“I actually see art as more of an investment,” Emily answered. “Risky compared to the stock market, but a purchase from a rising artist on the scene can more than double in value in twenty years time. Did you know that?” She turned towards Grady.
“Uh, no, I didn’t,” he answered.
“The last modern art show I attended, it was all edible art,” his father commented. “Pretty hard to stow away in a bank vault, I would imagine.”
Seth laughed aloud; Emily pursed her lip, casting her gaze downwards to her salad.
“Was that the potato sculptures?” Grady’s mother asked. “Or was it the rock candy exhibit?”
“Neither,” Seth’s wife interrupted. “The last art show you both attended was with us, remember? The pasta art fundraiser?”
“The spaghetti portraits,” said Grady’s father. “That’s all I remember.”
“So, you’re interested in portfolio planning?” Seth changed the subject, offering Emily a polite smile. “I just opened a new college account for our future kids...”
“Oh, open more than one,” Emily cautioned him. “I plan on having at least three. College funds, that is,” she added, glancing at Grady. “Even if you never have children, who knows? You may want to pursue a doctorate or a second degree during your semi-retirement phase.”
Grady’s fork shaped his roasted potatoes into a mini fort bordering a forest of string beans. On the other side, he arranged his beef strips like rocks bordering a river sauce. Anything to block out the sound of words like “semi-retirement” and “portfolio planning.”
“You know, Grady had an excellent proposal for my retirement account,” his mother hinted. Her eyebrows performing facial gymnastics as she glanced from her son to the girl beside him, as if linking the two of them together.
Emily turned to him, her face aglow. “You never told me,” she said. “I can’t wait to hear about it.” Her salad fork idled against the plate, her fingers having lost interest with picking through its contents.
Grady smiled weakly. “No, you don’t,” he answered. “Trust me.”
After dinner, they sat in the den with glasses of sherry and listened to his father’s stories about his early career in law. Emily perched upright with her legs crossed neatly to one side, a polite smile on her blank face. Periodically, she would glance at Grady and wrinkle her noise in a smile with slightly more emotion behind it.
He set his glass of sherry on the table and slipped into the kitchen. Where Seth and his wife were loading the dishwasher, covering the leftover beef with plastic wrap.
“Hey, if it isn’t the playboy of the month,” Seth teased him. “Mind putting that bowl of salad dressing in the fridge, Casanova?”
His fingers obeyed the order. His sister-in-law offered him a sweet smile.
“I like her,” she said. “She seems really focused. And energetic.” This, as she slipped the remaining squares of bread into a plastic bag.
“So what did you think of her?” Grady asked Seth. His brother paused.
“She’s nice,” he answered. “I think she’s a good fit. She’s level-headed, sensible, already used to your lifestyle. So I guess you could say she’s a perfect fit, really.”
“A perfect fit,” said Grady. “Do you mean for my lifestyle -- or for me?”
Seth closed the dishwasher door. “I don’t know,” he answered, sighing. “I don’t think that’s my call, bro. All I’m saying is, if she’s the one, then she’s welcome to join the family.” Whistling, he patted his brother on the shoulder as he slipped past him to the dining room again.
Compatible. It wasn’t the dream phrase Grady once imagined it was. As he helped Emily into her coat, he found himself glancing into the hall mirror at their two faces framed together. Emily’s frosty blond hair in a flawless French twist, her conservative black dress meant for business or evenings out. His own face framed by slightly messy hair, a loose tie visible below.
Was he falling into a state of disarray? Maybe it was a sign–his life entering a stage of carefree appearance as if sparked by a hidden gene. Meanwhile, the woman before him was without loose threads, wrinkled sleeves, or even the merest presence of lint clinging to her skirt.
“Thanks for a wonderful dinner, Mrs. Hillerman,” she said, pecking her hostess’s cheek politely. “I’m sorry I have to dash–a tremendous pile of work awaits me, I assure you.” She turned to Grady. “Give me a call sometime and see if I’m free.” A final smile, exposing pearly teeth, before she departed to her car outside.
