Part 10 (1/2)
”Actually, I was hoping for just dessert and coffee. You can be my cover-that way Lillian won't get mad because I'm not eating a whole dinner.”
”I haven't been someone's cover in a while,” Isabelle answered with a laugh. She looked at the tables around them, many of which had emptied over the course of the evening, so that now the restaurant was only half full.
”Do you think she's expecting a late-night rush?” Isabelle asked, one eyebrow raised.
”I'VE BEEN WONDERING,” Isabelle commented reflectively over dessert, ”if it is foolish to make new memories when you know you are going to lose them.”
”And yet here you are, taking a cooking cla.s.s,” Tom noted.
”Well, not tonight, apparently,” Isabelle pointed out wryly. Tom smiled.
They ate in an easy silence, reveling in the creamy lemon tart in front of them. After a while, Isabelle spoke again. ”You know,” she said, holding up a forkful, ”I am starting to think that maybe memories are like this dessert. I eat it, and it becomes a part of me, whether I remember it later or not.”
”I knew someone who used to say something like that,” Tom said.
”Is that why you are sad?” Isabelle asked, and then saw his expression. ”I'm sorry. My manners are going along with my memories.”
Tom shook his head softly. ”Your manners are fine-and your mind is plenty sharp.” He blew across the surface of his coffee, took a sip. ”My wife. She died a little over a year ago. She was a chef, and she always used to say the same thing about food. I try to believe it, but it was easier when she was here and the food was hers.”
”Ah”-Isabelle looked at Tom thoughtfully-”so we are not so different.”
”How is that?”
”We both have a past we can't keep hold of.”
”I suppose that's true.” Tom looked at her, as if waiting for something more.
”I used to know a sculptor,” Isabelle said, nodding. ”He always said that if you looked hard enough, you could see where each person carried his soul in his body. It sounds crazy, but when you saw his sculptures, it made sense. I think the same is true with those we love,” she explained. ”Our bodies carry our memories of them, in our muscles, in our skin, in our bones. My children are right here.” She pointed to the inside curve of her elbow. ”Where I held them when they were babies. Even if there comes a time when I don't know who they are anymore, I believe I will feel them here.
”Where do you hold your wife?” she asked Tom.
Tom looked at Isabelle, his eyes full. He put his right hand to the side of his own face, then took it away and adjusted the shape slightly.
”That is her jawline,” he said softly, running his left index finger along the half-circle at the base of his hand, then along the top curve where his hand met his fingers. ”And here is her cheekbone.”
TOM EXCUSED HIMSELF on the pretense of going to the restroom, and went toward Lillian, who stood by the front door, a wine-gla.s.s in her hand, receiving the compliments of a departing couple. Tom looked around the dining room and was surprised to realize it was empty, except for Isabelle at their table. on the pretense of going to the restroom, and went toward Lillian, who stood by the front door, a wine-gla.s.s in her hand, receiving the compliments of a departing couple. Tom looked around the dining room and was surprised to realize it was empty, except for Isabelle at their table.
Tom walked up and touched her shoulder. ”I'd like to pick up Isabelle's check,” he said.
Lillian smiled. ”It's on the house.”
”Thank you for calling me. I don't know how you always know...”
”Lucky guess,” Lillian said, raising her winegla.s.s.
IT WAS COOL OUTSIDE, after the warmth of the restaurant. The streetlights shone through the new growth on the fruit trees of Lillian's garden. Tom walked with Isabelle along the lavender path to the gate; out on the street, people walked by, their voices animated by the prospect of spring, discussing bedding plants and summer vacation plans.
”Can I give you a ride home?” Tom asked.
”Lillian knows to call me a taxi,” Isabelle said, motioning toward the street, where a yellow cab was pulling up to the curb. ”My doctor says I'm not allowed to drive anymore.”
”It was a lovely evening,” Tom said. ”Thank you.”
Isabelle leaned up and kissed him softly on the cheek.
”It was was lovely. Thank you, Rory,” she said. She moved away and walked toward the cab that stood waiting under the streetlight. lovely. Thank you, Rory,” she said. She moved away and walked toward the cab that stood waiting under the streetlight.
Helen
Helen and Carl walked up the main street of town to the cooking cla.s.s. It was a clear, cold evening in early February, the end of a miraculously blue day blown in from the north like a celebration. People in the Northwest tended to greet such weather with a child's sense of joy; strangers exchanged grins, houses were suddenly cleaner, and neighbors could be found in their yards in s.h.i.+rtsleeves, regardless of the temperature, indulging a sudden desire to dig in rich, dark dirt.
In the soft circle of lamplight ahead of them, Helen and Carl saw a man reach the gate of Lillian's restaurant; at the same time a woman approached from the other direction. The man unlatched the gate and stood aside to let the woman enter, his hand following her, unbidden, never quite touching her back and yet seemingly incapable of returning to his own side.
