True Blend (31 page)

She pushes her cart through the aisles, half watching the other shoppers while she looks at the stocked shelves. Someone has to stack all these cans of tomato paste. Every day. Or at least rearrange them, pulling the inventory forward, turning dented cans. She sets four cans in her cart, along with a large can of whole peeled tomatoes. Who notices when it is time to reorder the paste? When inventories are low? Is tracking cans of tomato paste enough to push someone over the edge? Will it drive that person to hold a kidnapped child hostage? How much resentment leads to showing a forty-five to keep the mother back? What makes it worth it?

A shopper leaves his carriage smack in the middle of the aisle as he studies the mayonnaise. He looks old enough to have grown children entering college, his mortgage only half paid off, his house needing a new roof, his car three years old already. What is he? An electrician, maybe? An accountant? Did he sit in his den at night, papers spread over the coffee table, carefully planning a May morning outside the local bank? A bank with which he is familiar because it holds his accounts? Did his neighbor, maybe a state employee, help with visions of a new driveway, new vinyl siding on his Garrison colonial? Then the two families could take a week at Disney World?

“Excuse me,” she says, waiting to pass.

“Oh. Sorry,” he answers, barely moving the carriage out of her way.

Amy winds around to the specialty cheese case. She picks a chunk of Parmesan and adds it to her carriage. Her heart pounds as she turns to the registers.

Shoppers’ faces loom close, their features distort. Has the kidnapper been in her midst all along, blending right in? What better cover than normal routine? She checks her gold watch and bumps a rack of sale toothpaste, knocking half a dozen boxes to the floor to disguise her panic. No one needs to know that she
has
to bend over just to catch a breath, bending her head to her knees to merely breathe.

*  *  *

“Amy. What’s wrong?” George asks.

Does he mean besides rising with the sun, hanging two gowns on the clothesline before going in to work to revamp her tired window display? Besides suspecting the poor produce guy of kidnapping Grace? Besides pressing Hayes for answers? Besides wondering if George actually spoke with the perpetrators in his shop? Besides holding at arm’s length, all day, her mother’s words?
You’re afraid of what’s next. Of love
. Amy stands at George’s door. Is that what this is all about, that she’s afraid of love? All day, her body resisted the idea, running any which way it could until there was nowhere left to go. There is only here.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

George steps outside into the sunshine and takes the grocery bags from her arms. “I just wasn’t expecting you. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes.” She looks at this man who worries about her. At his dark hair still damp from showering after work. At the casualness of a pair of jeans, black tee and brown leather running shoes. At the heavy watch on his wrist and at the jaw that hasn’t been shaved. At anything but the eyes that love her. “No. Well, I don’t know.”

George tips his head down, trying to catch her eye. “Is it Grace?”

“No. No, she’s fine. She’s home with my mom.” She takes a quick breath. “George. Would you mind if we had dinner here tonight?”

“Here? You and me?” He shifts the bags to one arm and lifts her chin up.

“I brought some food.”

“By all means.” He holds the door open and she feels a rush of cool air-conditioned air pressing outside into the heat. “Come on in.”

She’s never been in his home before. If her mother saw her hesitate, she’d say
There! See how you did that? You’re holding back.
She shakes her head, wondering if all women have these silent talks with absent mothers, and follows George into the kitchen. He sets the bags on the dark granite counter and she moves beside him, carefully pulling out lettuce, tomatoes, carrots and cucumber. Control is what it is all about. Yes. Controlling everything except what stands beside her.

“We should probably get this started,” she says without looking at him. “The sauce will have to simmer. Can I just use the phone to call my mom first?”

George motions to the cordless. “Go ahead.” He steps out of the room while she talks. Afterward he sets a large pot on the stainless steel stove, pulls olive oil and spices from the cabinet and opens two cans of paste while Amy chops the sauce tomatoes. She feels him working close beside her, handing her a sharp knife, their fingers touching in the exchange, their words quiet. All the while, he watches her.

“What did you do today?” he asks. He rinsed and shredded the lettuce and reaches over for her knife.

