Man at Work
Page 6
Truman had to smile at the familiar sights. It felt good to be here, he thought. But it felt even better knowing that not only was he probably the only man in here without a tie on, he was the only man in here without a two-hundred-dollar tie on. It didn’t matter, though. Palmer looked—and was—rich enough for the both of them.
“I know.” Truman picked up the bar menu. “I’ve been taking a break.”
“A break?” Palmer motioned for the bartender. “Martini, dry, two olives. Truman?”
“Budweiser.”
Palmer made a face, then motioned the bartender on his way with an expression that said, there’s no accounting for taste.
“I heard you quit your job,” Palmer said. “Not that that was such a tragedy. I suspected you’d finally figured out you could work anywhere you wanted. But when you didn’t turn up in any of the regular circles I decided some action was required.”
Truman laughed. “What did you do?”
Palmer cocked a brow over mocking eyes. “Me? Nothing. I haven’t taken leave of my senses, after all. I just said action was required. I didn’t actually provide any.”
Truman nodded, smiling, as the bartender delivered his beer. “I counted on as much.”
The two ordered and the bartender disappeared toward the kitchen. It was late afternoon and they were the only two patrons at the bar.
“But then the mystery quite overcame me.” Palmer cocked his head and looked Truman up and down, taking in the ratty jeans and flannel shirt.
“Did it?” Tru asked, not looking at him.
Palmer, Tru could see in the mirror, turned his gaze to his glass. “I confess it did. I actually spoke with your mother. Twice, in fact. But she wouldn’t say anything beyond the comment that you’d lost your mind. Knowing your mother, I imagined you must have taken an extended vacation in Mexico or perhaps the Midwest.”
Truman swigged his beer.
Palmer swirled his martini and glanced back over at him. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Then let me guess.” Palmer took a healthy draught of his martini and turned to face Truman, one elbow on the bar. His face, so often contorted with mirth or sarcasm or both, betrayed a telling seriousness.
Truman smiled slightly. “Guess away.”
“You’ve pitched it all to live frugally.”
Truman glanced up at him, startled, but Palmer ignored his look.
“You’ve taken up with a sultry Puerto Rican waitress,” he continued, his voice low and dramatic, “from some yet-to-be-trendy ethnic restaurant and are living in her cold-water flat over an Asian grocery store in Arlington. At night you listen to salsa music and dance voluptuously until the neighbors pound on the ceiling with a mop handle, at which point you go into her dimly lit, lingerie-strewn bedroom and make mad, passionate love.”
Truman stared at him, amused and aghast. The vision was ridiculous, clearly, and yet Truman feared it was close to the one he’d had upon quitting his job and devising his plan.
“Tell me I’m on the mark or I’ll be devastated,” Palmer said. Then he added more seriously, “I know you were pretty fed up with things as they were.”
Truman gazed into his beer. “Dead on,” he said, smiling wryly.
“If it’s any consolation,” he said, too casually, “Melinda’s father went belly-up last spring. She actually had to get a job.”
Truman glanced back up at Palmer. “This had nothing to do with Melinda.” He paused, then smiled, as if that short fling could have had anything to do with a life decision of any sort. If she’d had that kind of influence, it would only have been because she represented so many women he’d known. “Though I do think a little gainful employment will do her good. When I talked about quitting to find some real meaning in life, she thought, I meant I wanted to prepare for the Ashworths’ regatta.”
“Don’t sell the girl short now, Tru,” Palmer said with a mock offended air. “We all know there’s nothing like a little competition on the high seas to teach valuable life lessons.”
“It’s not exactly the America’s Cup.” Truman turned to look fully at his friend. “What about you, Palmer? Doesn’t all the…I don’t know…superficiality get to you sometimes?”
Palmer shrugged and took a sip of his martini. “I’m the shallow sort, really.”
“I’m serious. Surely women like Melinda, and Sharon”—he paused, emphasizing a girl Palmer had thrown over the previous year after she’d sold her family’s champion miniature poodle to buy a mink jacket with hat and boots to match—“get to you after a while, don’t they? With all their manipulations and not-so-subtle aspirations.”
Palmer looked thoughtful. “Yes, I guess they do tire me, though I understand them too well to judge them harshly. I am the same animal, basically, you know.”
“You’re not—”
“I’m not like you, Tru,” he said, looking him squarely in the eye. For the second time in the space of an hour Palmer’s perpetually grinning face was sober. “I may see the problems you talk about and privately agree with your assessments of the crowd, but I’m not a reformer. I’m a product of and willing participant in the system.”
“But you tire of the power-and money-hungry just like I did. I know you do.”
Palmer shrugged. “I guess I’m not willing to believe that everyone in our social strata is shallow by default. There are some…” He paused, a smile creeping back to his lips.
Truman smirked. “Who is she?”
Palmer flashed him a look. “She’s a hard-working girl, though I won’t pretend she’s anything like your Puerto Rican waitress.”
Truman laughed.
“She’s from Connecticut. Went to Radcliffe. But she seems to have a balanced head on her shoulders.” He shrugged again, then laughed it off. “Time will tell.” He polished off his martini and looked around for the bartender to signal for another. “Where’d the bum get to now?”
