A Different Kind Of Forever (8 page)

“Thank you, Michael. You just saved my whole morning.”

“Always a pleasure to be of service. Is there anything else around here you need help with?”

“No.” She spoke quickly and too loudly. She sipped tea. “No, thank you. Besides, you must have something more entertaining to do besides digging around in the dirt.”

He made a face and looked at his watch. “Well, sometime today I’m supposed to be going over to my sister Angie’s house. She’s painting her den. Whenever Angie decorates, she makes it a family affair. It wouldn’t be so bad, but she jumps into these things without knowing what the hell she’s doing, and then everyone starts giving advice, and by dinner there’s at least one major meltdown.” He shook his head and brushed loose dirt from his jeans. “It gets ugly.”

“How can painting one room be so complicated?”

“Well, she wants to do stripes and something called a faux finish. She explained it in detail to me the other night, but I have no idea what she’s talking about, and neither does anyone else.”

“But that’s easy, really. My dad was a painter. I worked with him every summer for years.” She stopped and poured more tea. “I’d be happy to help.”

“Really?” He sat up. “That would be fantastic. You have no idea.You wouldn’t mind?”

“Hey, you just performed major surgery back here. I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me,” he said quietly. They sat together in silence for a few minutes. She was suddenly aware of how she must look – no make-up, dirty, hair tumbling down the back of her neck. She drained her glass.

“Why don’t you call your sister and ask if she minds me coming with you. And ask her if she has a three-foot level or a plumb line. We’ll need those. But if she doesn’t have them, I do.”

“Okay. Sounds good.” He followed her through the French doors into a cream-walled dining room. Wood gleamed and two watercolor landscapes hung on one wall. She stepped into the kitchen and handed him a cordless phone.
 

“Here. I’ll wash my face and change real quick, okay?”

“Yeah.” He watched her walk down the hall. It felt very quiet in her house, and he looked into a comfortable-looking living room, furnished in dark wood and rich browns and reds, with a brick fireplace, good art on the walls, and lots of plants. He dialed the phone.

Michael’s sisters were all sitting in Angela Bellini’s large, gleaming kitchen. Like Michael, they had their father’s small and graceful frame and their mother’s dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Unlike Michael, they also had her quick temper. Marie, the oldest at 43, was an ICU nurse and was used to averting any pending disasters. She was trying not to argue with Angela over plans for the next weekend. Angela had dug in her heels, so when the phone rang, and Angela answered hello, her voice was tight with anger.

“You’ve already started, haven’t you?” Michael asked accusingly. “I bet you haven’t even opened up a paint can, and you’re fighting about something, right?”

“Michael? No, we’re fine. Marie was just being the older sister. But you’re right, we haven’t started painting yet. We were waiting for you. We couldn’t do a thing without you.”

“That’s a crock of shit, and you know it,” Michael laughed. “The three of you will crowd me out in twenty minutes, just like you always do. But I want you to wait. I’m serious. I’m bringing somebody who knows about painting. She says it’s easy and you need a three-foot level or a plumb line. Have you got those things?”

“She? Who’s she?”

“Ang, concentrate. Ask Neil. A level or a plumb line.”

Angela covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “He’s bringing somebody. A woman,” she whispered to her sisters. She walked over to the open sliding glass doors and shouted outside. “Neil, have we got a level or a plumb line?”

“Not here,” came an answer, and she spoke back into the phone. “No, we haven’t got those things. Who is she, Mike? Anyone we know?”

“She’s a professional. Well, kind of. We’ll bring the stuff ourselves, in about half an hour. Wait for us.”

Angela hung up the phone and turned back to Marie. “Marie, did you hear me? He’s bringing somebody.”

“I heard you,” Marie said calmly. She was reading a decorating magazine, slowly turning pages.
 

“It’s just after eleven. Have you ever known Michael to even be awake at this hour, the day after a concert? He was probably up until five in the morning. You know what he’s like.”

“He’s awake?” Denise narrowed her eyes. She was holding Molly, Angela’s little girl. “What woman?”

“He says she knows how to paint.” Angela said skeptically.

“Well, now, why would he lie about something like that?” Marie said mildly. She was reading the magazine. “Ang, this says equal parts paint and glaze. What were you saying about water?”

“I saw it on the H&G Network,” Angela said. “But about this woman. What about the one from last night?”

