Love's Little Instruction Book

by Mary Gorman

  For the most part, though, they still told no one about their unusual new reading habits. Shelby knew that Ghoulie had been reading her romances, although the reasons he gave her did not include their original purpose. And Dave looked on in amazement one night as Kirk used a line from A Knight in Silver Armor to pick up a girl in a bar. These books were not the vapid mind-candy that he had first assumed.

  As far as Dave was concerned, things were going better than he ever believed possible between himself and Denise. It wasn’t quite a conventional dating arrangement — how could it be with her working during the prime dating hours? But he would bring back something to eat after his shift and they’d sit in the studio, eating take out chicken cacciatore and cheesecake during the songs and ads, with him silently watching her work in between. He loved to just sit and watch her, especially when she’d glance up from the control panel with a smile that was just for him. She was smart and easy going, elegant and beautiful. And most wondrous and unbelievably of all, she seemed to enjoy being with him.

  As January weather turned what the locals called “blah” with long periods of steely white clouds and pregnant moist air but no snow actually reaching the ground, Dave began to want to do something for Denise. Something special that was just for her. He thought about it long and hard. Thought about what she liked and what he was good at. He wanted to find a way to spoil her, just a little. To give her some token that would be his special gift for her. He mulled over the problem for days, until he hit upon the perfect idea while picking up an order of Greek salad and baklava one night to bring back to her at the station. He was a DiSciullo, and that meant that he had come from a long line of chefs and cooks. His grandfather was fond of telling how it was work as cooks and chefs that had brought the DiSciullos from Italy to America in the first place. Dave was no slouch in the kitchen himself. It suddenly occurred to him that this was something he could do to impress Denise. He would cook a special meal, just for her.

  Dave wasn’t quite sure what Denise’s favorites foods were. She seemed to be all over the board when she ordered take-out with him, sending him wherever her mood would demand. He decided to make something elegant. Something special. Something she wouldn’t ordinarily be able to make at home. With the memory of her former life in the back of his mind, he decided that he wanted to go with a gourmet theme; preferably something opulent. He consulted with a couple of his professional chef uncles and even his grandfather. He planned his menu, rethought, revised, and planned it again. Finally, he made his choices and committed. He asked her to come over for dinner on the third Saturday in January.

  Denise arrived wearing a black leather coat over slacks and a bulky red sweater. Dave smiled when he let her in. “Wow,” she exclaimed. “Where’s your couch?”

  “I, um, pushed it into the bedroom. I wanted to make it kind of like a little Italian restaurant. Do you like it?” He had gone all out. He’d pushed most of the furniture out of the room, dragged his little kitchen table in and covered it with a red tablecloth topped by a red and white runner. He’d borrowed his mother’s china set and two place settings of her good silverware. An artful supply of wax drizzled down the sides of an old Chianti bottle-turned-candlestick holder. Two lead crystal champagne glasses stood empty at each place, with a corked bottle resting in a nest of ice in a silver ice bucket. He had turned off the lights of the room, but had borrowed some artificial ficus trees from God-knew-where and strung them with hundreds of Christmas lights, crisscrossing them up the trunks and interweaving them through the branches so that they shone welcomingly.

  Denise was amazed. “Yes!” she told him. “It’s beautiful.” She turned to stare at him, still agape at his obvious effort. “You didn’t have to do all this … ”

  “I wanted to,” he told her. “I’m a good cook and … well … I’ve never cooked a whole meal for you before and I wanted to make this dinner special for you. You know … kind of memorable.”

  She looked at him and smiled, searching his face as he looked into her eyes a little shyly. She caught his hands in hers and bent her head to kiss his cheek. “It’s wonderful,” she told him.

  Dave beamed. “The only problem with my cooking you dinner is that I have to actually cook it while you’re here,” he told her as he came back into the room. “I know it’s not cool to hang out with the cook, but would you like to come into the kitchen with me? I’ll pour you a glass of wine and we can talk while I work.”

  “Sounds great,” she agreed. “What’s for dinner?”

  • • •

  He led her into the small kitchen. “I thought about being really fancy and presenting you with a handwritten menu, but my handwriting is really lousy and doing it on the computer at work seemed kind of tacky. I thought we could start with some raw oysters, fresh this morning from a place down on Atlantic Avenue, then I’m going to make lobster in a champagne-truffle sauce — I suppose that that would sound classier in French, but I don’t know how to say it, do you?”

  “L’homard avec la sauce des champagne et truffe,” she answered promptly.

  He smiled and she loved the way that his eyes crinkled at the sides. “Yup. Classier. For a vegetable I have artichokes in lemon butter and cannolis for dessert.”

  She eyed the refrigerator for just a moment, hoping that he was planning to use canned or frozen lobster. She didn’t really mind the taste of lobster, but she very rarely ate it because she was too soft hearted about the way they were thrown into the pot of boiling water while still alive to ever really be able to enjoy eating them. She looked at Dave, his face earnest and full of hope. “Sounds great.”

  He poured her a glass of white wine before going into the refrigerator to get the oysters.