Helen watched the two walk up the path between the blue-gray lavender bushes-and the hand, the movement, the longing behind it, struck her with the intensity of a perfume she had long ago stopped wearing, drifting across a room she never intended to traverse.
HELEN HAD BEEN forty-one the first time she saw the man who became her lover. It was at the grocery store, a setting both absurd and logical for a woman who considered herself unequivocally married, who s.h.i.+ed away from admiring glances at New Year's parties or darkened symphony halls or the weddings of dear friends where emotions, everyone knew, rode on high-speed elevators to greater heights than could ever be maintained the following day. forty-one the first time she saw the man who became her lover. It was at the grocery store, a setting both absurd and logical for a woman who considered herself unequivocally married, who s.h.i.+ed away from admiring glances at New Year's parties or darkened symphony halls or the weddings of dear friends where emotions, everyone knew, rode on high-speed elevators to greater heights than could ever be maintained the following day.
She had come to the store for eggs (Laurie had a teenager's addiction to egg-white facials), dog food, paper for Mark's new school notebook, steak for dinner (Carl's doctor said his iron count was low), and the usual-h.o.m.ogenized milk, Yuban coffee, Cheerios, rice, potatoes, paper napkins. She knew these aisles as well as her own kitchen, which was convenient, as a second list was running through her head-Mark to football practice, Laurie to piano, walk the dog, iron the tablecloth-a series of to-dos that moved in and out of her consciousness like breathing.
He was in the produce aisle. She wondered later whether anything would have happened if she had encountered him first among the cardboard boxes in the cereal section, spied him through the frosted gla.s.s of an opened door in the freezer department. But set amid the fecundity of late-summer melons and gauzy lettuce, swollen red peppers and plump navel oranges, he seemed simply beautiful in comparison, and any desire on her part more aesthetic than pa.s.sionate. She watched his long fingers wander across the vegetables, reaching toward an onion, some carrots, opting for a bouquet of leeks. His eyes, when he looked up and saw her watching him, were infinitely brown and kind and his hair flowed in ill-kempt waves that he needed to cut but she immediately hoped he wouldn't, an almost maternal feeling-a rationalization that allowed her to step closer to the ocean that would surely soak her shoes.
He held up the vegetables in his hand. ”My mother was French,” he said to her, as if by way of explanation. ”She was always asking me, 'What do you do that makes you happy?' Today, for me, leeks.”
Helen stood, saying nothing, her hands empty. His eyes searched hers, and then he leaned forward, more serious, his voice gentle. ”What about you?”
And Helen, who had begun to feel as if her life was like the daily turning of pages filled with other people's writing, felt as if she suddenly had come upon an ill.u.s.tration.
CARL CAUGHT the closing gate and pulled it open again for Helen. ”Wasn't that Ian and Antonia?” he asked. the closing gate and pulled it open again for Helen. ”Wasn't that Ian and Antonia?” he asked.
Helen shook her head, loosening her thoughts. ”Yes,” she replied, ”I do believe it was.”
”That would be nice for both of them, if that could work out.”
”Don't be getting ideas about being helpful, Carl.” The familiar rhythm of their banter was a bridge leading her back to him. ”You saw how well that worked with our daughter.” She touched his arm as she pa.s.sed through the gate.
”But Mark is happy, and he gave you grandchildren.” Carl's voice rippled with mischief.
They walked up to the restaurant, the garden around them February-quiet, all roots and no flowers. The bricks of the pathway clinked together under their feet in the cold; their breath moved ahead of them as if in a hurry to get inside the warm restaurant.
”I like winter,” Helen commented.
Carl took her hand and drew her closer. ”Good thing,” he replied.
SHE HAD INTENDED to leave her marriage, was ready to tell Carl, her heart full of fireworks for this new man, the one whose clothes by the bed she had never bought or washed or mended, whose fingers slipped across her skin like a river, tracing cool, lingering trails to the inner curve of her ear, the slope of her hip, as if he was on a trip with no itinerary, no return date. to leave her marriage, was ready to tell Carl, her heart full of fireworks for this new man, the one whose clothes by the bed she had never bought or washed or mended, whose fingers slipped across her skin like a river, tracing cool, lingering trails to the inner curve of her ear, the slope of her hip, as if he was on a trip with no itinerary, no return date.
She had begun the conversation with Carl straight enough, readying the words she would use to help him accept the end of a union that had lasted longer than either of their childhoods. She had chosen the kitchen table, a place of domestic warmth, without the pa.s.sion of a bedroom; they had planned vacations there, chosen health insurance, decided what to do with the dead guinea pig they found one Sat.u.r.day morning before the children were awake. They had always worked well at this table.