The Garden of Small Beginnings, page 19
I looked at Rachel to try and gauge her reaction. She looked very calm and, luckily, totally gorgeous. The evening sun was managing to catch the highlights in her hair, her face was as clear and lovely as it always was, and all in all there was nothing for an older sister to worry about. I couldn’t tell, though, if she thought he was cute, which was unusual. Normally she gets a little giggly when she’s interested. Oh well.
“Do you specialize in international law?”
He shook his head. “No, I actually do very boring corporate law, but I saw you before the talk and kind of followed you into the conference room.”
She frowned at him. “You mean you weren’t interested in the subtleties of cross-border jurisdictions?”
He smiled. “Once you started talking, I was completely engrossed.”
Angie, Maggie, and I tried futilely to pretend we weren’t listening, but we were. They didn’t seem to care. Rachel was probably aware of our scrutiny, but she was a cool cucumber.
“So, do you like being a lawyer?”
He shrugged. “Sure. I would rather be acting, but wouldn’t everyone?”
She shook her head. “Not me. So you’re the classic Los Angeles lawyer-actor hyphenate?”
He looked abashed. “’Fraid so. Clichéd, right?”
“Well, you could have been a waiter. That would have been more traditional.”
He made a face. “All the good waiter jobs were taken, and I had this law degree . . . I know it’s not the usual path, but hey, I’m a rebel.”
“A tort rebel?”
“Rebel without a subclause.”
“Hmm. So corporate attorney by day, actor by night?”
“Yes. The law is what I do for money, and pursuing an acting career is what I do as a futile, soul-destroying hobby.”
Rachel smiled. “So it’s going well, then?”
He smiled back. “It’s fantastic. I get to meet lots of strange people who explain what’s wrong with me and then send me away. It’s made being turned down by women seem quite pleasant in comparison.”
“I imagine you don’t get turned down all that often.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“You’re very handsome.”
“So is everyone else here.”
“That is a true story.”
After this positive flood of conversation, they fell silent.
Angie had had enough.
“I’m going to the bookstore. Anyone with me?”
Maggie got up, too. Rachel smacked herself on the forehead.
“My God, I’m so rude. I totally didn’t introduce you to my friends.”
“You don’t know my name.”
“That’s true. What is it?”
“Richard.”
“Richard, this is my friend Angie, this is my sister, Lilian, and this is her sister-in-law, Maggie.”
“Doesn’t that make her also your sister-in-law?”
I shook my head. “No. She is my sister-in-law, and Rachel is my sister, but they are not sisters-in-law, because Rachel is not married.” I paused. “Not right now.” That was awkward. Maggie was ready to make it worse, though.
“And, Richard, are you married?”
He smiled. “Not right now.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
He shook his head.
Maggie sighed. “Then you can carry on talking to Rachel.” She raised her hand. “I’m sure you’re a lovely guy, and a straight arrow, but many men are scum-sucking, bottom-feeding cheat machines, and I don’t want Rachel to get hurt.”
There was a pause. Angie cleared her throat. “OK, then, how about that bookstore?”
The three of us headed off, leaving Rachel and Richard to chat. Assuming she could get past the cheat-machine thing. I looked back—they seemed to be doing just fine. Then I paused and asked the others to wait. I went back, pulling out my phone as I went. I tapped on Richard’s shoulder.
“Full name?”
“Richard Byrnes.”
I typed it into my phone.
“Address?” I put it in, too.
“Social security number?”
He told me that, too, the idiot.
I tsk-tsked. “Haven’t you ever heard of identity theft?”
He grinned at me. “How do you know I didn’t make it up? I didn’t, but I’m guessing you’re protecting your sister.” He looked at her. “She’s a grown-up, you know. I’ve seen her in action.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, but nodded. “Yes. She’s a grown-up, and she’s a black belt in Judo, but I was raised to trust but verify. If I get back here and she’s not here, I will contact the authorities and dox you on the Internet.”
He whistled. “Man, you’re mean.”
Rachel touched his arm. “She’s also lying about the black belt.”
I drew myself up to my full height, which isn’t all that full. “I, sir, am her big sister. In my day that meant something.”
He smiled up at me. “I have a big sister, too, and she would be just as protective as you.”
“A likely story. Have fun, I’ll see you in an hour or two.”
And I left them to it.
• • •
Ten minutes later, I got a text: “Going to dinner. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I texted back: “You already had dinner. How do I know this is really you, and not him, stealing your phone and kidnapping you?”
She replied: “I’ll eat more. When you were twelve you kissed the neighbor’s dog, with tongue, on a dare.”
This was true. No wonder Clare was so free with her affections. It was genetic.
I texted again: “OK, but be safe.”
She signed off: “Bite me.”
Definitely her.
How to Grow Celery
Many gardeners believe celery is the trickiest vegetable to grow. To improve your chances, start the seed indoors, 8 to 10 weeks before the last frost, and make regular sacrifices to the celery gods.