  Denise eyed him as he set the bag on the counter. “Are those the oysters?” she asked.

  “Uh huh. I’m going to have to open them, but the guy at the fish market told me how to do it.”

  “Can I help?” Denise asked.

  He smiled at her again. “Sure. There’s a big platter in the cabinet next to the sink. You can get that and there’s a bag of ice that you can spread out on it, then there’s lettuce in the fridge that you can set on top of the ice as a garnish.”

  “Garnish? You’re really going kind of fancy tonight, aren’t you, Dave?”

  If he smiled before, he positively beamed now. “Only the best for you.”

  Denise returned his smile, but she was really thinking of how much she didn’t like oysters. They reminded her of an old Saturday Night Live sketch where Gilda Radner, in the person of Roseanne Roseannadanna, had gone on and on about how much raw oysters resembled balls of phlegm. Denise stared at the bag. She could get down one or two of them without gagging if she had to, but she hoped that Dave would eat the majority of them. She really didn’t want to disappoint him, and she could tell how much time, effort, and expense had gone into the planning of this special meal. To admit that she didn’t like his menu choices would be the relationship equivalent of kicking a puppy, and she really couldn’t do that to Dave.

  She turned to the cabinet to get the platter. The insides of his cabinets, she noticed, were well stocked, as one would expect for a man who liked to cook. Dave, meanwhile, pulled out a short knife from what she supposed was his whatnot drawer. She turned to the fridge and tried not to look as he reached into the bag for the first oyster.

  “I’ve never had raw oysters before,” he told her by way of conversation. “I suppose they’re a little like steamers. We used to have those sometimes when I was a kid. My grampa had a buddy who would go clamming in the summer and bring us back a bunch.” He pulled out the first oyster from the bag. It was gray-white and lumpy. Denise decided not to look and reached into the freezer, finding the bag of crushed ice.

  “If you find any pearls in them,” she said, “I get dibs.”

  “Pearls would probably look better on you t
han on me anyway,” he told her.

  She grabbed the bag and closed the freezer door, then got the head of lettuce out of the fridge, stepping around him and grabbing the platter to put it on the other side of the L-shaped counter so that she could work with her back to him. “They’re my birthstone,” she told him. “I’m a June baby but a lot of the time jewelers will say that it’s another stone — alexandrite — because that one can be cut to fit into a square setting without losing its shape. I like pearls better, though.”

  “June, huh?” he asked, making a mental note. “What day?”

  “June sixteenth.”

  “I’m November seventh.” He picked the beard out of the oyster shell. “How old are you? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  She glanced over her far shoulder rather than the near side, still trying not to watch what he was doing. “I’m thirty. You?”

  He hesitated, as if he either had to stop and think about how old he was, or was debating what age to tell her. “I’m thirty-five.” He slid the knife in between the shells and applied pressure. Denise heard the soft crack of the two shells parting. She winced slightly.

  “So you’re an old man,” she teased.

  “Compared to you, I am.” He looked over to gauge her progress and saw that he was now ahead of her. “I’ll just set these down on the counter until you’re ready,” he told her, setting split shells, one with a couchant oyster, by her elbow.

  She tried not to look. “Between you and Diane, who’s older?”

  “I am. By three years. Almost the same difference as Mattie and Marie. Where do you fall in your family?” He reached for a second oyster, the short knife still in his hand as he reached to pull out the beard.

  “It’s me, then my brothers Steve and Danny, and finally Julie. She‘s the baby.”

  “Are you close to them?”

  “About normal I guess. I don’t see them as much as you see yours, though, I don’t think.”

  “Do they live near Cambridge?”

  “No. Julie’s just out of nursing school and took a job on a cruise ship and — ”

  “Goddamn it!” Dave shouted from behind her. Startled, she turned to see him holding one hand with the other, the shucking knife still between his fingers. As she watched, blood welled up in the gash that had just been sliced into the fleshy part of his hand just below his left thumb. “What happened?” she exclaimed, dropping the head of lettuce.

  “The knife slipped. Fuck! It stings like a bitch.”

  Denise stared in fascinated horror as the welling blood began to drip onto the floor. The fact that Dave was swearing gave her some inkling of just how much he was hurting. Dave had never cursed in front of her before.

  “Shit!” he exclaimed.

  For no logical reason, that last exclamation propelled Denise into action. She reached up to pull the knife out of his fingers, then grabbed his wrist and pulled him over to the sink, turning on the cold water and thrusting his hand underneath it. She wasn’t particularly efficient as a nurse, but she knew that the sink would be a better place to bleed onto than the kitchen floor. She glanced at him, staring at the injured hand with his lips pressed tightly closed. He looked a little pale, but he wasn’t swearing any more. “Keep holding it under the water,” she told him grimly. “I’m going to go get a towel.”

  She left him quickly, finding the towel closet down the hall, just opposite the bathroom door. She opened the door hastily, barely registered where the towels were, grabbed one off the top of the pile, and ran back to the kitchen. “Here,” she said, pulling his hand out of the running stream and wrapping the towel around it. “Put your free hand over it and press down,” she said. “I’d do it, but I’m afraid I’ll hurt you more.”

