Bygones (28 page)

“You still like anything that smells like roses.”

She made no reply, only continued working her hands together until the lotion disappeared and she tugged her sleeves down into place. They stood a space apart, watching each other while the dishwasher played its song of rush and thump, sending out faint vibrations against their spines.

“Thanks for helping me clean up.”

“You're welcome.”

“If you'd done it six years ago things might have turned out differently.”

“People can change, Bess.”

“Don't, Michael. It's too scary to even think about.”

“Okay.” He pushed away from the cabinet edge and held up his hands, surrendering to her wishes. “Not another word. It's been fun. I've enjoyed it. When is my furniture coming?”

He moved toward the front hall and she trailed him. “Soon. I'll call you as soon as anything arrives.”

“Okay.” He opened the entry coat closet and found his jacket, a puffy brown thing made of leather with raglan sleeves that smelled like penicillin.

“New jacket?” she asked.

Zipping it, he held out an elbow and looked down. “Yes.”

“Did you stink up my closet with it?”

He laughed as the zipper hit the two-thirds mark and he tugged the ribbed waist down into place. “Cripes, a man just can't do anything right with you, can he?” His remark was made in the best of humor and they both chuckled afterward.

He reached for the doorknob, paused and turned back. “I don't suppose we ought to kiss good-bye, huh?”

She crossed her arms and leaned back against the newel post, amused. “No, I don't suppose we ought to.”

“Yeah . . . I guess you're right.” He considered her a moment, then opened the door. “Well, good night, Bess. Let me know if you change your mind. This single life can leave a man a little hard up now and then.”

If she'd have had their glass wedding bowl, she'd have lobbed it at his head. “Jeez, thanks, Curran!” she yelled just as the door closed.

 

THE LAST OF THE MARCH snows had come and gone, late blizzards battering Minnesota with fury, followed by the sleety, steely days of early April. The buds on the trees were swollen, awaiting only sun to set them free. The lakes were regaining their normal water level, lost through the past two years of drought, and the ducks were returning, occasionally even some Canadian honkers. Michael Curran stood at the window of his sixth-floor St. Paul office building watching a wedge of them setting their wings for a landing on the Mississippi River. A gust of wind blew the leader and several followers slightly out of formation before they corrected their course with a rocking of wings and disappeared behind one of the lower buildings.

He'd called Bess, of course, twice in the past month, and asked her out but she'd said she didn't think it was wise. In his saner moments he agreed with her. Still, he thought about her a lot.

His secretary, Nina, poked her head into his office and said, “I'm on my way out. Mr. Stringer called and said he won't make it back in before the meeting tonight but he'd see you there.” Stringer was the architect of the firm.

Michael swung around. “Oh, thanks, Nina.” She was forty-eight, a hundred and sixty pounds, with a nose shaped like a toggle switch and glasses so thick he teased her she'd set the place on fire if she ever laid them in the sun on top of any papers. She kept her hair dyed as black as a grand piano and her nails painted red even though arthritis had begun shaping her fingers like ginseng roots. She came in and poked one into the soil of the schefflera plant beside his desk, found it moist enough and said, “Well, I'm off, then. Good luck at the meeting.”

“Thanks. Good night.”

“ 'Night.”

When she was gone the place grew quiet. He sat down at a drafting table, perused Jim Stringer's drawings of the proposed two-story brick structure and wondered if it would ever get built. Four years ago he had purchased a prime lot on the corner of Victoria and Grand, an upscale, yuppie, commercial intersection flanked by upscale, yuppie residential streets lined with Victorian mansions that had regained fashionable status during the last decade. Victoria and Grand—known familiarly throughout the Twin Cities as Victoria Crossing—had in the late seventies sported no less than three vacant corner buildings, each of them formerly a car dealership. The Minnesota Opera Company had rented one old relic nearby for its practice studio and had spread the lonely sound of operatic voices up and down Grand Avenue for a while.

Eventually Grand had been rediscovered, redone, revitalized. Now, its turn-of-the-century flavor was back in the form of Victorian streetlights, red-brick storefronts and flower boxes, three charming malls at the major intersection, along with variety shops that stretched along Grand Avenue itself.

And one vacant parking lot owned by Michael Curran.