“She’s nice,” said Grady’s mother. She slid her arm through his own, squeezing it fondly. “Very practical. Feet on the ground. If she develops into something more, I’m sure you’ll both be very happy.” Releasing him, she strolled off in the direction of the den again.
He trudged upstairs, feeling heavy after the beef strips and the half hour of conversation following. He had neglected to mention the episode with his boss, knowing how his mother would feel about a business miscalculation like that. Perhaps after he drafted the proposals for the Henson account, Sturman would be willing to forget all about this afternoon.
Grady reached for the spot where he usually dropped his briefcase and coat in his old room, his fingers brushing against the light spring fabric of his trenchcoat, but nothing else. His leather briefcase wasn’t in its usual spot. Where had he left it? In the office this morning? Not in his apartment–he knew for certain he brought it to work with him before he picked up the bicycle
With a sickening feeling, he remember the last spot where he saw his briefcase: in Rosemary’s cottage, where it landed beside her desk.
*****
Rosemary’s cottage windows were dark; not surprising, since it was eleven o’ clock at night. Grady rapped on the door, hoping there was a chance she was a light sleeper. He was beginning to wish for a door bell, a knocker–anything to end the suspense of standing here, knocking in vain with his fist.
He stepped away from the door, gazing up at the windows for signs of life within. The panes were still dark, partly concealed by lace panels. There was a slim chance she wasn’t even home.
Crouching down in the gravel pathway, he gathered a handful of stones. Winding up his arm, he gave one a gentle toss in the direction of the pane. It bounced off the sill and landed on the garden bench a story below.
Giving the next piece of rock a couple of gentle pre-tosses, he flung it upwards with a little more force. It made contact with the pane, a dull thud like a bird smacking the glass. Encouraged, Grady wound up his arm for another shot.
The window above opened, a head emerging. “Who are you and what do you want?” Rosemary’s hair fell disheveled around a rumpled t-shirt sporting a turtle design.
“I’m sorry,” he called. “Please, Miss Moore–Rosemary, I really need you to come down. I left my briefcase in your living room–” As he spoke, her head disappeared inside the cottage again.
A light blazed to life behind the curtain. A moment later, another one appeared downstairs. There was a faint rasping sound before the painted wooden door pulled open, revealing Rosemary on the other side. A fitted jacket zipped over her t-shirt, baggy pajama pants printed with cartoon dogs below.
“What did you say it was?” she asked.
He sighed with relief. “My briefcase,” he answered. “It’s leather, one of those funny-looking clasps on the front...” As he spoke, she disappeared from sight again, emerging a moment later with his case dangling in her grip by its handle.
“Is this it?” she asked. “It was lying on the floor by my desk and since I’m pretty sure I don’t own one, here you go.” She held it out to him, her free hand brushing back the tangle of hair from her face.
“Thank you,” he said, feeling cowed in the face of her sleepiness. He had dragged her awake because of his forgetfulness–probably not something that would endear him to her in the future.
“Did your mom like the plant?” she asked. “The lemon thyme.” She hugged her arms to
herself, her bare feet shuffling in the gravel.
“Yeah,” he answered. “She did. At least, I think she did. I didn’t really have a chance to ask her. Work was chaos, then going to my parents’ house for dinner was chaos...” He trailed off. “Basically, I had a really rotten evening.”
The bitterness in his voice surprised him. It surprised him even more that he had spoken that thought out loud to a woman who was practically a stranger.
“I’m sorry,” she said, softly. “Mind if I ask why?”
He shrugged. “It’s a long story,” he answered. “Full of stuff about destiny, and life, and where you’re supposed to end up. Nothing you want to hear right now.” He stepped backwards, in the direction of his parked car.
She was quiet for a moment. “Try me,” she said. Moving towards him, she took his arm by the elbow. “There’s a couple things that might help.” She pulled him along the pathway, towards the greenhouse.