  He drew in a sharp breath and did as she said. “Damn!” he said. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

  “Well, believe it,” she said. She trolled her memory to come up with what she’d learned way back in first aid class. “Here. Bend your elbow and hold your hand so that it’s higher than your heart.” She glanced up into his face. “I’m really sorry, Dave.”

  He looked back into her eyes. “Not your fault.”

  “That was sympathy, not an apology. Here, let me bring in a chair. You should probably sit down or something. Do you feel faint?”

  He shook his head. “Just stupid.”

  “It was an accident. Don’t worry about it.”

  He scowled but she ignored it and went to fetch a chair from his elegantly laid table. She plunked it on the floor in front of him, pushed him down, then squatted down in front of him. “Keep pressing on the wound. You need to stop the bleeding.”

  “I know.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

  “Just wait with me for a bit to see if the bleeding stops.”

  She laid her hand on his knee, both for balance and for comfort. “Guess dinner will be a little late, huh?”

  “Mmm. Hope you weren’t hungry.”

  “I’ll keep.” She saw spots of blood beginning to seep through the folded layers of towel. That wasn’t a good sign. “Am I supposed to keep you talking or something?”

  The corners of his lips twitched. “I think that’s a concussion. Can’t say for sure that there’s nothing wrong with my head, but at least I know that I don’t have a concussion.” He looked down into her worried face. “You talk to me. I’ll listen.”

  “Do you think you’ll need stitches?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I hope not. I really wanted everything to be perfect tonight, you know?”

  “I know,” she told him softly. She reached up to stroke the side of his face. “And I was already impressed. Honest.”

  He gave her a half a smile. “You’re a good kid.”

  “I know. Have you ever had stitches before?”

  “I had my tonsils out when I was a little kid. You?”

  “No. Never.”

  He glanced ruefully at the bag full of mollusks on the counter. “I guess after this I’d better not ask you to finish shucking the oysters for me, huh?”

  “I guess not,” she said with just a touch of sarcasm. “That towel’s getting pretty bloody. I don’t think it’s stopping.”

  “No.” He unwrapped it to look. The blood was still welling steadily in the gash. He blew out a hard breath. “I hate to ask, but can you drive me to the hospital?”

  She squeezed his knee even as she used it to push herself upright. “I’ll get our coats and another towel.”

  • • •

  Three hours later Denise unlocked the door to Dave’s apartment, then stepped aside to let him precede her into the room. Eight stitches in a neatly curved row, right across the fleshy pad beneath his thumb. She hadn’t seen the stitches — she’d stayed in the waiting room holding a cup of coffee while he was in the examining room getting his hand sewn back together. He hadn’t complained much after that first round of swearing, and she thought that maybe that outburst had been about shock and anger as much as physical pain. Now he seemed to be more embarrassed than anything else and she could sympathize. It wasn’t hard to see the effort he’d gone to in order to impress her, and she knew that he was feeling badly about more than just his stitches. She’d held his good hand in the waiting room, trying to convey that she thought his well being was more important than the spoiled dinner, and had hugged him gingerly when he emerged from the exam room, but she knew that he was still feeling terrible, and not just physically.

  Denise watched as Dave wandered sadly into the kitchen. The ice bucket in the living room was only half full now, most of the ice having melted to water. She followed him slowly, coming up behind him as he stood there, surveying the remains of his first course.

  “Don’t suppose it’s safe to eat the oysters,” he observed dully. />
  “Don’t suppose it is,” she agreed.

  He picked up the oyster that he had dropped earlier as well as the one he had succeeded in opening and slipped them both back into the bag they’d come in. “I’m going to take these downstairs before they start to stink,” he told her. She nodded. “Can you do me a favor? There’s a big pot under the sink. Take it out and fill it about three quarters of the way with water, then get the bag of lobsters out of the fridge.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “You still want to eat?”

  He shrugged. “Might as well salvage what we can out of the evening. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Denise stared at him in dismay as he carried the spoiled oysters out of the apartment and down toward the office. She didn’t want to be the one to have to cook the lobsters alive. She didn’t even want to be implicated to the point of being the one to set the pot on to boil. She went to the fridge and found a large insulated bag with two big, red lobsters printed on the sides under the words “New England Lobster Co.,” Against her better judgment, she took it out of the fridge and opened it to peer inside. Eyeballs on stalks swiveled her way, claws waved and tails tucked as the two crustaceans tried to retreat to the far corner of the bag. Even without faces that could change expression, she thought that they looked frightened. “Hi, guys,” she said lamely. Then she sighed. How was she going to get them out of this?

  She was still contemplating the lobsters when Dave came back in. He seemed surprised that she didn’t have the pot on the stove. “Couldn’t you find the pot?” he asked.

  She looked from the contents of the bag to him. “I’m afraid we’re bonding. I know you probably paid a ton for these, they’re huge, but … I thought about telling you that I was allergic to shellfish, but that would have been a lie. And it’s probably one of your favorite foods and all, but … ”