their coats. “Want to pull off your jacket? I’m going to put you on a stool in the kitchen while I cook.”

  “That ought to be interesting,” he said under his breath, but she heard him.

  “All right. I will invite you to sit there.”

  She lit the gas caps beneath the potatoes and the shallots, and then went to her room and changed into a red, threequarter sleeve, nylon jersey caftan with just the right amount of décolletage and went back to the kitchen. It pleased her that he’d gotten an apple from the refrigerator and was eating it.

  After wiping the filet mignon roast with a damp towel, she seasoned it, covered it with butter, and put it in a roasting pan. She peeled and diced a potato, cleaned the leeks, cut them, and put them in a saucepan with two cups of fat-free chicken stock.

  “What’s that going to be?”

  “Leek soup. I hope you’ll like it,” she said, and turned on the oven.

  “I love leek soup, but until now, I had no idea what was in it other than leeks. You know, my mother used to make wonderful cornbread and biscuits. Lettie’s an excellent cook, but her cornbread is for the birds.”

  “And you like cornbread?”

  “I love it. Biscuits, too.”

  While she cleaned the asparagus, she wondered at the wisdom of adding another half hour to their wait for dinner. She looked in the pantry to see whether she had enough cornmeal. She had barely enough, but she’d use a smaller pan. She put the frozen raspberries and sugar in the blender, processed it, and poured it into a strainer to remove the seeds.

  “How many things are you doing at once? And how do you keep it all in your head?”

  “It’s not difficult, Sam. I have in mind the way I want the table to look after I put the food on it. I forget sometimes, because I don’t do this often, usually for my three girlfriends, or for Papa and me. And I’m nervous, because you’re sitting here, and I don’t want to mess up.”

  She mixed the cornbread and put it in the oven to bake. “Want me to set the table?” he asked her.

  She stopped sieving the raspberries. “You know how to set a table?”

  He winked at her. “I’m as good as Oscar of the Waldorf was when he started.”

  She put her chore aside, removed the potatoes from the flame, and went with him to the dining room. The flower that he gave her the night before sat on the white linen tablecloth. “It’s all in there,” she said, pointing to the cupboard against the wall. “Napkins and flatware in the drawers. Thanks. You’re a real sweetie pie.”

  She turned to leave him, but he grasped her arm. “You keep telling me that I’m sweet. If I am, why don’t you act like it?”

  She gazed up at his face, the picture of petulance, and impulsively grasped the back of his head, stood on tiptoe, parted her lips above his, and pulled his tongue into her mouth. But immediately, she pulled away from his quick and fierce reaction.

  “Set the table, honey. Another minute and everything in and on that stove would have gone to waste.”

  “Yeah. And while you’re cooking, remember how you look to me in this thing you’re wearing.”

  She walked away slowly, giving him a good look at her back action. Quickly, she prepared the dinner, cleaned the kitchen counters and put out the serving dishes. Where was Sam? He hadn’t said a word to her in the last fifteen minutes.

  Sam stood by the living-room window wondering why a woman’s priorities so rarely seemed in harmony with a man’s. He had observed that incongruity in his parents—as much as they had loved each other—among his friends, and in his own relationships. Kendra was hell-bent on feeding him a good meal, when he’d have been content with a hamburger, if only he could get into her arms.

  He enjoyed the many differences between them, not the least of which were her softness, sweetness, and gentleness. And when she’d look at him, smile, and tell him he was sweet or that she never wanted
to leave him, the world was his oyster, and all he wanted was to bury himself deep in her until she couldn’t think of another man. He knew they began near the top, enchanted with each other the minute they met. Learning each other’s personalities, dreams, goals, and needs had brought them close, but they hadn’t crossed that all-important bridge of intimacy. He needed that. Badly. But was it right?

  “Sam, can we eat now?” She walked up behind him and touched his shoulder with the tips of her fingers. “You’re so quiet. Are you all right? Thanks for setting the table.”

  “Don’t thank me for that. I wanted to do what I could to help you. And yes, I’m all right.”

  She walked him to sit opposite her, and he did.

  “Do you mind if we say the grace?”

  “No, I don’t mind. We always said it at home.” He said it and immediately sampled the leek soup. She cut the cornbread and offered him a piece.

  “This is . . . When did you make this cornbread?”

  “After you told me how much you like it. It extended the wait for dinner by about half an hour, but I figured it was worth it.”

  “It definitely was.” He finished the soup and bread. “If you hadn’t cooked anything else, I’d consider this a gourmet meal. Both were wonderful. And since you made the cornbread for me, is there a reason why I can’t take what’s left home with me?”

  “No, there isn’t. I’m so glad you enjoyed it.” Pride radiated from her when she served the main course. He looked at the roast, evenly browned and lying in a bed of roasted potatoes, shallots, and cremini mushrooms.

  “If there is a weakness in this meal, Kendra, it’s the absence of wine, and I brought a bottle each of red and white burgundy. Which would you like? I’ll get it. The red goes best with our meal.”

  “Then red it will be,” she said. He opened the wine, and they finished what he considered an excellent meal.