“Well, I hope you’re right,” Truman said. “About the girl. Me, I want one who doesn’t care if I’m a prince or a pauper.”
“Good luck convincing one you’re the latter.” Palmer spotted the waiter across the room, approaching with their orders, and signaled him for another martini anyway.
Truman pictured the look on Marcy’s face as she’d stepped into his apartment the other night.
“I think I’ve got that part figured out,” Truman said, salivating guiltily at the sight of his steak. “Now I just have to convince myself.”
When Marcy had left Truman last Tuesday, she’d kept him in her rearview mirror so long she’d nearly rammed into a parked car. Embarrassed, she’d floored the gas pedal on South Capitol Street in order to disappear from view, not to mention make it to her meeting on time—a meeting in which she’d had a hard time thinking about anything but Truman Fleming.
Even today, it was difficult to concentrate on the meeting at hand when scenes from the diner kept passing through her mind. How happy she’d been to look up and see that it was him threatening that Guido person. She pictured him striding purposefully off to take those pictures for her. Nice athletic physique, she thought again. Probably due to all that manual labor. And he had a nice way of carrying that physique around, a kind of manly grace. Yes, there was something fascinating about him, she thought. Something unusually, suspiciously fascinating.
She shook the thoughts from her head and tried to focus on the contract in front of her. One of the senior partners was briefing them on the case but it was no use. She couldn’t keep her mind on it. Besides, it appeared simple; there was no copyright infringement so there was no suit. She wondered why the meeting continued on for so long in the face of such obvious evidence. No doubt the senior partner thought he was teaching her and the other junior associates something by going on about all the various and futile arguments the plaintiff might make. Which was ridiculous. The judge would throw it out on summary judgment, she’d bet any amount of money.
It was sweet. Chauvinistic—he obviously didn’t think she could take care of herself—but sweet.
At last the meeting ended. Marcy packed up her overstuffed briefcase and took the long elevator ride to the garage and her car. The drive to southeast was congested, as usual, giving her plenty of time to think about how close the homeless shelter where she periodically volunteered was to Truman’s apartment.
What was his story? Maybe he’d never graduated from high school. Maybe he’d been a hell-raiser like so many boys and had dropped out. But still, a lot of people overcame troubled childhoods. Why would Truman, who seemed so intelligent, get stuck doing something that paid so poorly he had to live in a slum?
She was dying to ask him all of this, but something told her he wouldn’t be very forthcoming. Besides, it would be beyond insulting to ask him why he hadn’t made anything of himself.
In any case, he must be making halfway decent money. Most of the guys she’d dated in high school had worked construction at one time or another and could make a fortune in the span of a single summer. Skilled construction workers were valuable commodities, she thought, unwilling to dwell on the fact that Truman Fleming of the lovely physique and intelligent eyes might not be skilled. So maybe he had a plan to get out of Southeast.
She pulled up right in front of the soup kitchen and walked through the brisk evening air to the stairs, then into the front hall. The place looked and smelled like the old school it was, with its linoleum floors and the odor of pine cleaner, but wafting in from the old cafeteria were the delicious scents of Italian cooking. Marcy smiled to herself. Calvin Deeds was here.
“Marcy P.!” The tall, white-haired, craggy-faced man greeted her with open arms when she rounded the corner toward the kitchen. His face creased even more with his broad smile. He must have been coming from the restroom because he was emerging from the residential part of the building.
“Calvin, how are you?” She smiled warmly back at him and reciprocated his tight, comforting bear hug.
“It’s been too long. Much, much too long. You’re not letting that place steal your soul now, are you? Remember they start by stealing your life.” He smiled with the words but Marcy knew he meant them. One thing about Calvin, he always had his eye on the big picture: the meaning of life. Part of that, she knew, was because his wife was battling cancer. It helps you remember what life is all about, Calvin always said. His ability to make lemonade out of the lemons life had dealt him never ceased to amaze Marcy.
“I don’t think they’ve got either yet.” Marcy stepped back and hefted her purse higher on her shoulder. “But they’ve certainly stolen my time.”
“Life is time, my girl.” He put an arm around her shoulders and walked her back toward the kitchen. “Hopefully you’ll never learn that the hard way.”
When they reached the kitchen, Marcy dropped her bag on the floor in the corner and turned to Calvin. “How is Penelope?”
At the expression that clouded his face Marcy could have kicked herself for the question. Dread curled her fingers.
“Passed out of her misery six months ago, God rest her soul.” He turned away and took up an apron hanging from a hook by the door.
“Six months! Calvin, I—I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.” She pressed her palms to her cheeks, hot with shame, and dropped them when he turned to her with a rueful smile.
“How could you know?” he asked. “I wasn’t exactly sending out announcements. And you’re probably too young to be reading the obituaries. I have to admit, though, it was something of a relief. For her, certainly, but also a little for me.”
“I understand. It had to be awful watching her go through that. I just wish I’d realized how long it’s been since I’ve seen you. I wish I’d been here for you. I’m so sorry.” She put her hand on his as he began to tie the apron behind his back, squeezed, and took the strings from him.
