Loving Rosenfeld

by Leighann Hart

  “Where are my manners?” His mother produced a clicking noise with her tongue. “I’m Janet, Peter’s mom. This is his father, Gideon.”

  ‘Father’ was a cold, distant distinction from the comforting casualness attached to ‘mom.’ It painted a picture of their family dynamic without any background.

  “Peter really hasn’t told me much about either of you.”

  He shot her a life-threatening glare.

  Gideon’s laugh accentuated the crease between his graying eyebrows. “That doesn’t surprise me. He’s not terribly personable.”

  Ryleigh had a knee-jerk reaction to speak up. “Not in the traditional sense. He has his moments, though.”

  Peter’s father spoke about him like he was not in the room, and it made her feel sorry for him. His lack of reaction implied this was not an instance of irregularity.

  No wonder he asked me to come.

  Janet seized the bottle of cabernet sauvignon off the coffee table and refilled her glass. “How did you two meet? I’m a sucker for a good love story.”

  Thick brunette curls sprouted from her scalp like an overrun garden, much like Peter’s out-of-control tresses. Ryleigh noticed, in particular, the pair shared the same bizarre eye color; and the elegant curvature of their noses was identical.

  “We work across the street from each other,” he stated as if there were nothing else to divulge.

  “What was your first impression of him?” Janet prompted. A bemused smile played at her glossy lips as she sipped the red wine.

  She did not hesitate launching into the assessment, remembering the day they met with more clarity than what she ate for breakfast that morning.

  “He wasn’t fake nice, like most people you run into. And I thought right away, there’s something charming about this guy, how he’s not afraid to be himself. The first time he looked at me, I mean really looked at me, I felt like I’d done an hour of high-intensity cardio. And …” Ryleigh trailed off as her eyes locked onto Peter’s. And then, I lied to your son about being a college student and when he found out the truth he was pissed and we really haven’t been talking since but here we are. “And, of course, he’s incredibly handsome.”

  Peter reclined against the couch cushion, influencing Ryleigh to readjust her position. She lodged in the crook of his arm, melding them together like two puzzle pieces. A breath bottled in her chest as his lips grazed her hair. The euphoria of the moment was shattered when his mother spoke, reminding her they were not alone.

  “Young love,” Janet sighed at her husband. “That was us, once upon a time.”

  “Now we have a pool to see which one of us will drop dead first,” Gideon said. “Believe me, if you two make it together as long as we have, you’ll do the same.”

  “Say, you don’t have a nut allergy or anything do you? These have pecans,” Janet asked while arranging a pile of white, powdery cookies on a disposable serving tray.

  “Nope. No allergies,” Ryleigh said.

  She absorbed the sight of Peter’s minimalist kitchen. The eggshell cabinets competed with the black countertops, striking a pleasing contrast. His place was pristine, devoid of dirt or clutter. Although, she realized, the clean presentation could have been a front to impress his parents.

  “I’m surprised Peter hasn’t mentioned you. He and I are quite close, in case he hasn’t told you.”

  “We haven’t been together that long.”

  “My son’s miserly with his feelings. I hope you’re willing to look past that, because I can tell you mean something to him.” Janet flipped on the archaic coffee pot stationed beside the sink. She pulled four printed mugs from the cabinet, continuing in a lower voice, “I can see it in his eyes. It makes me so happy, so relieved to see that look again. He’s been through hell and back; 14 years since his last relationship.”

  Striving to maintain an air of neutrality, Ryleigh distributed the coffee among the mugs. “That’s a long time.”

  “It was a bad relationship, keeps it close to his vest even after all these years. He doesn’t like to talk about it,” she advised. Janet brought the tray into the dining nook. “Coffee and cookies, a seasonal Rosenfeld tradition.”

  Ryleigh carried the mugs two at a time, placing them on the dinner table. A pair of fold-up chairs discounted the presence of their formal counterparts.

  She claimed the seat beside Peter. “What are these?”

