Heart's Desire (22 page)

Chapter Forty-three

AS IF IN ANSWER TO MY QUESTION, THE DOORBELL RINGS. Bernard frantically pulls off his apron, checks his appearance in the hall mirror, and dims the lights in the dining room.

Our mystery guest is in his mid-twenties, as best I can tell, which makes him roughly ten years younger than Bernard. He’s extremely handsome, with jet-black hair neatly combed back behind his ears, tan skin that glows with good health, and soft brown eyes with dark copper-colored parentheses around the irises. Bernard introduces him as Melik, a rug dealer from Columbus whom he recently met when appraising some acquisitions from Kurdistan.

I’m polite to Melik, but promise myself that I won’t
really
like him. No one can ever replace Gil. However, I realize that it’s not going to help Bernard get over Gil if I start acting like the teenager of divorced parents who hates all of her mother’s new boyfriends. Also, Melik is very nice and tries hard to make a good impression by saying how lovely the house is and asking us all what we do.

The only thing I find slightly odd is that Melik doesn’t seem very sophisticated. For instance, he doesn’t take an interest in the wine on the table the way Gil always did. And he wears plain old jeans with a T-shirt, which is fine with me, but it’s more like an outfit one of
my
boyfriends would wear on a date.

Over dinner Melik tells us all how he was raised in a village about four hours east of Istanbul in Turkey. And when he finds out that I played soccer in high school his entire face lights up. He says that his cousin is a forward on the best team in Turkey and proudly relates their recent victory against Greece, play by play. I’m tempted to call Jane and ask her to come over since I get the feeling the two of them could talk international soccer for hours.

Olivia, always the gracious hostess, is very attentive to our guest. If she’s bothered by the fact that her son’s new boyfriend is ten years his junior, and outfitted in jeans and sneakers, she certainly doesn’t show it. “So tell us more about you and your business,” Olivia encourages him.

Melik appears a bit hesitant and glances at Bernard. I can’t help but wonder if they’re involved in some sort of dodge such as marking up the purchase price of rugs and then reselling them. That’s one of Bernard’s favorite tricks, to show a customer an auction catalogue listing a similar item that’s being sold for much more, and then insist how he isn’t turning a profit, but making the sale because the person is such a good customer and Bernard wants to keep him coming back. Though I must admit, people underestimate the trouble Bernard goes to in order to find all the great stuff displayed in his shop. Not to mention his taste—being able to spot that one terrific item in piles and piles of junk at an estate sale. And no matter what the price, even if it’s fair or a good deal, they always think they should negotiate. Yet the same customers would never try that in a supermarket, or even a regular home-furnishings store.

Not surprisingly, Bernard Stockton,
raconteur par excellence,
rescues Melik and takes up the story of their acquaintance. “The best rugs in the world are coming out of Kurdistan nowadays. And with the current political situation in the Middle East, the money is
most
welcome there. It allows people to buy food, health care, and clean water.” Bernard has a gift for locating the humanitarian aspect in all of his dealings.

“Ha!” says Olivia. “I can imagine how much of that money actually reaches the women and children who do most of the labor.”

Bernard ignores her. “So Melik generously shares his Kurdistan connections to help facilitate some global commerce.”

“I’m sure you’ll both be asked to share a Nobel Peace Prize,” says Olivia.

I can’t help but think how this is coming from a woman who has no problem with smuggling morning-after pills into the country.

Melik smiles and nods in agreement the entire time Bernard is talking, and when we all look to him for a response he simply says, “The Kurds make the best carpeting.”

“I’m not going to argue with that,” says Olivia. “But you must admit that the Turkish government has been rather undiplomatic by not acknowledging the Kurds’ desire for autonomy.”

This appears to be a subject that is of much more interest to Melik than rugs. He sits bolt upright in the chair as he practically shouts, “Not diplomatic?” A look of genuine astonishment crosses Melik’s face and he becomes very animated. “My brother is in the Turkish army. Do you have any idea the amount of money that our government spends
protecting
the Kurds?”