Inside, she lit a lamp dangling from the rafters. A faint glow sputtered to life in the dim, humid atmosphere. On one of the tables was a camping stove with a kettle on its burner. She drew two cups from beneath a pile of newspaper and sprinkled dried leaves from a nearby tin.
“It’s late,” said Grady. “I should go.” In the glow of lamplight, there was something alluring about her; even so, he felt it was wrong to be here at this moment.
She poured hot water from the kettle over the contents of the two mugs. “So, tell me why it was a rotten evening.” She placed one of them in his hands. “Please.” Raising her eyes to his with a flicker of mischief in the depths of her brown ones.
He sighed. “Do you believe in signs?” he asked. “Like destiny. That some things are meant to show us what we’re supposed to do.”
She nodded. “I guess so.” Hands in her pockets, she watched him as he leaned against the table lining the opposite side of the greenhouse.
“I don’t,” he continued. “Except I do. At least, I’m starting to. Just when I thought I had everything in life figured out, something changed. It was like ... magic. Like a sign pointing me in a different direction.”
He took a sip from the glass, tasting a liquid that seemed like an aroma in his cup, an herbal perfume more than a tangible flavor. Eyes closed, he allowed it to roll over his tongue, vanishing inside him with a warmth that spread through his veins.
“When I was a kid, I promised my uncle that I would choose love over money,” he said, softly. “Silly, I know–I mean, that’s the kind of stuff that people do in movies. But he was sick, and he was so sincere. Kind of a legend in the family, because he did exactly that. Gave up his career for love.”
“Did he have to choose?” she asked, shifting her weight in response to Grady’s surprised stare. “I mean, some people don’t have to. They just do, because they only want one thing to be important in their life. So which was it for your uncle–the real deal, or a personal choice?”
“The real deal,” Grady answered. “I’m not saying I’m at a crossroads, I’m just–” he trailed off, hesitating. “I think about that promise sometimes. Sometimes I wonder if I would make the wrong choice.”
He hadn’t answered her question at all; but she didn’t seem to notice. Taking a sip from her glass, she glanced up at him with a smile.
“When my dad first came to America, he said he felt lost in such a big place. He was from a village in England, where you could count the population in three digits.” She settled on the edge of the central table. “But by the time he passed away, he could rattle off streets and buildings as if he’d lived here all his life. The longer he lived in one place, the more he knew about it. Made it harder to get lost, so to speak.”
Grady laughed. “So you’re saying I can’t get lost in my own life?”
“How could you?” she asked. “It’s your life. It’s not the past, it’s not a preset course or anything.” She leaned closer. “If you change lanes because the signs tell you to, that doesn’t mean your life is off course. Does it?”
The lamp overhead sputtered, grew dim, then vanished altogether in the darkness. Stars were visible in the sky through the glass panes overhead, twinkling faintly as Grady gazed at them.
In the darkness, Rosemary’s profile was visible by starlight, a silhouette made tangible by the scent of strawberry shampoo, the softness of her breath. Grady’s gaze traveled to her face, watching it with a sense of wonder.
“Baseball,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows. “Grady?” she asked.
“Baseball,” he answered. “I wanted to be a baseball player. When I was eight.” He withdrew his hands from his pockets. “You said earlier that everybody wants to do something else with their life at least once.”
“True,” she answered. She did not move as he drew closer, until they were only an arm’s length apart. A touch away, so to speak.
“Would you mind if I–” he began, “–if I–” Instead of finishing the statement, he leaned forward and kissed her lips. Tasting chamomile and cherry lip balm; feeling the softness of a touch almost intangible even as it sent electricity through his veins.
He drew away, perfectly still for a moment in the darkness. Across from him, he could see her eyes were closed. Hands resting on either side of the table as she leaned back against it.
She opened her eyes. “Good night,” she said. Turning to the door, she exited without another word. It took him a moment to respond, to push open the door and follow her.
