It Burns a Lovely Light (17 page)

September Rose, looking like Mother Nature personified, was in the far corner. She had her hand in a mound of rich, black soil as she spoke to some of the waiters. Dion and Farley were going over the latest schedule. He
tucked a sprig of rosemary in his shirt pocket and headed toward them.

"Okay, everybody, listen up!" yelled Farley, passing out stack of papers. "These are our revised schedules. Our days of
hosting banquets and fraternity parties are over. The countdown to opening night has officially begun. The big day is scheduled for August 3
^rd
."

There was an outburst of applause.

"Just when I was getting used to the morning-after
smell of beer and cigarettes, and the drunken renditions of 'Build me up, Buttercup!'" yelled a waiter from the back, followed by laughter.

"Hey," said Henry. "Those parties and
banquets have been paying your paychecks for the past year."

"Study your menus, including the back-up pages," continued Farley. "You'll be expected to know the ingredients of each dish, where the ingredients came from, and what wines are recommended. Colette and Henry gave me their final comments on the handbook, so you should each have your own copy by the end of the week. And finally..." She put her arm around Dion. "Dion has been accepted to the West Penn School of
Nursing."

"Part time," said Dion, blushing with pleasure as applause and congratulations filled the room.

Henry grabbed the back of Farley's shirt and tugged.

"Can you go to the Strip district with me, tomorrow? There's a new vendor I want to meet."

"Sure," said Farley. "Mind if I bring William?"

They wandered the stalls and side markets, examining vegetables, smelling fruit, and sampling fresh cheese. Henry bought paper-wrapped packets of goat, chevre, and bleu cheese, along with grapes, walnuts, and green onions, carefully packing each item in his cooler.

The colors, excitement, and the commingling odors of the strip district thrilled William. The meat stalls he wasn't so sure about. He had no problem with the impaled dead rabbits and chickens on hooks at the
entrance of the shops - he had drawn their skinned bodies in his notebooks hundreds of times. But the men in their bloody aprons made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

"All I need is one more thing and we're ready to
go," said Henry, pointing across the street to a seafood stall. "I'm making Veda Marie's favorite dish for Sunday dinner - Shrimp and Grits, the delicacy of the South."

"Maybe you should have searchlights for Freeman's
opening night," said William as they rumbled along in the streetcar. "Superhero's always show up at those kinds of events."

"You're the only superhero I want at opening
night," said Henry, pretending to hit William on the arm.

They got off in Grady Square. Henry heaved the cooler onto his shoulder, while Farley and William carried bags.

Half-way up the hill William began to limp.

"I told you not to wear your new shoes, kiddo," said Farley. "Stop for a second."

Henry put the cooler down and sat on the step, admiring the tender way she helped her brother off with his shoes.

"Lately Joe's been picking up William from summer camp," said Farley. "Yesterday they stopped on their way home and Joe bought them each a brand new pair of penny loafers."

"And we didn't even need new shoes!" said William.

Henry took one of the loafers and began working the back to soften the leather. "Tell me about this store."

William frowned in concentration. "Well, the store
smelled like foot powder and new carpet all in one. The air inside was nice and cool because of the air conditioner, so I worried about my sinuses. Extreme hot to cold or cold to hot can cause sinuses to become inflamed."

"By any chance was there a pretty girl helping you?"

William pushed up his glasses and stared at Henry. "How did you know that?"

"Lucky guess. What's her name?"

"Sylvia. She's very clean. We keep visiting her store so Joe can ask her on a date, but he keeps not asking."

Henry softened William's other shoe while Farley snapped pictures of the deserted glass factory below. Under the gathering clouds, the
contrast of dark shadows against the occasional sunbeam was dramatic.

"These empty mills and factories are depressing enough," said Henry. "But seeing them in dismal weather makes it so
much worse."

Farley smiled. "Dismal days don't bother me. It's the bright, sunny ones that you have to watch out for."

Sitting at the table, William unfolded his napkin and placed
it on his lap.

"Did everyone wash their hands?" he said.

