Bygones (17 page)

She shut her eyes and murmured, “
Mmm
, fantastic.”

He felt as if he’d just landed a job as head chef at The Four Seasons. He peered around the centerpiece,
then
abruptly clacked down his silverware onto his plate. “Aw, Bess, I feel like I’m on
Dallas
. I’m coming down there.”

He picked up his wineglass and slid his place mat down near her end of the table. “There, that’s better. Now let’s get this meal off to a proper start.” He lifted his glass, and she followed suit. “To . . .” He thought awhile, their glasses poised. “To bygones,” he said, “and letting them be.”

“To bygones,” she seconded. They drank, their gazes fused.

She was filled with praise, and he with pride. They ate and drank and talked, then relaxed over coffee and dessert-a sinful-looking chocolate cake from
Byerly’s
.

Toying with his coffee cup, Michael said, “You want to know something? Ever since I divorced you I’ve longed to live back in our house in
Stillwater
. Now, for the first time, that’s not true anymore. I finally managed to get over the feeling, and it’s great.” He looked very self-satisfied as he continued. “With Darla it was different. I moved into her place, so it never really felt like ours. When I left, I just sort of” - he shrugged - “walked out and felt relieved.”

“It really was that simple, leaving her?”

“Absolutely.”

In silence they compared that scenario to their own upon divorcing-all the bitterness and anger.

“Sure different from you and me,” Bess said.

“Why do you suppose we were both so hateful?”

“I don’t know. All I know is, this time when I got my divorce papers, I just put them away and thought,
So
be it.”

Bess felt a pleasant shock. “You’ve got them already?”

dis.yuP
. tilde For a minute they studied each other; trying not to let their total freedom cloud judgment.

“Well!” he said, breaking the spell.
“More coffee?”

“I’d love some.”

He poured the coffee, and when he was seated again, she said, “Michael, may I tell you something?” She was glowering at him.

“What?”

“Something you said to me just before we got divorced that’s been aggravating me ever since.”

He set down his cup carefully, disturbed by her quick change of mood. “What did I say?”

“You said I’d stopped taking care of myself. You implied that I’d gotten fat and seedy, and all I wore were jeans and sweatshirts. You know what that did to me? No matter how I look, I’m still critical of myself, and in all these years I’ve never put on a pair of jeans again. There, now I’ve gotten it off my chest.”

He stared at her in astonishment. “I said that?”

“You mean you don’t remember?”

“No.”

“Oh, hell!”
She covered her face,
then
pretended to pound on the table with both fists. “I go through six years of obsessive
selfimprovement
, and you don’t even remember the remarks?”

“No; Bess, I don’t. But if I made them, I’m sorry. And there’s nothing wrong with your shape.”

She felt one corner of her mouth threaten to grin.

Michael took their dessert plates to the kitchen. Bess followed with their cups and saucers.

He began putting plates into the dishwasher. She remarked, “We’ve covered a lot of ground tonight.”

“You named it earlier—com growth.”

She wiped off a cabinet top. He ran water into the roaster in which he’d baked the ham.

“Tell you what,” he said, closing the dishwasher door. “Let’s go out and walk along the lakeshore. What do you say?”

“All right,” she said.

Neither of them moved. They were doing a mating dance, and both knew it. They might very well suspect the outcome, but when it came to stepping close and bringing the dance to its logical conclusion, both backed off.

They had loved and lost once before and were terrified of the same thing happening twice; it was as simple as that.

Finally they walked over to the public beach, speaking little, feeling the sand close in around their shoes and hold them rooted. They looked at each other-uncertain, desirous,
fearing
. Then they turned and walked back. In his condo, Michael stopped off at the bathroom, while Bess continued to the family room and flopped onto her back on the leather sofa.

I can stay or go, risk it or risk nothing. The
choice ‘s
mine.

The bathroom door opened, and he entered the family room, crossed it, and stopped several feet from her. For moments he remained so, in the pose of deep reflection. Cautiously she sat up in a last-ditch decision for common sense.

He moved toward her
smilelessly
, as if his decision had been made. “I liked you better lying down,” he said, grasping her shoulders and pressing her against the pliant cream leather. In one fluid motion he stretched beside her and kissed her, a soft, lingering question, after which he searched her eyes.

“I’m not at all sure this is the right thing to do,” he said, his voice gruff with emotion.

“Neither am I”

“But I’ve been thinking about it all night.” He kissed her again a long kiss, while they held one another tentatively, needing time before taking one more step.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“You feel good.”

“Ah, so do you.”

“Familiar.”

“Yes.” Familiarity had caught him, too, bringing with it
a rightness
he welcomed. Their kisses became stormy, while past and present welled up arid became enmeshed in this embrace-desire, hope, amity, past failures, and fear of repeating those failures.

Their breakdown marked the end of a long abstinence for both of them. “Stop,” Michael said. He drew a foil condom packet from his trouser pocket. “Do we need this?” he asked.

Smiling, Bess said, “So you planned on this.”

“Let’s just say I was hoping.”

“Yes, we need that.”

The tone of his voice became sultry, and his grin was teasing as he reached for her. “Come here, Grandma.”

She lifted her arms in welcome, and they ended six-nearly seven-years of separation.