• Work organic fertilizer or compost into the soil prior to planting.
• Harden off seedlings by keeping them outdoors for a couple hours a day and speaking to them harshly.
• Transplant seedlings 10 to 12 inches apart, direct sow seeds ¼ inch deep. These will need to be thinned to 12 inches apart when they reach about 6 inches high.
• Mulch and water directly after planting.
• If celery does not get enough water the stalks will be dry and small, and it will be no one’s fault but your own.
Chapter 15
Of course I was counting the minutes till I could call and find out how it went. Three seconds after nine the next morning, I called.
“Well?”
She sounded tired.
“Well, what?”
I made an exasperated sound. “Rachel. Don’t mess with me. We have a reciprocal agreement to dish any and all dirt as soon as possible.”
“Is it in writing?”
“It’s in blood. Spill it. What happened? Did you actually go to dinner?”
“Yes. Although it turned out that he had also eaten already, so we just got more dessert.”
“What did he order?”
“You’re weirdly obsessed with that, you know? We ordered an ice-cream hot-fudge sundae and shared it.”
“Very high school. OK. Then?”
She sighed.
“Then I had him drop me at home and didn’t even kiss him. I have to say, though, that the temperature in the car was more than steamy, and it took every last ounce of self-control I have not to invite him in.”
Apparently, I had missed a memo.
“Why didn’t you invite him in? Were you sick?”
She sighed again. “No. I’m not sure. I think it’s because I really do like him, and I don’t want to mess it up by sleeping with him right away.”
I goggled. No, I mean it, I goggled.
“Who are you and what have you done with my sister?” I demanded.
“Very funny. No, honestly, from the moment I clapped eyes on him, I knew I was in trouble. I mean, I like him, or maybe I don’t like him but think I like him, or maybe I do like him but think that I don’t . . .” She was gibbering like an idiot.
“OK, calm down. Are you free for lunch?”
In our lives before my husband died, Rachel and I had gone different ways when it came to relationships. I got married and had kids, and she’d shown no interest in doing either. Maybe having been repeatedly told by our mother that men would always value her for her looks had planted the idea that that was all they would value her for. The one brief marriage (spit on the ground) doesn’t count. She tended to have lighthearted relationships with funny, interesting men, and broke it off when they wanted to be exclusive. It was always friendly, though, which says a lot about her. She had never—I repeat, never—hesitated to go to bed with someone she found attractive. Until now. Either she was getting old, or something unusual was going on.
I saw her across the restaurant as I walked in and could tell, even at a distance, that she had her underpants in a bunch, metaphorically speaking. She looked distracted, which she never is, and was wearing lipstick, which she never does. I sat down.
“I ordered us both burgers and shakes. Does that work?” Her voice was a little loud, and pitched a little higher than normal. Please note, this was an Italian restaurant.
“They had that on the menu?”
She looked around. “Oh. Uh, I guess they do. I just said it to the waiter when I sat down, and now I realize why he seemed surprised, but he said OK and went away.”
“I imagine they’ve sent someone out to McDonald’s for us.”
“Possibly.”
I looked around. The waiter was standing at the back, looking nervously in our direction. Probably scared we were going to ask for sushi next.
“So what the heck is going on? Did Richard call you this morning?”
She shrugged. “Yes. He left a message. I didn’t want to pick up. I don’t know. I feel totally weird. After Dan died, and you went crazy, did you know that you were going crazy?”
My turn to shrug. “I don’t remember. Are you saying that having dinner with this man was as traumatic to you as seeing your husband die? Because if it was, you might not want a second date.”
She looked at me, and suddenly I saw her snap back into herself. She reached for my hand and squeezed it.
“Shit. I’m sorry, Lili. I didn’t mean that at all. Honestly, my mind’s totally gone. I confused two shipments this morning, and a customer who’s expecting an Etruscan vase is going to be somewhat taken aback when he unpacks a stuffed Galápagos tortoise instead.”
“Not to mention he’s going to have a hell of a time putting flowers in it.”
She sighed again, which was making me wonder if she had a respiratory infection. I mean, seriously, how much oxygen does one girl need?
Our waiter approached. He carefully put down two plates, which appeared to have regular burgers on them—with a side of spaghetti, true, but burgers nonetheless. He also gave us our shakes, and then backed away.
We took a bite. And looked at each other.
“This,” she said, “is the best burger I’ve ever had in my life.”
I nodded. “Well, you know what they say. Trauma is the best salsa.”
Rachel plowed through the burger, and it appeared to do her some good.
“I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. I couldn’t eat this morning.”
Huh. This really was serious. If Rachel got trapped under a fallen refrigerator, she would try to open it to see if there was something to snack on while she waited for help to arrive. Rachel loves to eat.
“I’m confused,” I said, confused. “If you like the guy, what’s the problem? You’ve dated guys you’ve liked before, right? And you just met this one. He might be an asshole by the weekend.”
“Sure. But in every relationship I’ve had, and this is going to sound weird, I’ve felt a little bit secure, do you know what I mean?”