"You should know," teased Joe. "Always standing over the sink like the germ police."

Henry ladled the piping hot mixture of cheddar cheese, garlic, onion, and grits onto the center of each bowl, then topped the mixture with steaming pink shrimp and sprinkled chopped bacon and circles of green scallions. Soon the only sounds in the kitchen were the clinking of forks
against bowls and the ticking of the clock over the stove.

"I never thought I'd be eating shrimp with grits," said Paddy.

He had come to Sunday dinner with a handful of flowers, a
smile on his tired face, and his pants belted high above his round belly.

"Christ Almighty, if I ate like this every day, I'd be as big as a house," said Resa, glancing at Ryan. "Sorry,
Father."

Claire grunted. Nothing like a skinny girl making a disparaging weight joke.

"I could do without taking the Lord's name in vain, Resa," said Ryan, scooping another bite into his mouth. "But you're
right on about the shrimp." He waved his fork at Henry. "You're going to be bad news for my physique."

"Best shrimp and grits ever, lovey," agreed Veda Marie.

William frowned. "Veda Marie, is 'lovey' a
nickname?"

"It's more of a term of endearment, because I use it on everyone."

"My dad used to call me Professor," he said, tapping his fingers together nervously. "But I was thinking of starting a new nickname."

"Not allowed," said Joe, talking around a mouth full of food.

"Why not?"

"A nickname has to happen naturally," said Ryan.

"But, what if it
doesn't
?"

Joe swallowed as he winked at William. "Then you're out of luck, pal."

"That's right...pal," said Paddy.

Pal. William's face was one big grin.

The conversation flowed in currents, combining with the contented sounds of an appreciated meal. After Mr. Winston shared a few
hilarious stories of his University days, Paddy asked him if he missed teaching.

"Absolutely," said Mr. Winston, spreading a thin layer of butter over Veda Marie's homemade biscuits. He put the knife down and
leaned back in his chair. "But newness holds excitement, too. Like any other new stage of life, retirement is a great adventure."

"Ohhh, I know!" William raised his hand. "You could be a train conductor, or an artist, or a farmer."

"Just don't be a dairy farmer," said September. "My uncle was a dairy farmer, and he could never go anywhere. He said it was like breast feeding your whole life."

Veda Marie tapped her knife against her wineglass. "I will not hear such filth at this table."

As dinner was winding down, a woman in a loud print dress and red hat knocked on the mudroom door. Claire saw the woman first.

"Jesus, Mary and her husband," murmured Claire, sliding back her chair and hustling to for the door.

"I'm sorry to bother your delicious smelling meal, Mrs. Sullivan," said Mrs. Scott, looking over Claire's shoulder. "I just
wanted to drop off a list of a few more documents we will need before we can process your request."

Claire kept her voice low. "You didn't have to do that.
I was planning on picking them up tomorrow."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all." Mrs. Scott wriggled her fingers, flirty style, at Henry. "Well, if it isn't Mr. Henry Freeman!"

Embarrassed, Henry stood and shook hands with Mrs. Scott. He
had applied for a loan with her company, until Ham - who insisted on reviewing the loan documents at no charge - advised Henry to go elsewhere.

Mrs. Scott removed a tissue from the sleeve of her blouse.
"I've been meaning to send you a note, Henry. I have a valuable tip for your restaurant." She unraveled the tissue and inserted it firmly into both nostrils.

"Paprika," she said, in a nasal voice. "I put
paprika on everything, particularly meat and spaghetti. Gives it a "zing.""

"I...I..." He stuttered, staring in horror as she buffed the inside in her nose in quick thrusts. Mrs. Scott removed the tissue
and began to examine it. Henry fell straight back, knocking bowls off the table on his way down.

At the Second Savings and Loan, Mrs. Scott tottered across
the floor in shoes so tight, her feet resembled sausages.

"Right this way, Mrs. Sullivan," she said, showing Claire into her office. "I meant to call and ask about that poor young
man, but, what with so many people looking for loans, business has been..." she wagged her tongue and panted like a dog. "...wild!"

