Gone South (37 page)

“Nice jacket,” he said as he helped Tish out of it. “Forties or so?”

“That’s about right. I found it on eBay. Before I forget …” She reached into her purse and drew out his copy of Miss Eliza Clark’s book. “I hardly care anymore what Nathan and Letitia did or didn’t do, but thank you for letting me borrow the book.”

“You’re welcome.”

George placed the book on the coffee table. Where it had held stacks of Watergate-era magazines before, now it held a bottle of white wine, two wine
glasses, and a glass tray of simple appetizers. A small dining table near the window held a vase filled with white alstroemeria, a pale orange lily, an assortment of vivid mums, and a single pink rose.

She breathed deeply, fighting off a memory of a snowy road and a deer blundering into the path of Stephen’s car. She’d never seen the flowers he’d picked up that night except in that terrible front-page photo in full color. Scraps of bright petals in the roadside snow beside a mangled red car.

“Pretty flowers,” she managed.

“I picked ’em myself—at the grocery store,” George said with a grin. “Shall we drink a toast to your new job?”

“Yes, but it’s not a sure thing, remember?”

He poured wine for both of them, not filling the glasses too full, she noted with approval. “Here’s to your new job,” he said. “May it materialize quickly. May it be a stable and enjoyable place of employment, and may your McComb ancestry and your friendships with assorted baddies never come to light.”

“And may I hold my head high even if they do. Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

As they clinked their glasses together, she reminded herself not to be skittish. George was a friend. A kind and attractive friend.

He picked up the tray. “Let’s bring this to the kitchen. You can nibble while I cook.”

The kitchen was a narrow, one-person galley. While George cooked, Tish leaned in the doorway sipping her wine and sampling olives, spicy little crackers, and tzatziki sauce with pita chips. Whatever he was making, he took it seriously, whether he was slicing a tomato or stirring a sauce over the blue flames of the stove.

She kept imagining him in a nice suit. He had the build for it. Solid. Muscular but trim. He looked good in jeans too, so what made her think he was
built to wear expensive suits? Maybe it was his shrewd look. Like a successful attorney—or a winning poker player. Or it was simply the way he moved. Not arrogant, but calm and confident.

That was it. He walked like a rich man. Unhurried. Setting his own pace.

“You seem to know what you’re doing in the kitchen,” she said.

“Only when I keep it simple.”

“I can ruin even the simplest things, though. Like grilled cheese sandwiches the other night. Mel pretended hers wasn’t burnt, but I think that was all part of her—”

He pointed at her with the business end of a wooden spoon coated with a red sauce. “No more about Mel tonight. We’ve already discussed her and her problems out the wazoo.”

She smiled. “Okay, then. Tell me, what’s this exotic dish you’re making?”

“Pizza. Greek pizza. The crust is ready and the oven’s nearly hot enough, but I’m cooking down the sauce.” He turned the flame down low and glanced over his shoulder with a smile, his shaggy hair falling over one eye. “Some things need to simmer for a while.”

Her nervousness was back.

She turned toward the window that opened to the balcony. The lights of Noble twinkled for blocks. “You have a great view of Main Street and beyond.”

“I do. It’s better than TV. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen.”

“You’re a native of Noble, right? So you know everybody who walks by.”

“Just about. And you’re from Michigan, but where exactly? What’s your hometown?”

“The place I lived longest was Ames, about here.” She held up her hand, showing him the town’s location near the base of Michigan’s thumb. “But we moved so much, I don’t have a hometown.”

“That’s not all bad. My mom used to say a hometown’s just a place you’ll want to leave someday.”

“Maybe that’s true, but we never stayed long enough to get attached to a town. I never felt like I belonged at any school. I didn’t even get an invitation to my ten-year high school reunion, but I found it online and sort of invited myself because there were a few people I wanted to see again. None of them remembered me.” She made a face. “Is that too much to wish for? Just that somebody would remember me?”

“No, but it’s funny that you want to be remembered. Mel would rather be forgotten. She was thrilled when one of her teachers came into the shop and didn’t recognize her.”

“I thought we weren’t talking about Mel tonight.”

“You’re right. Sorry.” He started spreading sauce on his pizza crust, then sprinkled the other ingredients over it. He had it in the oven so quickly that she wondered if he’d been making pizzas all his life.

“There,” he said. “Pizza’s in the oven and the salad’s ready.”

Seated across from him at the small table with flowers in the center, she took a bite of the salad and closed her eyes in bliss. Mixed greens, feta cheese, the right kind of beets and olives and onions, and genuine Greek dressing.

She opened her eyes. “I haven’t had an authentic Greek salad since the last time I went to Greektown in Detroit.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

“With a name like Zorbas, I presume your father is or was Greek. Did he teach you how to cook?”

“He was Greek, but I didn’t learn much of anything from him. He and my mother split up when I was young, and she was anti-Greek everything for years. I’m just now educating myself about Greek food.”

“Do you like gyros?”

“I have never had gyros.”

“George! You poor, sheltered man.”

He gave her a rueful smile. “What can I say? I’ve lived a boring life.”

They continued chatting over their salads and then over the pizza. Neither of them mentioned Mel. After they’d finished, George poured a little more wine, and they sat on opposite ends of the couch with the sleeping dog between them.

Now Tish felt awkward and didn’t know why. “This is a nice place,” she said for lack of something better to say. “Convenient too, being above the shop.”

“I guess you’ve wondered why I’m in my late thirties and still living in a bachelor pad.”

“I did wonder if you lived with your mom until she passed away.”

“No. I never lived at home after college. I dabbled in a couple of career choices, then moved back to Noble, bought Antiques on Main, and moved in above the shop. Close enough to look out for my mother, but not under the same roof.”

“I see.”