  “You work in a coffee shop full of pastries. You’ve never seen a cookie?” His crooked smile hid behind the safety of the coffee cup.

  “That’s no way to talk to your lady.” Gideon’s mouth corkscrewed, souring his already sullen expression. His face brightened while addressing his son’s alleged girlfriend. “They’re snowball cookies. Horribly addicting.”

  “That’s super sweet,” Ryleigh said upon sampling the pastry. A mustache of powdered sugar clung to her upper lip. Peter ran his thumb along the thin white line, gaze darting between her waiting mouth and earnest eyes. Gideon cleared his throat to burst their bubble of intimacy. “My dad would probably kill me for eating this.”

  “Why’s that?” Janet asked.

  “He’s a dentist. He gets a little preachy about cavities and gum disease around the holidays, with all of the desserts floating around.”

  A dentist? While Peter did not have any preconceived notions about Ryleigh’s upbringing, he was taken aback to uncover this mark of affluence.

  Gideon thieved a second cookie. “We tried to get Peter to pursue something in medicine. He had other plans. But, as you can see, he’s not homeless. Could’ve been worse.”

  “I’m sure your dad wanted something more out of you, too.” Peter planted the heels of his palms atop the table. “Real estate agent? I’m sure that’s not what granddad had in mind.”

  “Let’s not ruin this lovely evening.”

  Janet’s pleas were useless. This evening had been ruined before it began.

  “I made an honorable salary,” Gideon protested. Both he and Peter had abandoned their chairs; only the small dining table separated them. “I provided a good life for you and your mother. My father was proud of my work. That’s more than I can say for you. You’re almost 36 years old, what do you have to show for your life? You’ve been working at the same job since you got out of school, the same position, no raise, horrible benefits, low pay. We thought you’d at least be married by now. We’d like to have grandkids before we roll over and die.”

  “That’s your problem,” Peter spat, pointing a finger at his father. “You’re always worried about how my actions reflect on you. You don’t care about me, what makes me happy. All you care about is how it will affect you.”

  “Can we ever get through a visit in one piece?” Mascara-tinged tears flooded Janet’s cheeks. She grabbed Ryleigh’s hand. “I’m terribly sorry you had to see this.”

  Gideon further antagonized Peter. “I bet you yell at your girlfriend like this too, don’t you?”

  “She’s not even my girlfriend,” he bellowed. “I invited her tonight because I thought it would temporarily get you off my back. That went real fucking well, huh, dad?”

  Janet’s eyes widened at her son’s revelation.

  “Since you’re so worried about me ‘getting off your back’ as you call it, your mother and I will stay at a hotel for the rest of the week.” Gideon headed down the hall to gather their things. He shouted from the bedroom, “Come on, Janet, let’s get out of his hair.”

  Peter stormed out of the condo, slamming the door. Her heartbeat slowed in the face of his abrupt exit. As much as Ryleigh wanted to excuse herself from the table and follow him out, she did not think it entirely appropriate. She had gotten a glimpse at the scope of Peter’s fury when he uncovered the scholarship article.

  He did not need rescuing. He needed to be alone.

  Sniffing, Janet asked, “So, you two aren’t together?”

  “No,” she presented an apologetic smile, “but I’m working on it.”

&nbs
p; “You’re not feeding yourself. You’re as thin as a rail. Did I not teach you how to cook?” Janet waved around a freshly peeled potato. “When you were little, you were always in the kitchen, wanting to help.”

  Two nights in a hotel had done nothing to resolve their feud. His father was dead-set on not stepping foot in the condo ever again, but Janet gave him no say in the matter.

  The Rosenfeld matriarch remained vigilant about keeping the two men separated. She recruited Peter to assist in the kitchen while Gideon lounged on the sofa, submerged in a recent copy of The Harris Chronicle. Peter would not have been surprised if his father took notes while reading, pinpointing everything he disliked about the paper and suggesting ways it could be improved.

  “Apparently, I was too busy playing sous chef to have retained anything useful. My definition of cooking is throwing something in the toaster or the microwave,” Peter joked in self-deprecation.