"I'm sure," said Claire, taking a seat. She gazed around the walls of the office, trying not to appear nervous.

Mrs. Scott folded her hands on her desk. "How is Mr. Freeman? Does he do that often?"

"He is fine, he was just...dizzy."

"I don't see how he can run a restaurant if he's going
around dropping all the time."

"It rarely happens."

Mrs. Scott waved her hand as if to dismiss the subject, then opened the thick file on her desk. "
Anyhoo
, let's talk about your loan
application..."

Caressing the bottom of her ring with her thumb, Claire held her breath. She sat up straight as she forced her lips into a smile.

Claire pulled into the parking lot of a small diner. In an obscure booth in the back, she salted her double bacon cheeseburger and onion rings and thought about her meeting with Sausage Feet.

"Mrs. Sullivan, I must congratulate you for the
impressive
progress you've made on your property. I for one would have written Bridge Manor off as a loss."

Claire's heart had soared. The loan was going to be approved! What a relief. Why hadn't she done this earlier?

"However," continued Mrs. Scott, "the cost of repairing Bridge Manor to any substantial level would be much more than the value of the house." She tapped an expensive looking pen against her desk.
"You understand."

"To whom?"

Mrs. Scott raised her chin; pen tapping away. "Beg pardon?"

"The cost of repairing Bridge Manor would be more than
the value of the house
to whom
?"

"Let me be frank, Mrs. Sullivan." Mrs. Scott's tone was disdainful - no more Mr. Nice Guy. "Bridge Manor in its current condition cannot be used as collateral for a loan. Should your situation
change, the Second Savings and Loan would be more than happy to revisit your application."

"That doesn't make any sense," said Claire. "If my situation changed, I wouldn't need the Second Savings and
Loan."

Claire took her time on the last onion ring, scraping catsup streaks across the empty plate. As she slid out of the booth, she considered ordering another meal to take with her. After all, the waitress would assume it
was for someone else.

She took her time walking the three blocks. Entering the dark store, she caressed her ring. Paddy had paid too much for the gold ring with the tiny diamond in the center.

A beautiful ring for a beautiful lady.

She smiled, remembering how pleased he was with himself. And rightfully so; the ring was as precious to her today as the day he presented
it.

My lady. My darling girl.

"Can I help you?" said the clerk, elbows resting on the dusty counter.

"Oh," said Claire, startled out of her daydream. After some creative wriggling and tugging, she removed the ring. She placed it
on the counter and raised her chin. Proud and confident, she was. "Yes. I wanted to know how much you would give me for this."

The announcer introduced the Steelers as Joe and Farley
finished putting condiments on all six hot dogs. Knowing he would soon be too busy for football games, Joe had surprised everyone at breakfast by offering to treat them to a Steelers game. Although the actual season didn't start until
September, but a pre-season game was enough to get Farley, William, and Mr. Winston to go.

"Hurry," said Joe, licking yellow mustard off his wrist. "I don't want to miss the kick-off."

Farley dressed her last hot dog and they started up the stands.

"Joe! Joe Sullivan!" someone called. "Over here!"

Joe stopped abruptly, causing Farley to spill lemonade down
her shirt. He scanned the crowded stands. His face flushed to a deep scarlet when he saw who was calling. Sylvia Stowe climbed over set after set of knees until she was standing in front of him.

"Hi, Joe."

"Hi."

Joe stared. She looked like an angel, complete with a light that seemed to shine only on her. Tiny flecks of sunlight lit up her hair. Her skin was as clear as spring rain and her cheeks had a dewy glow.

"I can't believe you're talking to me," he said. "I'm not even pretending to buy shoes."

Used to such responses, Sylvia tossed her glossy blonde hair over one shoulder and let out a good old-fashioned, untainted,
just-had-my-teeth-cleaned-homecoming-queen laugh. "You are too funny, Joe." She touched his eye. "What happened there?"

"Where?" He stared, his mouth slightly open.

Farley leaned around him. "Joe's a hockey coach."

Sylvia gently touched his forehead. "Does it hurt?"