As the discussion continues to heat up, Bernard appears to grow concerned and strokes his chin the way he does when he’s trying to bluff in poker.

“Protecting
them
?” Olivia confronts him. “Protecting their
oil
is more like it. Ever since the Ottoman Empire collapsed—”

“Speaking of ottomans,” Bernard rapidly interjects, “I was thinking of having the footstool re-covered or maybe buying a black leather Eames lounge chair with a walnut back and aluminum trim.”

“Turkish cities offer the Kurds jobs!” insists Melik. “They want assimilation!”

“How can you be sure, when under Turkish law people can be sent to jail for teaching Kurdish in schools, running a political campaign on the basis of ethnicity, or broadcasting in Kurdish?” counters Olivia.

“Speaking of the media,” Bernard once again interrupts the escalating quarrel, “Melik is very interested in film, particularly Federico Fellini. Perhaps Ottavio would like to talk about that.”

A look of bliss appears on Ottavio’s face at the very mention of the word
Fellini.
“
La Dolce Vita,
yes? But
The Bicycle Thief
by De Sica, this is better,
non
?”

“Yes, I couldn’t agree more,” says Melik, gracefully acquiescing to the change in subject. “And what about Fellini’s
Amarcord
—the countryside is like a character.”

It transpires that Melik is extremely knowledgeable about foreign films and directors and I have to revise my opinion of him not appearing sophisticated. It turns out that he’s even working on a script for a film he’s planning to shoot back in Turkey. Only, I’m still having difficulty imagining Melik as Bernard’s new boyfriend. Or else I just won’t allow myself to imagine it. Instead I find myself wishing that I had agreed to help Bernard try and figure out a scheme to win Gil back.

Chapter Forty-four

WHEN I ENTER THE MAIN HOUSE WEDNESDAY MORNING, OLIVIA and Ottavio, dressed in nice clothes that suggest they’re going to church, are rushing around searching for the car keys.

“
Forty
miles per hour!” Bernard is shouting after Ottavio. “
Quaranta!
It’s the law!
Non polizia!
” Bernard theatrically places the back of his hand on his forehead. “I don’t understand it. The Italians can take four hours to eat a single meal and then they have to drive home from the restaurant at eighty miles an hour. Ottavio’s stack of speeding tickets is almost as high as Mother’s pile of citations for disturbing the peace.”

I would have to agree with Bernard on this, since a cherry red Buick Park Avenue the size of a modest cabin cruiser is bound to draw attention at any speed. Especially with Olivia’s collection of bumper stickers, which include GIVE PEAS A CHANCE! A CLOSED MIND IS A WONDERFUL THING TO LOSE, and UNITARIAN—HONK IF YOU’RE NOT SURE!

“Why are they attending church on a Wednesday morning in the middle of summer?” I ask Bernard.

“They’re going court-watching in Cleveland. It’s Mother’s latest—she’s convinced that the legal system prosecutes the prostitutes and not the customers. And those who
take
bribes rather than those who
o fer
them. Apparently she’s reworking the disincentive part of the penal code, or something along those lines. Honestly, who can keep track?”

“And what does Ottavio think of her extracurricular legal activities?”

“Given his limited knowledge of English, and the volume of her correspondence with the government, he probably thinks she’s employed as a public defender,” speculates Bernard. “Which he’ll soon need in traffic court if he wants to continue driving in this country.”

Olivia must hear Bernard complaining and calls through to the kitchen, “Clarence Darrow, the famous lawyer who argued the Scopes Monkey Trial, was a Unitarian!”

“Here we go again,” Bernard says to me. “Famous Unitarians for five hundred.” He pokes his head around the corner and calls back to her, “Clarence Darrow lost! Not only that, P. T. Barnum, the greatest charlatan of them all, was one of
your people.
And let us not forget the captain
and
the architect of the
Titanic,
while we’re on the subject.”

