Three Good Things Page 7

  She watched now as Henry surveyed the living room, a landscape of couches and bookcases with their titles tucked in sideways. It was decorated in neutral tones, tans and whites, in her attempt to create a reading room feel. When she looked at it through Henry’s eyes, though, she noticed the tan corduroy couch looked a bit dreary, its antimacassars worn through, and her bookshelves, a messy assemblage, as if the titles had been stuffed in at all angles instead of placed there with great care and thought.

  “Very Ellen-like,” he pronounced. “Comfy and classy.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, I try. I’m sure if Laura Lowry saw it, she’d have a thing or two to say.” Laura Lowry was the big-shot realtor in town whom Ellen couldn’t bear. The woman, who had a flair for gossip, never had anything nice to say. Ellen got an earful every time Laura stopped by the kringle shop, declaring her kringles “the best pastries ever.” But Ellen suspected she was full of it, and wondered what Laura said about her behind her back since, as far as she could tell, Laura shot a barbed dart at anyone she knew.

  Henry laughed immediately and easily, his eyes crinkling at the sides. “Yes, she would, wouldn’t she? She’d probably load up the moving truck herself and remodel the whole place in hot pink batik pillows before she put it on the market.” Ellen was glad to see he shared her disdain.

  “So, have a seat and make yourself at home. I’ll pour us some glasses.”

  She went into the kitchen, put the flowers in a vase, and dug through her top drawer for the bottle opener. Where had the darned thing gone to? If that wasn’t a sign she’d been single too long, she didn’t know what was. As she poured the wine, nicely chilled, into the glasses, she noticed that her hands were shaking.

  Henry was flipping through her collection of Flannery O’Connor stories when she came back into the living room. “ ‘A Good Man Is Hard to Find.’ One of my favorites.” He turned to her now, set the book on the table.

  “Really?” Ellen couldn’t hide her surprise.

  “What? You think I don’t read? My wife was a Southerner, don’t forget. She loved Miss O’Connor.”

  Ellen wasn’t sure if she should feel flattered, impressed, or worried by that information. She simply said, “She’s one of my favorites, too. Doesn’t beat around the bush.”

  “No, she sure doesn’t. Reminds me of someone else.” He grinned.

  “How funny.” Ellen took a sip of wine and smiled. She actually enjoyed having a man in her house again. It was . . . unanticipated.

  When she heard the lid on the sauce pot start to rattle, she excused herself and hurried into the kitchen. Henry followed behind. Once she’d rescued the pot from the stove, she caught him eyeing her tattered copy of The Book of Kringle, which sat open on her cookbook stand.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Ah, the whole inspiration behind my little store.” She dabbed at the spilled sauce on the stove, still hot to the touch.

  “No kidding?”

  “It was my mother’s originally. I rediscovered it in the attic one day when I was feeling lonely and it was like a lightbulb went off.”

  “Wow. Isn’t that something? Why are Montgomery and Phoenix underlined next to these contributors’ names?” He pointed to the highlighter marks, pink and yellow, on a recipe for apricot kringle that had been submitted by readers from those cities.

  “Oh, that.” She could feel herself blushing. “I was just paging through it for some new recipes the other day, and I decided to try and crack the riddle at the end of the book. I’ve yet to solve it but when I do, you’ll be the first to know. Something about a secret ingredient that will make my kringles to die for.”

  The truth was, she’d been puzzling over it, on and off, for more than a few weeks now. The riddle went like this: “Look back, fair reader, and reflect on what you’ve read / A secret ingredient hides in its stead / For if you like capitals first and seven, you’ll quickly see / That two teaspoonsful make all the difference in your kringle and tea.”

  She knew decoding it had something to do with the state capitals peppered throughout the book’s pages. People from all across the country had submitted their favorite kringle recipes, with their hometowns listed after their names: Montgomery, Alabama; Phoenix, Arizona; Juneau, Alaska. Originally, Ellen thought the riddle must have something to do with capital cities from the states beginning with A: Alabama, Arizona, Alaska. Perhaps the first seven “A” state capitals? But closer inspection revealed a recipe submitted by a chef from Columbus, Ohio. What on earth was Columbus, Ohio, doing in the string of “A” capitals she’d found mentioned thus far? She hadn’t the foggiest.