Marie looked up from reading. “Her? Well, she seemed nice, but she was my age, Angie.”

Denise set Molly down on the floor and leaned in toward her sisters. “I don’t know how old she was, but there was something going on there. We’re talking real heat. I stepped between them, and it was like walking into an oven.”

Angela shrugged as Marie’s two sons came in from outside and headed for the refrigerator. “Michael didn’t say anything about how old she was,” she said.

“How old who is?” asked Steve Tishman, Marie’s husband. He had followed his sons into the house, and was helping pour soda for the boys. He gave his wife a quick look. “Who are you talking about?”

Marie sighed. “Michael is bringing someone over. Angie thinks it might be the woman we met last night, except that she’s probably our age.”

Steve shrugged. “Michael wouldn’t care about that. Age, I mean. That stuff isn’t important to him.”

“Oh, Dad,” protested his oldest son. “Uncle Mike only dates hot chicks.”

“Hey you,” ordered Marie, “don’t say things like that, especially around your Uncle Mike. It’s rude.”

The boys went back outside. Steve leaned against the counter, next to his wife. “That woman last night? Diane? She seemed very nice. And attractive. You really think forty?”

“At least,” said Marie.

“Well, she didn’t look it,” said Denise. “And she never took her eyes off him.”

“Denise,” Angela argued. “Maybe she has a thing for him. That I could understand. But the woman had teenage daughters with her. Why would he even bother with someone so much older? Remember Monique last year? Such a pretty little thing.”

“Come on ladies.” Steve looked at them all affectionately. “You have to remember that Mike has been a lover of older women his whole life. He may be tired of pretty little things.”

Angela stirred her coffee. “He told me Diane was lovely, and she laughed like an angel.”

Marie looked up. “He said that? When?”

“He called me last weekend. I guess it’s the same Diane. He had dinner with her.” Angela thought for a moment. “He said he had a great time with her.”

“He said that?” Marie turned to Steve. “You have to talk to him.”

“No, I don’t. Leave your brother alone. He stopped needing advice on his love life a long time ago.” Steve picked up paint samples off the counter. “Are you going blue or beige?”

“She still hasn’t decided,” Marie said dryly. “Apparently there’s no rush, at least not until the expert arrives.”

“Expert?” Steve looked around. “What expert?”

“The mystery woman,” Marie explained, “is apparently some kind of paint maven.”

“Speaking of experts, how’s my husband doing out there?” Angela asked. Her husband was Nick Bellini, and he was an architect. They had purchased a redwood playground set for Molly and Jane the day before, and Nick was outside, sorting out all the pieces.

Steve shook his head. “There’s a million parts to this thing and he’s got to put each of them in numerical order. We won’t be putting anything together ‘till Tuesday. How do you live with him, anyway?” he asked Angela. She shrugged and made a face.

Steve sighed. “Maybe this woman can read Japanese?” he asked. “That would really help us out.”

“Denise, did he say anything to you about Diane last night?” Angela asked. “Maybe you could talk to him. He listens to you.”

“Yes, he does,” Denise agreed. “He listens very carefully, and then he does exactly what he wants to do. He’s been doing that since he was sixteen. Have you ever known him to change his mind on my account? Or anyone else’s?”
 

“Well it’s a good thing I have extra lasagna,” Angela said.

Marie snorted. “You made two more trays. How much do you think she’s going to eat?”

“I don’t think Diane looked like a painter.” Steve remarked.

“What does a painter look like anyway?” Angela asked.
 

“He was touching her.” Denise said pointedly.

They were all silent. Michael was always careful of his behavior around women, and made sure he did nothing that could be misinterpreted.

“What kind of touching?” Angela asked slowly.

“You know. Touching. Hands on each other kind of touching.” Denise looked smug. “I told you something was going on.”

“Well, that’s interesting,” Marie conceded. “Anybody notice?”

“I don’t know.” Denise sighed. “I hope not. It wouldn’t be good for him if fans thought he was hanging around the mother of a couple of teenagers.”

“Is there a husband?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know. God, I hope not.” Denise looked worried. “That would be bad.”

Just then Angela’s older daughter Jane came running into the kitchen. “Uncle Mike is here,” she shouted. Angela grabbed Molly’s hand.

“I’ll check her out,” she declared firmly.
 