Olivia appears in the archway and gaily adds, “You forgot the woman who wrote “
Nearer My God to Thee,
” the hymn they played as the
Titanic
went down. Sarah F. Adams. The
F
was for
flower.
”

“Of course,” says Bernard. “What else? Obviously it wasn’t for
float
!”

Olivia and Ottavio say good-bye and hurry out the front door.

“Craig’s coming home today,” I say. I’d finally gotten around to checking my E-mails.

“I know,” says Bernard, looking smug. “He’s building my pond.”

“What?”
How could he ask Craig without first asking me?
I’m
in charge of the yard! Not only that, we already have four gardens, over a dozen birdhouses, and a gazebo! And that’s just in the
back.
The front still features the merry-go-round that came with one of Bernard’s auction lots.

“I wanted to go down as the first person in history to surprise you,” says Bernard.

“Well, what if I’m mad at Craig and don’t want him hanging around here?”

“Are you?”
asks Bernard.

“No . . .”

“So, then what’s the problem? Besides, I thought you two agreed to see other people, that going your separate ways was mutual.”

“We did,” I say. “I’m just used to working in the yard by myself, that’s all.” This is a stupid thing to say, because Louise helped me for a while. And before that, Ottavio. Even Rocky runs around gathering up dead branches when he’s not busy teasing Lulu or making cocktails for Olivia and Ottavio. Rocky never lost his flair for bartending and Ottavio has recently taught him how to use the blender to make frozen daiquiris.

“As a matter of fact,” Bernard casually tosses off, “I’ve invited Craig over for dinner tonight so that we can discuss the plans. I thought perhaps we’d employ an all-American theme of burgers and fries and a big honeymoon salad.”

“A
what
?” Now it’s confirmed that Bernard is attempting to get us back together.

He grins at me. “You know, just
let us
alone.”

Chapter Forty-five

IN ADDITION TO HAVING NO INTENTION OF LETTING US ALONE, Bernard has no intention of cooking burgers and fries. He comes home with the ingredients for another meal entirely, saying that he arrived at his shop to find a big purchase order in his computer from a hotel in New Orleans. They’ve offered him top dollar for all the Americana merchandise in the photos he sent—some William-and-Mary-style tables, nests of baskets, Chippendale chests of drawers, and even four decoy ducks. Thus Bernard insists that it’s a gesture of thanks to the voodoo gods to employ a Mardi Gras theme.

The new menu includes crab cakes with remoulade to start, shrimp Creole on a bed of rice as the entree, Caesar salad with big homemade croutons, and for dessert, bread pudding with bourbon sauce. I should have realized there was no way in bell peppers that Bernard was going to serve plain old hamburgers and fries.

I head out to do a late-afternoon watering since it hasn’t rained in over a week and the plants are starting to wilt, especially in front of the house where there’s not as much shade. When Mrs. Farley pulls up in her brown Volvo wagon I peer into the back half expecting to see a baby, despite the fact that I know there’s a long waiting list. She appears troubled when she asks if Bernard is at home. And even though he’s already been approved for the adoption and sent in all the paperwork, it’s obvious that whatever news she has isn’t good.

Bernard and Mrs. Farley talk for a long time in the backyard. Now I’m sorry that I decided to work out front, because it would look suspicious if I suddenly began a project in their vicinity. Whenever I go around the side of the house to adjust the water pressure, I see Mrs. Farley’s mouth doing most of the moving and Bernard staring off into the distance, occasionally nodding his head.

Mrs. Farley is very nice to me on her way out and pats my arm as if she has an inside track on knowing that I’m going to amount to something in life, despite any past tragedies. If only she was aware that I’d gone from sex maniac to spinster in only four weeks. I’m tempted to ask where she buys her Bass Weejuns and corduroy jumpers, in order to fully prepare for a life of chastity and good works.

As soon as she’s turned out of the driveway I dash into the house to see what’s happened. Bernard is leaning in front of the sink and carefully slicing onions.