Victoria Crossing had everything—ambience, an established reputation as one of the premiere shopping areas in St. Paul, even buses coming off the nearby Summit Avenue Historic Mansion Tours, disgorging tourists by the dozens. Women had discovered its gift shops and restaurants, and met there to shop and eat. Students from nearby William Mitchell Law School had discovered its fine bookstores and came there to buy books. Businessmen from downtown, and politicians from the State Capitol, found it an easy ride up the hill for lunch. Local residents walked to it pushing their baby carriages—baby carriages, no less! Michael had been down there last summer and had actually seen two old-fashioned baby buggies being perambulated by two young mothers. At Christmastime the storekeepers brought in English carolers, served wassail, sponsored a Santa Claus and called it a Victorian Walk. In June they organized a parade, street bands and ethnic food stalls and called it The Grand Old Days, attracting 300,000 people a year.

And all that clientele needed parking space.

Michael offset the edges of his teeth, leaned on the drafting table with both elbows and stared at the revised blueprints—including an enlarged parking ramp—remembering the brouhaha at last month's Concerned Citizens' Meeting.

Our streets are not our own!
was the hue and cry of the nearby homeowners, whose boulevards were constantly lined with vehicles.

People can't shop if they can't park!
complained the businesspeople till the issue ended in a standoff.

So the meeting had adjourned and Michael had hired a public relations firm to create a friendly letter of intent, including an architect's concept of the building blending with its surroundings; the results of the market analysis with demographics clearly indicating the area could bear the additional upscale businesses; additional demographics showing that the proposed parking ramp would hold more cars than the flat lot presently there; and assurance that Michael himself, as the developer, would remain a joint owner of the building, thus retaining an avid interest in its aesthetic, business and demographic impact not only now but in the future as well. Nearly two hundred copies of the letter had been distributed to business owners and homeowners in the vicinity of the proposed building.

Tonight they'd hash it over again and see if any minds had changed.

The meeting was held in an elementary-school lunchroom that smelled like leftover Hungarian goulash. Jim Stringer was there along with Peter Olson, the project manager from Welty-Norton Construction Company, who was slated to do the building.

The St. Paul city planning director called the meeting to order and allowed Michael to speak first. Michael rose, arbitrarily fixed his eyes on a middle-aged woman in the second row, and said, “The letter with the drawing of the proposed building that you got this past month was from me. This is my architect, Jim Stringer, who'll be co-owner of the building. And this is Pete Olson, the project manager from Welty-Norton. What we want all of you to think about is this. We've already had soil borings done on the lot and the land meets EPA standards—in other words, no contamination. With that obstacle aside, the truth is, that lot is going to be built on eventually, whether you like it or not. Now you can wait for some shyster to come along, who's going to build today and be gone tomorrow, or you can go with Jim and me. He designed it, I'm going to manage it, we'll both own it. Would we put up something unsightly or poorly constructed, or anything that would clash with the aesthetics of Victoria Crossing? Hardly. We want to keep the same flavor that's been so carefully preserved because, after all, that's what makes the Crossing thrive. Jim will answer any questions about building design, and Pete Olson will answer those about actual construction. Now, since our last meeting, we've scaled down the number of square feet in the commercial building and increased the area for parking, and Jim's got the new blueprints here. That's our bid toward compromise but you people have to bend a little, too.”

Someone stood up and said, “I live in the apartment building next door. What about my view?”

Someone else demanded to know, “What kind of shops will be in there? If we say yes to the building, we invite our own competition to put a dent in our business.”

Another person claimed, “The construction mess will be bad for business.”

Someone else said, “Sure, there'll be more parking spots but the extra businesses will bring in extra people and that means more cars on our side streets.”

The discussions went on; most of the locals were outraged until after some forty-five minutes a woman stood up at the rear.

“My name is Sylvia Radway and I own The Cooks of Crocus Hill, the cooking school and kitchenwares shop right across the street from that lot. I was at the first meeting and never said a word. I received Mr. Curran's letter and did a lot of thinking about it, and tonight I've been listening to everything that's been said here, and I believe some of you are being unreasonable. I think Mr. Curran is right. That piece of land is too valuable and in too desirable a location to remain a parking lot forever. I happen to like the looks of the building he's proposing, and I think a half-dozen more tasteful specialty shops will be good for business all around. Another thing a lot of you haven't admitted is that when you moved here, you all knew Grand Avenue was a business street, whether you're a local resident or you own a business. If you wanted vacant lots, you should have been here in 1977. I say let him put up his building—it's darned nice-looking—and watch our property values rise.”

