And Yesterday Is Gone (22 page)

Then I was jolted back to another world by a scalding letter from Sis.

“You haven't been home in almost four months,” she accused. “Just because you think you're a big stud in the city. Telephone calls don't count.”

“Stud?” Apparently her vocabulary had expanded since she'd married that marine.

Counting on my fingers, I figured she was getting close to the arrival of that little person who would call me “Uncle Stevie.” I knew I needed to go home.

Only yesterday we were fighting over everything, and Sis tattling to Ma that I'd taught that miserable old dog to hump every stationary shoe. I had to admit he was an enthusiastic student.

I called J.W. and told him I had contacted leprosy and needed some time off. He agreed that my immune system was probably down and gave me four days to recover. I made plans to go home.

I hadn't seen Juan for months either and, as Sis said, phone calls don't count. Her letter slowed me down and brought me back to another world.

Despite Sis' snide remark about phone calls, I promptly called Juan. Hearing his happy voice, I realized how much I missed him and how deep was our friendship.

“Juan. It's my party—find us the best restaurant in the city. We'll have lunch and talk all day. I miss you.”

His delighted voice never hesitated. “The Grotto on Fisherman's Wharf. Tomorrow at eleven. Don't be late—I have so much to tell you.”

Parking was a challenge, but after a half-hour search, I found the only parking space available in the entire city.

Hurrying to the discreetly elegant restaurant of Juan's choice on the wharf, I found him waiting for me, seated at a table overlooking the water. His long-ago words, “I'm waiting for you,” crept out of the depth of my subconscious, and I loved him for his innate sense of decency and his loyalty to a hopeless cause. I almost wished things were different, and wondered: Will a woman ever love me as much?

He stood, my arm around his shoulders, our hands clasped, with sad resignation in his eyes that contradicted the ear-to-ear smile on his handsome face.

We sat down at the table with spotless linen.

A slight nod brought a white-coated waiter. Juan waved the menu away and ordered something I couldn't pronounce and a bottle of sauvignon blanc. My taste buds came alive.

“What's good?” I asked.

“Lobster—the best in the city.”

Silence held us for a moment as we looked at each other, then both spoke at once. Laughing, we started over.

He was excited and thrilled to tell me that “The portrait of Rica won top honors at the best shows on the East Coast. Now it's here on exhibit at the Jon Bergmann Gallery on Grant Street. I know you've seen it, but it looks so different in a gallery. Let's drop by later—I want you to see it again…” And the story raced on with his contagious enthusiasm.

All I could do was nod with my mouth full. The food was everything he said it would be, the wine magnificent. My tongue was looser than usual as I shared my hopes and dreams. I knew that this party would cost me a month's wages, but it was worth every penny. I ordered another bottle.

Looking up from the lobster that Juan declared to be “the very best,” I met the eyes of a good-looking, red-haired girl sitting across the room at a table with an older woman.

My mind fumbled. She looked familiar and yet I couldn't place her red hair. Where did I know her?

She smiled and waved, then walked over, bent down and put her arm around my shoulder, nodding to Juan.

She obviously noted my confusion and, with a hug, she said, “Remember me? I'm Peggy. I want to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For my future husband, Doug. You remember the party in Pacific Heights? You told me to tag him at the dance? You were right—he is filthy rich. He's the only son of a multimillionaire shipping magnate on the East Coast.” She gave me another hug. “He can't dance like you can, but he has some good moves. I can teach him to dance.” She laughed as she continued, “We're going to be married in June. I'll invite you to the wedding.”

She looked up to see the old woman glaring at her. “Uh-oh, I'm a live-in companion girl Friday for that old harridan—I read to her, run her errands. She wants to make sure she gets her money's worth and she's got lots of it.”

A resounding whack on the table interrupted the girl and, blowing a kiss over her shoulder, she turned back.

Juan grinned. “You sure don't have much luck with the ladies. Another Doug in the way, huh? This one must not be as slow as Rica's Doug.”

Obviously, Juan had not known the meaning of “tag” and had not put two and two together.

My mind whirling, I managed a weak, “Guess I've struck out twice. What's for dessert?”