  “Sweetheart, that isn’t real food.”

  He peeled potatoes, rinsed them, and placed them beside the cutting board. The repetition of the task stunted his neurosis. But as the pile of russets shrank, his thoughts grew from a steady hum to a deafening roar. The way he had blindsided Ryleigh, the way he had behaved in front of her, he knew all of it was wrong. Last potato rinsed, he dried his hands and retrieved his phone from his pocket.

  P: I owe you a night out for surviving my favor, as promised. When are you free?

  “Are you texting your pretend girlfriend?”

  Janet did not bother dancing around words to get the information she sought. That was the way she had always been: straight to the point.

  “It sounds awful when you say it like that.” He pulled a second cutting board from the cabinet. Peter’s sharp chin dipped down, hovering close to his chest. “I’m afraid I messed up there.”

  His mother pointed her starch-coated knife at him.

  “Would you care to explain why you didn’t breathe a word of this girl until I flew 3,000 miles to see you? I’m getting older. You can’t take me by surprise like that. It would’ve really been something if I’d had a heart attack that night,” she scolded, keeping her voice low to avoid attracting attention from Gideon.

  “We’re not dating. Should I have told you anything? I’ve only known her for a few months. I’ll admit, I enjoy her company. Though, I’d never tell her that.”

  Trying to vocalize his relationship to Ryleigh scrambled his brain cells. They were not quite friends, and far from lovers, but something indistinguishable connected them; a thin thread binding one to the other. No matter how hard Peter tried to snap that pitiful thread, it stayed intact.

  “Isn’t that sweet?” Janet grinned. She left Peter to finish cutting the potatoes while she tended to the pot of gravy on the stove. He knew by the slow, methodical way in which his mother stirred the sauce, she had an opinion to push. “I have to say, she does look awfully young.”

  He channeled his anxiety into the pressure he imposed on the knife blade. “I’m worried she’s too young. She keeps saying it doesn’t matter, but I have other ideas.”

  “How old is she?”

  You can’t lie to your mom, c’mon. “18.”

  “That’s certainly unconventional,” Janet swished the gravy-laden rubber spatula in the air. Peter pictured the thick, brown sauce splattering his pristine cabinets. She held his arm loosely, face upturned. “Regardless, I saw the way you looked at her the other night. Don’t think for one second you can pull a fast one on your mom. You’re smitten with this girl. And if you have any sense beneath that head full of hair, you’ll do something about it.”

  White lights illuminated the Bransons’ tree, giving select ornaments an exponential gleam. Snow flurries danced in the dark beyond the casement windows. A fire blazed in the brick hearth, creating a cozy atmosphere in the cavernous sitting room. The family huddled around the coffee table, slamming tiles onto a battered grid board.

  “Triple word.” Charlotte’s hands shot skyward. “That’ll be 72 points for yours truly.”

  Ryleigh adopted the role of scorekeeper from a young age, understanding neither of her parents could be trusted with the responsibility. As she scribbled down her mother’s points, Dexter appeared to be searching for a scenario in which the math did not add up. Typical.

  “Enjoy your 72-point turn while it lasts,” he said. “But I’ll have the highest-scoring turn of the game. You’ll see.”

  “Settle down, children,” Ryleigh admonished, placing a word on the board.

  Her phone produced a crude buzz on the wooden floor while she replenished her stash of lettered tiles. She pressed her lips together to suppress a grin at the message.

  P: I owe you a night out for surviving my favor, as promised. When are you free?

  R: how’s tuesday night? we need to talk about the fake girlfriend situation, btw, and why you neglected to mention the fine print of our deal.

  Dexter hurtled a throw pillow at his daughter and it knocked the device from her hands. “I told you to put that infernal thing in your bedroom.”

  Charlotte kept her arms tight against her body, shooting Ryleigh a quick glance. The suspicious looks were growing in prevalence. She had a feeling her mother knew exactly whom she texted. And despite this, the confrontation never came. Ryleigh would have preferred a lecture to guilt-inducing leers.