“I’ll explain over dinner.” It’s hard to tell whether it’s the onions or something Mrs. Farley said causing his eyes to water. Perhaps there’s been a delay. However, he soldiers on, meticulously finishing the preparations. Cooking a wonderful meal is Bernard’s cure for most of life’s downward turns. He possesses the rare ability to transform out-and-out tragedy into the most amazing lobster thermidor.

As I set the table, Bernard starts playing Louis Armstrong’s
When the Saints Go Marching In
on the stereo.

It’s a quarter to seven by the time we’ve finished getting everything ready. Bernard casts a disapproving glance at my cutoff jeans and Mr. Bubble T-shirt and announces, “You still have fifteen minutes to change.”

“I’m not going to change. I like myself the way I am, thanks.”

“I meant your ensemble, of course. With your sunburn and strong shoulders, those clothes just look a little, well . . .”

“What?”

“Well, Home Depot, that’s all. I suppose a flowered sundress and a pink cotton summer sweater with eyelet lace is out of the question?”

“You suppose right,” I say.

“I guess I should look at the bright side—that you’ll never expire like Madame de Bussy, the fashion adviser to Marie Antoinette.”

“Do I dare ask?”

“She tripped over her hoop skirt and died.”

“Why do I feel as if you’re trying to get Craig and me back together?”

“Moi?”
Bernard asks, as if he’s been falsely accused. “I’d never deign to interfere in your love life.”

“Actually, it’s impossible to interfere, since I don’t
have
a love life. And besides, I
hate
guys!” I still refuse to admit to Bernard that not only was he right about Auggie—well,
half
right—but that I lost out to another woman, one in another country, on another continent, and one whom Auggie will probably never see again! Not only that, between Auggie’s rejection, two thousand dollars paid out for the car engine, and the first installment of fall tuition due next week, it’s all the more clear that my destiny is to become a female kissing bandit, carving big
H
s into pillowcases and Plexiglas bank teller windows with my gardening shears. Life goes on but love continues to be as mysterious as electricity or death.

Bernard comes over to where I’m standing and lifts my hair as if it’s a bunch of carrots. “If you refuse to change clothes then at least take your hair out of that ponytail, put on some lip gloss, and dash through a spritz of Chantilly. Honestly, when you meet someone new, do they ask what you’re studying or what position you play?”

But I stubbornly refuse. Kissing bandits don’t take orders from anyone, and they certainly don’t try to impress old boyfriends. Especially an old boyfriend who has stopped calling and most certainly has a new girlfriend.

When Olivia and Ottavio return from their adventures they stop in the kitchen to find out what time we’re eating. Bernard asks, “Mother, don’t you think Hallie looks pretty when she takes her hair down and styles it?”

“It was Gwen who did that,” I say. “And the process was not only incredibly time-consuming, but downright
painful.
”

“I think her hair is just fine the way it is,” says Olivia. “The cosmetics industrial complex profits by making us psychologically dependent upon their overpriced products and treatments. We’ve become a nation enslaved to plastic surgeons and beauticians, while developing countries don’t have enough to eat.”

“I suppose the good news is that Hallie certainly needn’t worry about people trying to steal her
exterior decorator,
” says Bernard.

Olivia gives her son a scornful look. “If it were up to you, we’d all be at the beauty parlor for a wash and set twice a week and sleeping on bridal satin pillowcases with toilet paper wrapped around our heads.”

“May I remind you that the earliest form of art was body adornment, followed by primitive pieces of jewelry and clothing,” retorts Bernard. “In the good old days a lady took pride in her appearance.”

“Yes, the good old days when children worked in factories and sweatshops, and blacks and women couldn’t vote? And even after women fought the patriarchy to finally win the vote they still made fifty cents to a man’s dollar,” says Olivia. “
Those
good old days?”

“We’re all anxiously awaiting your memoir of growing up in Boston, the cradle of feminization, during the dawning of the Women’s Movement,” says Bernard.

The timer and the doorbell go off simultaneously. Bernard hurries to the oven while pulling off his apron, and I head for the front hall to let in our guest.