I shook my head. “No, not at all. What do you mean?”
She squirmed about on her seat. “Like I could walk away. That they liked me more than I liked them. Like I had some control over it. For some reason, Richard makes me nervous. Not scared, just nervous. I feel like he sees through to my insides or something like that.”
I took a drink of my shake, which was also outstanding, and pondered.
“Are you sure it’s not just that slightly nauseous feeling one gets at the beginning of every relationship?” I reached over and put my hand on her forehead. “Maybe you’re coming down with something.”
“I don’t know. I never had this before. I’ve been totally into guys before, of course, and keen to see them and sleep with them and excited about the whole thing, but always in a kind of playful way.” She looked at me. “Honestly, I thought maybe there was something wrong with me. I saw how you were with Dan, how you could argue and disagree and keep going, and how you turned to each other for support, and I wondered if I was missing something. I always kept my independence.” She took another bite of her burger and was silent for a moment, chewing. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but when Dan died, I thought maybe that was God’s plan, or the universe’s plan, or whatever. That I stayed single precisely so I could help you get through that. If I’d had a husband and family of my own, I wouldn’t have been able to step in like I did.”
Jesus. Now I reached for her hand.
“Rach, I will never forget what you did for me, for the kids. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t know what would have happened. They would have taken my kids away, probably. You saved all of us. You are my hero.”
She smiled. “Am I the wind beneath your wings?”
I grinned back. “You are. But you can relax now. If you want to fall in love with someone and get married and have babies, it’s OK. Maybe that’s why I’m still single, so I can help you.”
She laughed, shakily. “I’m not saying I want to get married and have kids.”
I looked at her. “But maybe you want to fall in love.”
She said nothing, just looked down at her plate. A tear plinked down. I reached over and ruffled her hair, just like I have our whole lives.
“Look, it’s OK to be weirded out by a new guy.” I had a thought. “Are you worried he doesn’t feel that way about you?”
She shrugged, keeping her face down. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know what to feel. We talked and talked for hours, about everything. About what happened when Dan died, about his parents, about our parents, about everything. He’s funny and smart and kind, and he scares the crap out of me because he’s honest about what he’s feeling. I think he likes me, too, but what if he doesn’t?”
“Of course he likes you. He could barely speak at the beginning.” I felt bad for her. Like I said, she’s always been a tough cookie. I think I’ve only seen her cry over a guy one time, and that was when he’d made her so angry that she kicked a wall and broke her toe. This was ever-so-slightly different.
I signaled for the check.
“Look, honey, you’re probably very, very tired. You didn’t sleep. It sounds like you had an intense evening, and you can’t possibly think straight without getting some rest. Why don’t you blow off work this afternoon and go home.”
She nodded. “I think you’re right. Maybe I’m coming down with something and I’ll wake up totally OK again.”
“Uh, maybe.” I signed the bill, and we got up to go. I took her arm as we left, and felt her lean on me.
My turn.
• • •
When I got home, my photos of Dan and the kids had arrived. I’d included our wedding photos, Annabel’s and Clare’s birth photos, anything and everything. And for some reason now, going through them, I didn’t feel like my heart just got ripped out and stomped on. I just felt happy that we’d had that time together. A few of them made me tear up again—a picture of his face as he held Annabel for the first time, a photo of him standing in the street with his arms out as she ran into them, and one, strangely enough, of him and my sister. They were just standing together on a hillside in Italy, grinning for the camera, all of us there for Maggie and Berto’s wedding. They were both so young and happy, and both looking at me with such affection, that I suddenly realized what we had all lost when he died. It wasn’t just me, it wasn’t just the kids, it was everyone who’d been a part of our lives together. Rachel had said this very thing the other night, at Pink’s, but as I looked at the photos, I could finally feel it for myself.
Here was one of an enormous group of family, gathered together for what must have been Thanksgiving or something. His family, my family, Annabel on my mother’s lap, teeny-tiny Clare on his mother’s shoulder—yes, the Thanksgiving just before he died. Clare was only a month old, and my dad had been taking the picture, I guess. Berto was there with Maggie, looking ridiculously Italian and wearing a pink sweater in the way only European men can. Dan was sitting at the far end of the table, wearing a paper Pilgrim hat, goofing about. He had been so funny, so silly, and so had I. The two of us would riff about anything, trying to keep everyone laughing. Making each other laugh had been the thing that brought us together in the first place. After he died, it was a while before I laughed, maybe months, and the first time I did, I started crying immediately, like those videos of deaf people hearing their voices for the first time. Delight, followed by tears. Yet since then every laugh got easier, and now laughter was the thing that held me together, sarcastic comments and stupid jokes.
I did something bold. I called my mother, unconsciously curling into a ball on the sofa as I dialed the familiar number. Just in case.
“Hey there, old lady.”
“Hello, dear, are you in jail?” She sounded sober, for once. Maybe the liquor store had finally cut her off.