In their cavernous living room, Angela said to the two girls, “Go outside, both of you, and say hi to Uncle Mike.”

The girls started screaming, headed out the door, and ran down the lawn to where Michael had parked his pick-up in the street.

“He’s driving that old truck,” Angela called out, watching from her picture window, “so I don’t think he’s worried about making a big impression.” She watched as Diane got out of the truck.

“Well, she’s got a great haircut,” she said loudly enough for her sisters to hear, “and she’s not one of those anorexic types he’s usually with. She’s not wearing those horrible hip-huggers.”

“She used to wear those horrible hip-huggers herself,” Marie observed wryly, as she got up from the kitchen stool and followed Steve and Denise. They crowded the window, watching Michael and Diane herd the little girls up to the house.

“It’s Diane.” Denise announced triumphantly.
 

“She looks familiar,” Angela said slowly. “I know her.”

“Really? From where?” Denise asked.

“I don’t know.” Angela frowned.
 

Angela opened the front door and kissed her brother. She looked at Diane.

“Oh my God,” Angela burst out. “Dr. Matthews.”

Michael looked at Diane and raised his eyebrows. “Doctor?”

Diane stared at Angela blankly for a second, then her mouth dropped open in recognition. “Dr. Bellini?”

Michael looked from one to the other. “Diane, I guess you know my sister Angela?”

“Yes, of course.” Angela exclaimed. “Oh, it is such a small world.”

Diane was shaking her head. “Michael, you should have told me your sister taught at Merriweather.”

Michael shrugged. “How do you two know each other?”

“I was on the screening committee for her play.” Angela explained.
 

“Play?” Michael looked at Diane in surprise. “You wrote a play?”

“Oh, it’s wonderful,” Angela gushed. “She wrote it, what, three years ago? In Sam’s class, you know, Sam French, his class for writers. He was so impressed he did a reading workshop last year, and this year it’s scheduled for when, Diane, October?”

“Yes.” Diane felt herself blushing. “They’re casting this summer.” She looked around. Everyone was staring at her. “It’s pretty exciting.”
 

Michael had a half-smile on his lips. “That’s fantastic,” he said, and at the tone in his voice, all his sisters exchanged looks.

“So how is Rachel?” Angela asked. Angela had taught Diane’s oldest daughter speech and diction when Rachel was in Merriweather’s drama program.

“Oh, she’s great - tending bar in a French restaurant in mid-town, taking a class at the New School, and doing some workshop downtown, a thirty-minute Shakespeare company, where they edit each play down to five characters and one hundred lines.” Diane was shaking her head. “I’m dreading her first performance. I know I’ll run out of the place screaming.”

“Her daughter is a genius,” Angela explained. “Seriously. Double major, in French and Drama, and she blew us all away.”

“Yes, Rachel packs a punch, all right.” Diane looked around. The women were all watching her carefully. She wondered what they were imagining between her and their younger brother. She felt suddenly uncomfortable.

Michael, as if sensing her mood, put his hand lightly on her shoulder. “Angie, where’s Nick?”

Angela explained about the playground project in the back yard, and Michael brightened.

“Well, look, why don’t I go out back and help? Ang, you don’t really need me. Steve, you can use a hand, right?”

Angela fixed her eye on him. “You’re related to me, not them. I’m the one who needs the help. Nick is an architect. I’m sure he’ll figure it out.”

“Nick designs airports,” Michael explained to Diane. “I don’t see how that qualifies him to put together a swing set.”

Diane grinned as Steve shrugged helplessly. “We were hoping you’d bring somebody who could read Japanese,” Steve said, “so at least we’d know what the instructions say.”

Diane lifted her shoulders. “Sorry, I really can’t help you there. I just know paint.”

“Thanks for coming to help out,” Angela said, smiling. “I’ve never done this sort of paint job before.”

“No problem,” Diane said, “It’s really very simple. Just lots of prep work.” She took the level from Michael. “This is all we need.”

Angela took Diane by the arm. “Then let me show you my den,” she said, leading Diane away.

Angela had the house built two years ago, a large contemporary on a quiet cul-de-sac. The long living room had become a dining room to accommodate a table for at least twenty-four. The original dining room had become a small, formal sitting area that was never used. Most of the living was done in the kitchen and family room, and in Neil’s private domain. The media room, huge, with a plasma screen TV and assorted speakers, receivers, and other appendages.