Lunch finished, Juan urged, “C'mon, I can't wait. Where's your truck?”

“Damned if I know. Somewhere over there,” I waved my hand, “thataway.”

It wasn't only the wine, but Peggy's words connected in my somewhat fuzzy brain. One part of me, a finger of shame, pointed at me for my part in it. All the rest of me danced a wild jig of complete abandon and shouted, “Hooray.”

My pseudo big-city sophistication left me like a dirty shirt on a Saturday night and I was just what Rica had said I was—a country boy.

Juan coaxed me. “C'mon, can't wait to show you. I'll take my car and we'll come back for your truck.” He chattered all the way.

“I'm doing another portrait. Rica may decide to do full-time modeling. She's already quit nursing school and is moving to an apartment. She and her father aren't getting along. She's had the flu…”

Through clenched teeth came, “Juan, I don't want to talk about Rica. She's a real pain in the ass most of the time.”

•  •  •

Her portrait that stood on the old paint-spattered easel had been enough to take my breath away when I first saw it in the studio. But here, framed, and with the proper lighting, it dominated the show—everything else was just fine print.

Juan had painted not only her vibrant image, but he had also dug beneath the surface of a capricious, provocative girl to capture the essence of the real woman in the direct, honest gaze that would own me forever.

Standing there wordless, looking at those sedately folded hands, the remembrance of those fingers in my hair pulling my face down to those warm parted lips four months ago was so vivid I gasped.

Turning to leave, Juan followed. We paused outside the door where I drew a deep breath.

“Aren't you ever going to get over her?”

“I don't think so,” I answered, choking on the words.

Juan drove us back to find the truck with a ticket under the wiper.

“Damn it to hell,” I said. “First ticket I ever got.”

Juan laughed and stuck it in his pocket.

“I'm going to go on home—it's only a few hours' drive. I'll sleep in my own bed tonight, and in the morning Ma will make hotcakes and eggs scrambled just the way she knows I like them. Eggs from our own hens. We'll probably enjoy a chocolate cake at lunch.”

Impulsively, I asked, “Why don't you treat yourself to a little country air and come out? We could spend a couple of hours at the local watering hole, have a few beers…”

“Sounds wonderful—I've gone as far as I can with this new painting until Rica gets back. Save some cake.” He waved good-bye.

Got home just at dark. Sis met me at the door. “Hey Ma, the city slicker has come to call.” She threw her arms around me. Standing as close as she could, she added, “'Bout time.”

Stepping back, I looked at her. “'Bout time is right. You're big as a barrel.”

Ma stood, her hands on her hips, smiling. “First time I ever saw you two that close together and you aren't fighting.”

Then it was a loving, three-way hug and Ma led the way to the kitchen and put on the coffee pot.

It seemed like I'd been gone forever and it was an overwhelming warmth that melted into my very bones as I sat in my mother's kitchen. The warmth of her love would sustain me throughout my lifetime.

Looking up at the ceiling, Sis' eyes followed mine and she grinned.

“Well, guess the ceiling has held up pretty well, but the wallpaper looks pretty shoddy,” I said, grinning at Sis.

“Why wouldn't it hold up? My son did the job.” From the pride that filled my mother's voice, she was certain there wasn't anything impossible for me.

Her confidence always made me feel the same way—at least for the moment.

“My bedtime,” Sis said. “S'pose you two will talk all night.” She blew a kiss and closed the door.

And talk we did. It was ten o'clock when I pulled up the covers.

But, despite the long day, sleep eluded me.

The moment I closed my eyes, my mind was consumed with thoughts of Rica and that night I was so sure she loved me, followed by the unbelievable knowledge that it was real only to me, an unexpected happening for her.

The long hours I spent at work—and I begged for every assignment—were the only relief for me from the vile words: “They've set the date.”

The wall I put up to distance myself from this unbearable pain was built of bricks made from anger, frustration and despair. And it crumbled every time my eyes closed.

Neither Juan nor I had spoken her name these previous months as he seemed to instinctively feel my efforts to get past this and rejoin the human race. The wall was shattered the moment I walked into the gallery; now to start reassembling the bricks.