  “But they already are,” Henry said. “Your kringles . . . To die for.”

  It had been a long while since anyone had so much as cast a glance her way, let alone compliment her outright. Ellen thought she could get used to it.

  “Stop it,” she said instead. “Now, go sit down.”

  He went to take a seat at the long farmer’s table in the dining room, while Ellen watched from the kitchen, noticing how he ran his hand gently over the wood. “Maple, right?” he called out.

  “Right! I forgot I have a horticulturist in my house,” she said and scooped the pasta into huge bowls. “Or is it botanist?”

  “Horticulturist,” he confirmed. She carried everything out to the table.

  She had been in Henry’s store a few times over the years. Each visit reminded her of walking into a field of wildflowers. The fragrant smells jumped out at her, a honeysuckle here, a planter of sweet peas there. And always, tucked in between the rows, was Henry, bent over a plant, caressing its leaves, plucking a stray bloom. He reminded her of Toad in the childhood Frog and Toad stories, where Toad sang to his plants and played the violin, saying “Now plants, start growing!” She figured it took a man with a good heart to pour his soul into raising things that didn’t give a person the satisfaction of a response.

  When she told him this now, sitting down across from him, he smiled and said, “But they do talk.”

  The pasta steamed up from their bowls.

  For a moment, she thought she’d found herself another man who’d gone off the deep end, too late to rescue. She raised her eyebrows as she reached for the salad tongs and served Henry, then herself.

  “Plants talk to you with their flowers, the way they either dance or wilt, and with their leaves, if they’re upturned toward the light or hiding in the dark.”

  “Oh.” She was pleased now. The man was a poet, not a nut.

  Henry took what seemed like an overly cautious bite.

  “So, what do you think? Do you like the sauce?”

  He swallowed, seemed to think for a second. “It’s rambunctious.”

  “Rambunctious? Is that good or bad?”

  “You decide,” he said with a wink, and she noticed for the first time that his eyes weren’t brown, but more of a soft hazel.

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  They discussed books, the wonder of getting lost in a story. Henry, it seemed, liked a good tale just as much as she did.

  “Don’t you love that smell when you first crack open a brand new book?” he asked.

  “Yes! Or, just the feel of the pages, the weight and heft of a novel in your hands,” Ellen added.

  Henry nodded in agreement. “It almost casts a spell over you, doesn’t it?”

  When she pressed him on some of his favorites, she was surprised they were mostly classics: Moby Dick; To Kill A Mockingbird; War and Peace, along with some Wendell Berry and Henry David Thoreau thrown in.

  Another glass of wine later, the talk turned to the bakery and all the folks who came in; Henry confessed that work wasn’t what it used to be for him. He’d inherited the store from his dad, who’d inherited it from his father.

  “I never thought I’d run a nursery, but after working a few summers, I got hooked despite myself,” he explained between bites. “Before I knew it, I was taking horticulture clas
ses at the extension school and advising my dad on the latest in seed hybrids. These days it’s all about organic gardening.” He paused. “Never did get my diploma, though. Guess I have more of what you’d call street smarts.” He smiled at Ellen. “Or garden smarts.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that.” She took a sip of wine, though she caught herself wondering if she really believed that. Still, the man loved books. How dumb could he be?

  “To be honest, I’ve been feeling a little stuck lately. Do you ever feel that way at the store, like you just keeping doing the same old thing over and over?”

  Ellen thought for a moment. “Sometimes. But then I try to imagine that it’s all new. That tomorrow is my first day of work. I’ll move the tables around to give it a new look. Or, I’ll challenge myself to something silly, like say one nice thing to every customer today.” She took another bite of the sauce, proud of her own cleverness on two glasses of wine no less.