His eyes searched hers. “You might say I came back to Noble to lick my wounds after a few big heartbreaks.”

Dread clenched her stomach. He was one of those men who insisted on swapping heartbreak stories on first dates—if this qualified as a date.

“My first serious girlfriend was—well, let’s call her the morally challenged one. She was a sweet, generous girl, always bringing gifts for no special occasion … except she wasn’t buying them. She was a shoplifter.” He shook his head. “I broke up with her. You can’t build an honest relationship with a dishonest person.”

“No. That must have been difficult.”

“But the next one was a little too honest. She always spoke her mind. I cared about her—I cared a lot—but she was a drama queen. I couldn’t handle her meltdowns.” George studied his wine glass. “Then there was the almost-perfect
one. Sweet, funny, generous—and honest but kind. But I wanted to talk about marriage and she didn’t, so that was the end of that.”

“Must have hurt,” Tish said.

“It did, but it was a long time ago.” He cleared his throat. “So there you have the gist of my romantic history. Boring, isn’t it?”

“No. Those relationships must have been quite complicated when you were in the middle of them. Or leaving them.”

George shrugged. “Everybody’s heart gets broken a few times, I guess.”

A loud motorcycle roared past on Main, and the room seemed quieter than ever.

Daisy stirred, yawned, and went back to sleep. Dogs lived such simple lives.

It was inevitable. She had to tell him about Stephen. The fewer details the better. But even as she formulated the simplest version possible, she found herself clenching the stem of her wine glass as if she wanted to strangle it.

Forcing herself to loosen her grip, she kept her eyes on Daisy’s tiny face. “I guess you want my romantic history too. I fell in love just once, about six years ago. He died.”

She looked up, and the shock in George’s eyes made her wish she’d softened the story and segued into it slowly.

“Tish, I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what to say. I’m … that’s … it makes my little hurts look like kid stuff.”

“Don’t compare hurts,” she said. “You just can’t.”

There was another long silence, while she tried to understand why she felt incapable of giving him the details. What was the big deal? She’d finished grieving for Stephen—she knew she had—yet she wasn’t ready to talk about him. Instead, she kept wanting to blurt something about that stupid deer.

She took a small sip of wine because she didn’t know what else to do. She wanted to run.

George returned to the kitchen and brought back dessert plates and a larger plate that held small slices of baklava. “Store-bought,” he said. “You can find almost anything in Muldro if you know where to look.”

They passed a few more minutes in chitchat, but the frequent gaps in the conversation told her he felt as awkward as she did. She couldn’t focus. She couldn’t think.

She set her plate on the coffee table. “I’d better head home. Thanks for having me. Everything was delicious, and you’re good company. I’m just afraid I’m not.”

“No, Tish. You’re great. I understand, though. I’ll give you a ride. If we sneak out quietly, Daisy won’t wake up and I won’t have to bring her.”

He went to the closet for her jacket and held it out while she slipped her arms into the sleeves. When she faced him, he seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but then he only opened the door. Quietly, leaving the dog undisturbed, they walked down the stairs. The chilly air felt wonderful on her warm cheeks, but she would have given anything for a different ending to the evening.

Finished drying the dishes, George hurled the salad tongs into the drawer, slammed it shut, and walked into the living room. He’d forgotten the wine glasses and dessert plates on the coffee table, a testament to a botched evening.

What a fool. Oh, sure, he’d had her figured out. He’d decided, in his great wisdom, that she only needed a cozy conversation with an understanding man who’d known his share of heartaches. Sure, everybody gets their heart broken a time or two, baby. Loosen up.

Daisy let out a sharp, short yip. Pricking her ears, she stared at the door.

Then George heard it too. Footsteps on the stairs. Someone knocked.

He opened the door. Tish stood there with tiny droplets of rain misting
her hair. No blue jacket, no blue chopsticks. Her hair hung in damp and beautiful reddish-brown curls against the shoulders of her stark white shirt.

“I’m sorry, George, sorry to bother you, and I know it’s late, but … I wasn’t ready to talk about Stephen before. Now I am. I think. I mean, if you want to hear it.”

“Come in. You must be freezing.”

Instead of taking a seat, she walked to the window and looked out over the sleeping town. “Bear with me,” she said. “I’m still figuring things out.”

“Take your time.”

“I think I’ve been afraid to connect with people. Living people, I mean. It must have started when Dad and I came down here after Stephen died. For a while, I took comfort in connecting with the past. With family history. My ancestors couldn’t abandon me. They couldn’t die. They were dead already.”

“I see.” But he didn’t. Not yet.

“But then my dad died too. I put away the family history, and I threw myself into my work and into being available to my mom because it was a tough time for her too. We were like a pair of widows, although I hadn’t married Stephen, of course.”

“Tell me about him.”

She turned toward George but didn’t quite look at him. “We met when I moved to Ames for my first job after college. He came from a big farming family. My parents loved his parents and vice versa. My dad even talked about moving there and staying put.” She paused. “I remember taking one of Dad’s blank genealogy charts and filling it out for me and Stephen, including our wedding date. My life had been so unsettled, but I was becoming part of his family, his roots, his town.”

Not knowing what to say, George nodded and let her keep going.

“He was the youngest of six boys. Farm boys. His brothers all loved their pickups, but he drove a fast little car. Bright red. Sometimes I’d see it flying
down the road like a red arrow against the snow …” Her voice faltered. “One night he was coming to pick me up for dinner, but a deer ran in front of his car. If the deer had waited just ten seconds, Stephen would have been safely past. We would have gone out to eat, and we would have been married three weeks later.”

“Three weeks?”

“We were so close to starting our life together. Our future had become so real in my mind that it seemed like a parallel life, a road we’d already taken, except it was over before it started.”