•  •  •

The illuminated dial on the bedside clock glowed four a.m. when I untangled the blankets and located the pillow. My eyes squeezed shut and my nightly mantra repeated.

“I am not a bricklayer. I am a writer. I am a damned fool wasting my time. Feeling sorry for myself will stop. She is not the only woman in the world.”

I didn't believe a word of it.

Awakened rudely when the covers were yanked off my sleeping body, Sis snickered. “This ain't room service, Mr. Big Time. Get up—breakfast in ten minutes.”

Smelling bacon and the tantalizing aroma of coffee, I spared her life.

Breakfast was a lengthy affair. Sis was bursting with talk of the coming baby and her excitement was barely contained as she waited for Ma to break the news.

“Son, I'm going to sell the farm and move to Fort Worth, Texas, with Sis and Tim. The neighbor wants to buy it—he has the money and it's a done deal. Tim has been transferred and promoted, so we'll join him as soon as the baby is old enough to travel. I'm tired of farming and Sis will need me.”

Incredulous, my shocked voice exploded. “Ma, this farm has been in the family for three generations. How can I come home if you're in Texas?”

Suddenly I knew how those baby birds felt when they were pushed out of their nest. My face must have reflected that abandonment.

Ma laughed. “Stevie, you don't live here anymore. You have your own life now. You're doing what you love to do—you'll probably own that paper in a few years. You'll get married and have your own home…stop looking like that.”

Sis snorted. “You're still dragging your blanket around sucking your thumb, you big titty baby. Time you get married and make your own home. Don't be so selfish.”

My brain caught up with my mouth and I quickly amended. “Sorry, Ma. Sis is right—for once. “Texas is a big state. There will be room for me to visit and Sis will love John Wayne and the cowboys…”

A wet dish towel that didn't miss its destination interrupted me. My face now dripping, I heaved the towel at Sis, but she caught it in midair.

“Why don't you two go outside and fight? Help your sister with the chickens—that old rooster has turned mean so it will be chicken potpie shortly. And I want to bake a cake in peace.”

“We've got baby lambs,” Sis said as we walked down the path to the barn. Then she stopped talking, turned and threw her arms around me. “Ah Stevie, we'll miss you so much. Promise you'll come visit right away.”

My eyes got misty and she sniffled, so I promised with a weak laugh, “I'll meet the train.”

The smell of Ma's incomparable chocolate cake wafted through the air as we walked back, Sis' apron caught up by the corners, full of eggs resting on her belly and moving every time the baby kicked.

In the bathroom washing up, I heard Ma call, “Stevie, your friend is here.”

Hurriedly running a comb through my hair, I ran to the door. Standing beside Juan stood Rica.

“Oh, he's brought his girlfriend,” Ma said.

I stood in shock.

“Well, for goodness sakes, invite them in. Where are your manners?”

Standing back with a sick smile on my face, Juan nudged Rica ahead.

“I hope I'm not intruding,” Rica said to Ma, “but when Juan said he was driving to the country, I insisted on riding along.”

Juan looked at me with an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders and a raised eyebrow.

Smiling at Juan, I put my arm around his shoulder. “Glad you made it. Ma, I want you to meet my best friend, Juan.”

Juan ignored her outstretched hand and, smiling, put his arm around her with a hug, saying, “Steve has told me so much about you. If I did not have a Mamá, you would be my choice.” Then he kissed her on the cheek. Ma lost her heart in less than a minute.

“And this is my friend Rica, who makes my paintings beautiful…”

Juan was interrupted as Sis emerged in a clean dress. I introduced her to Juan and then to “Juan's friend Rica.” Then I pointedly ignored Juan's friend.

Sis had struck up an immediate conversation with Rica and they disappeared into Sis' bedroom to look at baby clothes and talk whatever girls talk about.

Juan declared, “I smell chocolate cake,” and led Ma into the kitchen, pulled out a chair and sat down in my place at the old chrome-legged table as I trailed along. With a delighted smile, Ma handed Juan a plate and fork. As I watched, he cut a piece of cake that covered a large part of that plate.