Sylvia Radway sat down, leaving a lull followed by a murmur of low exchanges.

When the meeting ended, the concerned citizens had not yet voted to allow Michael's building but the tide of objection had clearly moderated.

Michael caught up with Ms. Radway in the school lobby just short of the door.

“Ms. Radway?” he called from behind her.

She turned, paused and waited as he approached. She was perhaps fifty-five, with beautiful naturally wavy hair of silver white, cropped in a soft pouf. Her face was gently grooved, roundish and attractive. The smile upon it looked habitual.

“Ms. Radway . . .” He extended his hand. “I want to thank you for what you said in there.”

They shook hands and she told him, “I only said what I believe.”

“I think it made a difference. They know you—they don't know me.”

“Some people are against change, doesn't matter what it is.”

“Boy, don't I know that. I run into them all the time in my business. Well, thanks again. And if there's anything I can ever do for you . . .”

She made her eyes wider and said, “If you take any cooking classes just make sure they're from The Cooks of Crocus Hill.”

He thought about her on his way home, the surprise of her standing up in the meeting and speaking up on his behalf. You never know about people, he thought; there are a lot of good ones out there. He smiled, recalling her remark about cooking classes. Well, that was going a little far, but the next time he was up at the Crossing he'd stop in her store and buy something, by way of showing his appreciation.

That happened a week later. He had to meet a fellow from a land surveyor's office for lunch, and suggested Café Latte, which was just across the street from The Cooks of Crocus Hill. After lunch he wandered over to the shop. It was pleasant, with two levels and an open stairway, southern window exposure, hardwood floors and Formica display fixtures of clean, modern lines, everything done in blue and white. It smelled of flavored coffee, herbal teas and exotic spices. The shelves were loaded with everything for the gourmet kitchen—spatulas, soufflé dishes, popover pans, aprons, nutmeg graters, cookbooks and more. He passed some hanging omelette pans and approached the counter. Sylvia Radway stood behind it, reading a computer printout through half-glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

“Hello,” he said.

She looked up and smiled like Betty Crocker's grandmother.

“Well, look who's here. Come to sign up for cooking class, did you, Mr. Curran?”

He scratched his head and winced. “Not exactly.”

She picked up a jar off the counter and tipped her head back to read its label.

“Some pickled fiddlehead fern, then?”

He laughed and said, “You're kidding.” She handed him the jar. “Pickled fiddlehead fern,” he read. “You mean people actually eat this stuff?”

“Absolutely.”

He glanced at the assortment of jars and read their labels. “Chutney—what in the world is chutney? And pecan praline mustard glaze?”

“Delicious on a baked ham. Just smear it on and bake.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, taking a second look at the glaze.

“Steam a few fresh asparagus spears with it, a couple new potatoes with the skins on, and you have a meal fit for a visiting dignitary.”

She made it sound so easy.

“Trouble is, I don't have anything to steam them in.”

She turned with a flourish of the palm, presenting the whole of her shop. “Take your pick. Metal or bamboo.”

He perused the store and felt out of his league. Pots and pans and brushes and squeezers and things that looked as if they belonged in a doctor's office. “I don't cook,” he admitted, and for the first time ever, felt foolish saying so.

“Probably because nobody's ever turned you on to it. We have a lot of men in our basics classes. When they start they don't know which end of a spatula goes up, but by the time they finish they're making omelettes and quick breads and poached chickens and bragging to their mothers about it.”

“Yeah?” He cocked his head and turned back to her, genuinely interested. “You mean anybody can learn to cook, even a dodo who's never fried an egg?”

“The name of our beginners' class is ‘How to Boil Water 101.' Maybe that answers your question.”

When they'd both chuckled, she went on. “Cooking has become a unisexual skill. I'd say we probably have an even mix of men and women in our classes now. People are marrying later in life, men leave home, get apartments of their own and get tired of eating out all the time. Some get divorced. Some have wives who work full-time and don't want to do the cooking. Voilà!” She threw up her hands and snapped her fingers. “The Cooks of Crocus Hill! The answer to the yuppie quandary at mealtime.”

She was such an excellent saleswoman, he didn't even realize he was being pitched until she asked, “Would you like to see our kitchen? It's right upstairs.”