  “I like that.” He nodded, looking off at the dining room window, as if imagining Ellen’s advice taking flight. “Kind of like when you trick yourself into believing that everything around you is great. The power of positive thinking, right?”

  “I’m not sure about that.” Ellen paused. “That positive thinking talk always seemed suspect to me. But I don’t see anything wrong with giving yourself a fresh start in your mind’s eye.”

  Henry took a sip of wine, rubbed his lips together. “Hmm . . . I told myself I’d make a fresh start at Charlotte’s one-year anniversary, but it was tougher than I thought.” His finger traced a pattern in the wood grain. She hadn’t noticed his large, weathered hands before, the skin tanned, even in early spring. Ellen was tempted to reach out and grab one. “The anniversary of her death, I mean.”

  “Oh Henry,” she offered. “I’m so sorry. I read about it in the papers, of course, but I’m sorry that I never knew your wife. I’m sure she was amazing.”

  He nodded. “The thing is, you think you’re over someone and then you find out you’re really not, you know?” He looked beseechingly into her eyes, and she was darned if she didn’t think he was looking straight into her heart. Had someone told him about Max’s e-mail?

  “I guess so,” she said instead.

  “Charlotte was one of a kind. She was smart and funny and gracious, all rolled into one. She never quite lost her Southern drawl, even though she’d been here since college. I loved that about her.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “And that Southern sense of humor. Didn’t take things quite so seriously as we Midwesterners do.”

  “Well, that’s a virtue.”

  “I used to tease her that she was my Southern belle.”

  “That’s so sweet.” But Ellen was trying to figure out how to change the direction of the conversation. She really didn’t care to spend the rest of the evening talking about Henry’s dead wife.

  She got up to clear the plates.

  “Here, let me help you with that.” He pushed back his chair.

  “No, you stay. I’ll be right back.”

  • • • •

  The evening was going better than expected, the talk of Charlotte aside, but then, what had she expected? Ellen couldn’t remember through the haze of wine. True, she was nicely dressed, but that was more for her own vanity than for Henry’s sake. Or was it?

  She sighed to herself then grinned to think she was like a nervous teenager right here in her own grown-up kitchen. She squeezed the amber beads of dish soap into the sink and watched as the basin filled with steaming water, then slid the plates in gently. Frankly, she was just happy for Henry’s company. Lanie had teased her that maybe she’d get lucky tonight, but Ellen smiled at how ridiculous the thought was. Henry was still in mourning. Like her, he was hungry for company, for conversation.

  She dried her hands on the kitchen towel, then grabbed the bottle of wine off the counter and walked back into the dining room. “Some more?” she asked, as she started to tip the bottle over his glass.

  Henry looked up and smiled.

  “Yes, please. I think I will.”

  “The mother’s day is not an eight-hour day. It is a twenty-four-hour day. She is never free. No wonder she is tired and impatient sometimes.”

  —Talks to Mothers (1920)

  Lanie arrived late to work, where stacks of paper were spilling off her desk. She checked her BlackBerry and groaned to see her schedule as she scrolled down. This week alone she had two depositions, a discovery due, and a motion to file for a guardian ad litem for a foster child. There was always an uptick in cases in the springtime; her secret theory was that the fresh air finally gave some very unhappy women the confidence to imagine a better life without their cheating or otherwise delinquent husbands. She asked Hannah to cancel lunch with a client on Wednesday; it was her turn to bring peanut-free, gluten-free treats to Benjamin’s day care for a snack. Considering most of the kids didn’t have a full set of teeth yet, her options were even more limited. Did applesauce count? she wondered. There simply weren’t enough hours in the day to do her job well and be a loving mom and wife all at once.

  Lately she’d been thinking maybe she should take some time off from the law, slow down. But she knew that she and Rob lived more or less from paycheck to paycheck. Cutting her monthly income would likely send their lifestyle into a tailspin. Not that they were living wealthy lives in a McMansion. Far from it. But they did own two cars and a four-bedroom home in a good neighborhood. They took a few vacations during the year; they paid their bills and put food on the table. It was the American dream, right?