  She retired her phone to the entryway table.

  P: Noted. I’ll pick you up at 8.

  Dress warm.

  Peter had held fast to his promise of taking her out even though his end of the deal had gone up in smoke. While it was technically not a date, the knowledge of the upcoming evening thrilled her to no end.

  Ryleigh closed her eyes and covered her mouth in mute excitement before turning to face her parents. She crouched in front of the coffee table. “Sorry.”

  “At least she isn’t completely attached to her phone, Dex,” Charlotte said. “Not like Andrea. I don’t think she ever takes her eyes off hers.”

  “That’s a little dramatic.”

  “If you say so.” Her face scrunched up as she assessed the letters on the wooden tray. Charlotte laid several tiles on the board in defeat and avoided direct eye contact with her husband, who gloated at the failed turn.

  Ryleigh’s mind drifted to the logistics of their outing. Andrea covered her for the ugly sweater party, but she could not be her scapegoat for every outing. She would have to tell the truth.

  Well, at least a variation of it.

  Without any pretense, Ryleigh plunged into the conversation she needed to broach, however unwilling she was to do so. “Could I go out Tuesday night?”

  Dexter stared at his daughter over the top of his recently purchased eyeglasses, which had fallen down the bridge of his triangular nose. “Define ‘go out,’ because if your idea of going out entails doing keg stands until the wee hours of the morning or driving while under the influence of things that grow out of the ground, you won’t receive any blessing from me.”

  “I think she means with someone,” Charlotte interjected, saving Ryleigh from having to explain herself.

  His sternness melted. “Our pumpkin is going on a date. Last year I might have objected to this, but you’re going off to college soon and let’s face it: I won’t be there to monitor your every move.”

  Why must I endure this? Do it for Peter, do it for Peter.

  “Dexter, if you mention her leaving for school one more time,” Charlotte ground out. She gathered herself, inhaling with the force of a vacuum cleaner. “When will we be able to meet this guy, honey?”

  Venom lurked behind the slathered sweetness of her inquisition. It was a challenge, as if to say, ‘I know precisely what you’ve been up to, and we both know your father won’t take kindly to it.’

  “Soon.”

  Panic set in at the single, uttered word.

  His father had somehow waited through the entirety of dinner before delivering his careful critique of Peter’s place of employment. “Y
ou know, son, I was reading over some of your articles. Well, I was reading through the whole paper, really.”

  Peter half-listened as he accompanied his mother in clearing the table, stacking plates and bowls on the breakfast bar. They migrated to the kitchen to tend to the colossal pile of dishes that had accumulated throughout the night.

  Gideon relocated to one of the stools at the bar, which provided a view of the sink. “The articles written by your staff are highly simplistic. Would it kill you to liven it up a bit, make the stories more interesting to read?”

  “You sound like someone who’s never picked up a small-town newspaper. And by the way, the last I heard, people don’t read the paper for entertainment. They read it to catch up on current events. You want to be entertained? Try a magazine,” Peter quipped, rinsing the dishes his mother passed along. “Don’t expect the articles to be rich with detail or insights, because they aren’t. They’re straightforward and present the facts. I don’t work for a prestigious, metropolitan paper where everyone takes themselves too seriously. This is Harris, and like you said, we’re highly simplistic.”

  “So, that’s it then? You accept the fact that you work for a local paper and make no effort to improve its status, or your status as a writer for that matter?”

  He considered the rate at which his father’s mind operated to churn out negative remarks at such unwavering frequency.

  “I’m trying to pay off my student loans, not win a Pulitzer.” Peter hung his head, possessing no strength to continue the ridiculous argument. “Could we possibly redirect the conversation to an area other than my never-ending list of shortcomings?”

  Ripe for a reaction, Janet mumbled something inaudible and pressed on washing the shrinking stack of dishes.

  Gideon squinted at his son. “Maybe if you’d take pride in something, I wouldn’t step all over you.”