“Not too much.” Beside her, his arm rhythmically slices tomatoes for the salad. “Worked with my gowns this morning, changed the mannequin displays, added flowers and summer decorations to the window. You know.” She pours olive oil in the pot and fusses with the sauce, adding garlic, stirring in water and adjusting the flame. “Ran errands this afternoon and my feet are killing me now.” She slips off her wedge sandals and turns then to the salad ingredients, shaving carrots and slicing cucumber, dropping the pieces into the wooden salad bowl George already filled with lettuce. With that done, she reaches for the chunk of Parmesan.

“Do you have a grater?” she asks, waiting for a moment before closing her eyes when there is no response, when she has to admit he’d left the kitchen. Every nerve ending senses his absence. Eventually she turns and walks barefoot out of the room, seeing for the first time his home. It is all a part of him: the sloppy pile of books on the coffee table, the painting of a thoroughbred horse, a sweatshirt tossed on the dark furniture. This is all new, her eyes touching upon small details.

She sees him before he sees her. Or at least before he acknowledges her. He sits alone at his dining room table. The leaf is still in place since his last poker game with the guys, but instead of poker chips and cards and ashtrays and liquor glasses covering the tabletop, a calculator and neat piles of invoices and quarterly statements from his shop take their place. An empty coffee cup sits amidst it. She sees scraps of his life when she keeps her eyes from his.

George sits at the far end of the table beside the sliding glass door, looking out at the warm summer evening, a half-full wine glass before him, the bottle of Chianti beside it. Behind him, there is the large living room, a stone fireplace on the far wall.

A lone bird still sings outside and a mourning dove perches on the edge of a birdbath, burying its beak in the clear water before tipping its head skyward. George watches it flap off in a flurry and its sudden flight seems to release him. He lifts the wine bottle and fills another glass, for her.

“Talk to me,” he says.

*  *  *

“George.” He looks from Amy’s hands gripping the chair back, to the faded denim vest over her black tank dress, to her eyes. That’s when her small smile stops and she takes a seat at the far end of the table. “It’s been a crazy summer,” she begins, waiting when he stands and picks up her wine glass, depositing it on the table in front of her before returning to his seat. She takes a long sip and he is certain that she came here to break up. It’s all been too much, too fast. Their relationship can’t work. She isn’t ready.

“And a difficult one,” she continues. “My thoughts have gone in so many directions. And my emotions? They’ve been all over the map.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“What?”

“You heard me. We both deserve better than you going around in circles.”

“I’m just trying to explain why I’m here.”

George looks out the slider, finishing his wine. He refills his glass, glancing at her. “You know I love you, Amy. Now I’m going to tell you one more time.” He sips the red wine. “Talk to me.”

She closes her eyes for a moment. “I’m afraid.”

“That’s better.” He takes a long breath.

“I don’t know if I can continue to see you.”

The smell of spaghetti sauce fills the room, carrying the ironic idea of dinner, and wine, and intimacy. When in actuality, she’s giving him an out without even realizing it. “What are you afraid of?”

Her eyes widen in an effort to stave off tears. “You,” she whispers.

He gives a short laugh and drags a hand through his hair. “You’re afraid of me.”

“No.” She shakes her head.

“Well what is it then?” he asks, his voice rising with impatience.

“Of us. I’m afraid of what we have, George. You don’t know what my life’s been like this past year. The two people I loved with all my heart were suddenly taken as though they weren’t mine to begin with. One minute they were there, the next they were gone. Just gone.”

“Grace.”

“Yes. And Mark. And each time, it felt like a physical blow to my body. It just doubled me over.”

George brings his elbows to the table, lacing his fingers together and pressing them to his mouth. He isn’t sure what she is getting at. Has Grace given a verbal indication as to his identity? Or did Amy put pieces of her memory together and recognize him from the parking lot? Is she turning him in gently?

“I love you, George. I do. Okay?”

He looks across the length of the table at her, at her blonde hair tucked behind her ears, at her initial pendant hanging from a gold chain. Her face is flush with the day’s warmth even though he’s set the central air to chill the place.