  Her newbie drive to help all the unhappy divorcing wives of Madison was wavering though. She could feel it like a palpable lack of vitamin D in her diet; six years in and she was already weary, as much as she hated to admit it. And, though she’d never say it aloud, she was secretly starting to worry that she might become one of them. She could feel herself growing resentful of Rob’s late nights at the office, the weekends spent away from her and Benjamin. As nice as their anniversary night out had been, it was just that: one night of abandon, then back to the same old drill. Both of them being stretched to the limit so they could have everything they’d ever wanted. What happened if everything they wanted turned out not to be enough?

  She took out the Sullivan file, papers and receipts spilling out. Hadn’t she asked the intern to organize all of this last week? It looked barely touched. Receipts for car repairs were tucked into the “Groceries” file, worn slips for mortgages filed under “General.” If she was going to help Mrs. Sullivan get more than her fair share from her wealthy accountant husband, Lanie needed to have an insanely organized case.

  The shabby record-keeping habits of her more affluent clients often surprised her. Supposedly being a lady of leisure meant you were excused from such petty details, but Lanie couldn’t fathom such disorganization. Each month, money in and money out was ticked off in her checkbook. Her desk at home was filled with color-coded folders for house expenses, vacations, car expenses, child care, entertainment, and groceries. That’s how she knew that she and Rob were living precisely at their means; one tip in either direction and their lives would be markedly different.

  She sighed as she began the tedious work of organizing the file. She should really just hand the file back to the intern and insist she start over, but there was no time. The deposition with Steve Sullivan was in three days, and she had to know exactly how much money his soon-to-be ex-wife needed each month to continue the lifestyle she was accustomed to. The irony of fighting for women who already had so much wasn’t lost on Lanie. In her pro bono cases, her clients were typically looking for nominal child support payments, or in the worst-case scenarios, a restraining order to make sure their creepy ex-husbands didn’t step foot within one hundred yards of them.

  But the common thread that tied all her clients together (her sister included), no matter their stature or financial standing, was an aura of sadness. She watched, a witness to their hurt, as t
hey sat on her couch and ripped tissues, confiding their stories, nursing wounds of betrayal, anger, exasperation. It was as if they were surprised to see their lives become the opposite of what they’d imagined. Sometimes she felt she was billing by the hour to be a therapist as much as a litigator.

  She was reading a receipt for a hair salon visit for a whopping three hundred and fifty dollars when Hannah, her assistant, stepped in.

  “Special delivery for a Ms. Lanie Taylor.” In her hands was an enormous bouquet of yellow spring tulips. “You must have done something right or else Rob’s in the doghouse.”

  “It’s May first—our anniversary,” she explained, taking the vase and inhaling the sweet scent. She felt a slight pang that she’d just been feeling resentful of all his time at the office. He’d already left for work when she woke up this morning.

  “Happy anniversary! How many years?”

  “Can it already be five?”

  Lanie noticed a small envelope attached to the front of the vase. She pulled out the note and read, “For Lanie, my X and my O, who makes every day a gift. All my love, Rob.”

  “So sweet. I always said that Rob is a romantic guy.” Hannah pointed to a small card that fluttered to the ground. “What’s that?”

  Lanie picked it up and read: “Ooh, it’s a certificate for Spa Sensations. Massage, facials, body wraps, whatever I want. That’s the place I was telling Rob about last week. I guess he does listen from time to time,” she joked. “Ellen mentioned it to me. Have you ever been?”

  “No, but I hear it’s supposed to be great. When are you going?”

  Lanie flipped over the card. “There’s no date here. Guess whenever I want . . . once life settles down.”

  Hannah smirked.

  “What?”

  “The whole point of a spa retreat is that you get away from the rat race for a while. Life won’t settle down for about, oh, another seventeen years.”

  “Thanks for the reminder.” Lanie sighed. “Like I needed it.”