“Rosemary,” he called. She glanced over her shoulder as she walked towards her house.
“I said, good night.” A smile was visible on her face, evidence of a flush on her cheeks in the glow of the lamplight as she opened the door and disappeared inside.
He stood there until the lamplight vanished from the first story, until the light winked out in her bedroom above. A funny grin still plastered on his face as he drove away beneath the stars.
*****
“Ouch!” Grady yelped as his stapler missed the two pages, biting his finger like a wild animal. Pulling it free, he shook off the pain, wondering in the back of his mind what herb was supposed to relieve such a pinch–or cure absentmindedness.
Since the herb grower was responsible for his state of being, he supposed it didn’t matter.
“Hillerman, what on earth were you thinking with this proposal?” Sturman appeared in the doorway, holding up a file folder as if wielding evidence of his complaint.
“Thinking?” asked Grady.
“Henson’s people are completely unsuitable for commodities! We all know this– this is why we’re talking them into technology stocks. Technology–does that ring a bell?” Waving the sheaf of papers.
“Right.” Grady stabbed in his direction with a pen. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll do something about that.” Leaning back in his chair, he swiveled towards the window, so that all of Sturman disappeared except his reflection in the window.
“Hillerman? Are you listening?” With an outraged snort, he stormed off again.
Grady’s fingers fiddled with his pen, somehow reluctant to make notes on correcting the Henson proposal for further meetings. Instead, he stared out the window at the cityscape, imagining the lives in the buildings around him.
Were they all happy? Had they read the signs and picked the right roads in life? What was that Rosemary said–something about not getting lost in your own life. Something about a change in directions not really being a change at all. Food for thought indeed.
*****
“So, I was thinking,” Emily inspected her manicure atop a pile of paperwork, “maybe this year I would withdraw the interest from my savings account and use it start a travel fund. The agency practically insists I take two weeks off every year–not that I need them.”
Across from her, Grady tapped his fingers against his coffee mug. “Travel’s good,” he ventured. “Maybe someplace in England. Scarborough Fair’s supposed to be beautiful...”
Emily released a snorting laug
h. “I’m allergic to the outdoors, Grady,” she answered. “I don’t go anywhere where there’s not a spa, a fax machine, and wireless service available at all times.” Her manicured fingers tapped over the keyboard of her electronic planner, texting a message in swift measure to someone on the receiving line.
Grady cleared his throat. “Emily,” he said. “Emily, I think we’ve reached the end.”
The girl glanced up. “Excuse me?” she said.
“The end of us.” He pushed aside the mug. “Look, we’re not–we’re not compatible. Not really. Not if a relationship is something more than stocks and bonds and investments.”
Confusion crossed her face. “What do you mean?” she repeated. “What are you talking about? Compatible? Bonds?”
“I’m talking about love, Emily,” he answered. “There should be a sense of passion, of happiness. Of magic or something.” He looked into her eyes, searching for comprehension. “We don’t have it. When we talk, we talk about work. The same thing I discuss with guys at the water cooler.”
“So you’re saying you’re not interested in me?” Her voice was cold. “What do you want in a woman, Grady? Some ditzy airhead who can’t tell her portfolio from a pullover sweater?”
“I want somebody who talks about baseball–or flowers, or crazy family members,” he answered. “It’s not about brains or beauty, it’s–it’s about chemistry.” He fumbled for words, trying to define what he really meant. The way Rosemary drew his emotions to the surface without even trying; the way it felt to talk about herbs or tea or whatever was there at the moment.
Emily grabbed her sheaf of paperwork from the table. “Well, I hope you enjoy having coffee for one,” she snapped. “Because I’m leaving, Grady Hillerman. Don’t bother to call me again, do you understand?” Stuffing her planner in her pocket, she marched towards the door.
“I should’ve listened to my parents and dumped you after date one!” A parting shot before the cafe door slammed behind her. A few of the cafe patrons glanced at him, some with sympathy, others with narrowed eyes of suspicion.
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