“I want to be with you. I want you in my life. But my God, if anything should happen to you, if Grace and I were to lose you, I don’t think I could take it.”

“So you’re breaking up with me because you love me?”

She presses a finger beneath her eye to stem the tears. “That’s how scary the thought of loving again has become since that day at the bank. It’s why I get nervous when we get close, why I can’t make decisions. Oh, I guess it’s why my silverware is really shining these days. If I lose you, George, if you stop loving me, or leave me, or die, I don’t think I’ll be able to breathe.”

George stands and looks out the slider at the dark shadows of twilight. “There are no guarantees in life. There are just odds. None of us knows what’s around the corner.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I just don’t know how to get past this.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he answers. “You’re very right. It
has
been a crazy summer. Every time you get on your feet, a wave comes up behind you and knocks you down again.” He walks to her and sits close. “You need life to be slow and sweet and predictable right now.”

“I do.”

After a moment, George sets his elbows on his knees and takes her hands in his. “Are you saying you don’t want to see me?”

She shakes her head no, tears rising. “Please don’t hate me. I’m just saying that after everything I’ve been through, I don’t know
how
to let myself do this again.”

“What about that night after the beach? I felt something then.”

“I know. But that was before. Before the stalking or whatever the hell it is. Before I got so scared again, of
everything
. Even of us.”

“What did you think?” he asks, leaning close, their faces nearly touching, their voices barely audible. “Did you think I’d let you go without a fight?” His thumb catches a tear on her cheek. “Did you think I wouldn’t try to fix it for you?”

“I can’t leave you. It’s just that I love you and that really scares me.” She smiles through her tears. “Sometimes I wake up and I don’t know what’s real. Only for a second, because of all that’s happened. When I’m lying there, I wonder if it’s real that you brought Grace back to me. And then I
do
know. And I think of you at work, maybe, and you’re listening to Sinatra, or talking to your customers. And my heart feels so happy, George. And then,” she pauses, “I just get afraid.”

“Don’t.” He tips his forehead to hers, still holding her hands. “I would never hurt you.”

“I know.”

George brings a hand to her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. “Hey,” he says softly as an image of his father comes to mind.
Do right by her, George
, he said in the dream.
Make me proud
. He isn’t sure if this is right, but something tells him to try. It worked for his father all his life. “When’s the last time anyone took you dancing? Not line dancing. I mean really dancing.”

“Oh George.” Amy smiles into his hand.

“Do you know we’ve never been on a real date, you and me? You can’t break up with me if we’ve never even gone out. Let me take you out dancing.”

“Somewhere like The Stardust Ballroom?”

George tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “For you, sweetheart? I’ll have it built. You find a beautiful dress, wear it and I’ll take you dancing. How about Thursday? Keep Thursday night open for me.” He puts his other hand on her face and kisses her. “Then I’ll take you to the movies on our second date, next week. We’ll have popcorn and Raisinets.” He helps her to her feet, holding her in his arms and slow dancing beside the table. “Then, for another date, we’ll go out for a long dinner. Take-out seafood on the river. We’ll drink coffee afterward and stay up half the night watching the boats. It’ll be a slow and easy summer.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Amy says, her arms circling his waist while they sway in a slow, silent waltz in the dining room.

“It can be.” Whispers change into kisses as he traces her face; kisses change into touch as he feels her hands and mouth collect sensations, slowly, reaching beneath his shirt, moving over his skin, believing that she can do this. That she can love him.

*  *  *

George kisses her longer, slow dancing her into the living room. His fingers wrap around all of hers, folding her hands in his as he backs her up beside the fireplace, raising her arms and pressing them to the wall. She closes her eyes briefly, thinking of the sketch she drew earlier. It’s always the same, always the same. The image never changes, and yet. And yet it’s unfinished. George’s grip on hers is strong and she can’t fight the memory of another grip in the bank parking lot. But his insistence now distracts her, the way his hands move to her shoulders, slipping her denim vest off before cradling her face as she leans back against the wall, his arms blocking her in.