IN nm afterglow, they welcomed the breath of early night drifting in through the doors to cool their skins.

Bess looked at Michael and found him studying her without the smile she’d expected. “What are we going to do about this?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know.”

“We could just keep having a torrid affair.”
“A torrid affair?
Michael, what have you been reading?”

“We’re awfully darn good together, Bess.”

“Yes, I know. But be serious.”

“All right, I will. How much do you think we’ve changed since our divorce?” “That’s a loaded question, if I ever heard one.”

“Answer it.”

“I’m scared to.” After a long pause she asked, “Aren’t you?”

He studied her eyes for some time before answering, “Yes.”

“Then I’ll just go home and pretend this never happened.”

“Good luck,” he said, watching her go toward his bathroom.

She felt reality return with every minute, while she donned her clothes. Reality was the two of them, failures the first time around.

She went to the doorway and called, “May I borrow a brush?”

“In one of my bathroom drawers.”

She began opening his vanity drawers, feeling like she was probing his private domain. She found an Ace bandage, dental floss, Alka-Seltzer, and an entire box of condoms.

An entire box! Bess found herself blushing with anger. All right, so he was single, and single guys probably bought condoms by the dozen. But she didn’t like being duped in ff believing this was an uncommon occurrence in his life! She slammed the drawer and did what she could with her hair. Her anger dulled, leaving a sense of grave emptiness.

She returned to the family room. Michael was standing at the sliding glass door, wearing only his jeans. He was staring out at the darkness, obviously troubled by the same misgivings as she.

“Well, Michael, I think I’ll go.”

He swung to face her. “Yeah, fine,” he answered.

“Thank you for supper. It was wonderful.”

“Sure.”

A great, terrifying void reared up before both of them.

“Listen, Michael, I’ve been thinking. You could use some more small items on the tables here, but I think it’s best if you find them on your own.”

His expression grew angry. “Bess, why are you blaming me? You were planning on it just as much as I wall”

“Yes, I was. I’m not blaming you. I just think . . . that it’s. . .
“ She
ran out of words.

“What?
A mistake?”

She remembered the condoms. “I don’t know.
Maybe.”

He stared at her with a hurt look. “Should I call you?”

“I don’t know, Michael. Maybe it’s not such a good idea.”

He dropped his chin to his chest and whispered, “Damn.”

She stood across the room, her heart racing with fear because of what he had almost suggested. They had changed a lot, but what assurance was there? What fool would put his hand in the mill wheel after his finger had been cut off his She said, “Thanks again, Michael,” and he made no reply as she saw herself out and ran from the idea of starting again.

Chapter fourteen

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Bess got home, all the lights were on. She had barely
sttilde
put her foot inside when Randy came charging to the front door. “Ma, where you been? I thought you’d never get home!”

Terror struck. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.
I got an audition! Grandma’s old dude, Gilbert, got me one with this band called The Edge!”

Bess released a breath. “I thought it was some catastrophe.”

“Turns out old Gilbert used to own the
Withrow
Ballroom, and he knows everybody-bands, agents, club owners. He’s been talking to guys about me since Lisa’s wedding.
Great, huh?”

“That’s wonderful, Randy. When’s the audition?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ve got to call them tomorrow, sometime in the afternoon. Where were you, Mom?
I’ve been
hangin
” around here all night waiting to tell you.”

“I was with your dad.”

“With Dad?”
Randy’s ebullience fizzled.

“Why?”

“He cooked dinner for me.”

“Dad cooked dinner?”

“Yes.
And a very good one at that.
Come upstairs with me, and tell me about this band.” She led the way to her bedroom, snagged a robe, and went into her bathroom, calling through the door as she changed, “So what kind of music does this band play?”

“Rock, basically. A mix of old and new, Gilbert said.”

When Bess came out of the bathroom, she sat down in a chintz covered chair. Randy was sitting on the bed looking out of place in her boudoir, with its pastel stripes and cabbage roses.

“Old Gilbert.
Can you believe that?” Randy wobbled his head in amazement.
“And all because I played at that wedding.”

“You see? Just a little
courage,
and look what happens.”

“Yeah.”
Randy sat looking at her,
then
fell pensive for a time. “So what’s this between you and the old man?”

“Nothing.”
Bess got up and walked to the dresser, fiddling with some bottles and tubes. Then she turned. “We’re just friends.”

“Okay.” He clambered off the bed. “I just don’t understand you,
that’s
all. First you divorce him, and now. . .”

She glared at him. “And now you will kindly give me the same respect I give you in personal matters.”

He stared at her, torn by ambivalence-one facet of him leavened by the possibility of her getting back together with his father permanently, the other facet curdled by the idea of having to make peace with Michael at last. “You know what, Mom?” Randy said, just before leaving the room. “You were never this touchy about Keith.”

Bess studied the empty doorway when he was gone, realizing he was right. She sat on the bed trying to make sense of things, wondering what the outcome of tonight would be. She was involved with Michael and more than likely falling in love again, and what was the logical conclusion of falling in love if not marriage?

I, Bess, take thee, Michael . . . for better for worse . . . till death us do part.

They had believed it once, and look what their gullibility had cost. The idea of risking it all again seemed immensely foolhardy.