He cleared his throat and spoke with a gruff kind of bravado. “There was nothing anyone could do. It was something I had to muddle through on my own. I’m only just now starting to realize it’s true.”
She finished tying the apron and he moved toward the counter.
She shook her head in admiration. “And yet here you are, helping people. Calvin, you’re incredible.”
His brows rose, and he looked down at the counter. “I’m not just helping them, I’m sorry to say. This place is having to help me, too, these days.” He picked up a pile of zucchini and took it over to the sink. “In fact, in many ways it’s been my salvation.”
“Sure, work can be a great distraction. It’s good to keep busy. But not many people would salve their wounds by helping others.” She plucked another apron off the wall and moved to the cutting board next to him.
“Don’t make me out to be some sort of saint, Marcy. You know I do this for me. Always have.” He turned on the water and started scrubbing the vegetables. “Now more than ever.”
She took up the first few clean zucchini and a knife. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You can’t resist an appreciative audience for your cooking.” She could tell by the way his ears were turning red he was embarrassed to be going on about his problems. “It’s all about recognition with you, isn’t it? Fame and fortune. So what are we doing here? Slicing? Dicing? Julienning?”
“Slice them, please, m’dear. I think we’ll start with a minestrone tonight.”
She smiled, knowing the food would be better quality than most people ever ate, let alone those patronizing a soup kitchen. After all, Calvin Deeds’s restaurant was one of the best Italian eateries in the city.
“So how are things at Bella Luna?” she asked, cutting a zucchini lengthwise before turning the pieces to slice a row of half moons.
Calvin was silent so long Marcy turned to look at him. His mouth was turned down and his throat worked as if he were holding back tears.
“Calvin, what is it?” She dropped her knife and turned to take his arms in her hands.
He turned toward her but didn’t look up. “Marcy, things have been bad, since Pen fell ill. It went on for so long. You know me, I don’t like to talk about bad things, but, well, I’ve had kind of a rough time of it. The medical bills, you know…they’ve been quite…astounding.”
“But—she was insured, surely?”
He shrugged and turned back to the sink. “Not adequately, apparently. Listen, honey,” he said, regaining his composure, “I don’t want to burden you with all this bad news. Let’s talk about you, all right? Any young men in your life these days?”
Marcy put her hands on her hips. “Calvin, it’s not a burden. Now, I know you don’t like to dwell on things, so just tell me what’s happened and then we’ll be done with it.”
He shook his head and she gazed with pity on a knot in the back of his white hair. He’d always been fastidious about his appearance. Never a hair out of place. Yet here he was close to tears with his hair messed up, and now that she was more a tuned to his situation, she noticed the wrinkled shirt.
“I lost the restaurant, Marcy. I had to sell it, to pay the bills. And…well, I may as well tell you everything, since you’ll find out eventually anyway. I had to sell the house, too. I’m living here now.”
“Here?” Marcy gasped. How in the world had she missed all this? At the very least she thought she’d have heard about the restaurant changing hands. She must have been working too much.
“It’s not so bad. They’ve been quite kind. And since I do the cooking, I get my own room.”
“But surely you could stay with someone,” she protested. “You could stay with
me.” She began mentally rearranging furniture to accommodate him. A month or two on the couch wouldn’t kill her.
He smiled down at her. “That’s sweet, honey. Sure, I have friends I could’ve imposed on, but I guess I didn’t want to deal with all the pity. Here, I’m just another anonymous soul. And I can do some good.”
He plopped more clean zucchini on the cutting board next to her and gave her a stern look. “Marcy P., I don’t think those squash are going to cut themselves.”
Clearly, he didn’t want to discuss his diminished circumstances. But it galled her to think all this had happened to him and she’d had no idea. She might have been able to help him. Maybe she could fight his insurance company, get more coverage. But you couldn’t just come right out and tell someone that maybe they’d had their life ruined needlessly. Wasn’t that akin to telling someone they might not have had such bad luck if they’d been smarter?
Marcy pressed her lips together and turned back to the cutting board.
“Calvin, I just want to say, and I’ll only say this once because I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, that if you want me to look over the policy to make sure the insurance company did all they should for you, I’d be happy to do it. Or if there’s anything at all you’d like me to do, it would make me feel a lot better to be able to do it for you.”
“Well, now I am embarrassed,” he said, and she couldn’t believe it but she thought she heard him chuckle. “I had a lawyer look it all over, hon, and they did what they should. I’m sorry, I should have thought of you. Now it’s just time for me to get back on my feet. And I will, don’t you worry.”
“I know you will, Calvin.” She continued slicing the vegetables in front of her. “I’m glad you talked to someone. And I don’t doubt for a minute that you’ll be back in Washingtonian’s list of top one hundred restaurants in no time.”
He sprayed water over a pile of tomatoes. “Thank you for that vote of confidence. In the meantime, I’m going to regale tonight’s clientele with my famous marinara sauce. Where is that gentleman who always shows up here with the Mad Dog twenty-twenty? Perhaps he’d spare a little of that fine wine for the sauce.”