Leaves (9 page)

Corrina looked her straight in the eyes at that point, and Deborah expected her to elaborate. Why was she talking to Dad so often? What did she need his advice about? Instead of taking this further though, Corrina looked down at her coffee, then out the window, and then stood up.

“Did I show you the new centerpiece I got when we were in Boston?” she said, moving toward the dining room.

Had Corrina been expecting Deborah to ask what was troubling her? They'd never needed to prompt each other in the past. Deborah took one last sip of coffee and got up to follow her sister into the dining room. She'd leave directly from there. If Corrina wanted to reach out, Deborah would be there, but she wasn't going to chase after her.

Tyler couldn't remember ever laboring over which restaurant to go to with Patrice. Early in their relationship, every place was new – places Tyler had previously thought about going with dates as he passed them or read about in the paper. Not long after that, they developed a collection of favorites, places they could go if they just felt like getting out, along with others for special occasions. Even toward the end of their relationship, they were comfortable with the old standbys and could even find a bit of an oasis in someplace new.

However, choosing a restaurant for their dinner this time was proving confounding. Did it suggest too much if he decided on someplace they used to frequent? Was he willing to risk a bad meal or bad service at someplace previously untried? Maybe he should have let Patrice pick the place; it was unlikely she would have turned this into the angst-fest he'd turned it into.

Finally, he decided on The Phoenix Grill. They had gone there many times before, but the restaurant had hired a new chef in September and the menu had changed dramatically from the last time they'd been there. It was like going somewhere new and old at the same time.

Picking Patrice up from the cottage was a bit surreal. It was so familiar – he'd lived here for nearly half a decade – that he felt entirely out of place waiting in the foyer while Patrice got her jacket. Shouldn't he be sitting on the couch watching the news while she finished getting ready? Or maybe making sure he didn't leave the light on in the bathroom or something like that? Tyler chose to focus on the print Patrice had put up in the hallway to replace one of the framed photographs he'd taken with him when he moved out. It was a watercolor of a daylily. A little generic for Tyler's tastes, but it certainly brightened the spot.

Now sitting at the Phoenix sipping a margarita, any uneasiness had sloughed away. Patrice looked fabulous and she seemed genuinely glad to be here with him. They talked about work and caught each other up on the lives of their friends. Precisely the kind of thing they would have done if they were in the middle of their relationship rather than at its coda.

“I miss this,” Patrice said during a break in the conversation.

Tyler reached out for her hand and squeezed it. He wondered if he should keep it there or if that would make her uncomfortable. “I do too.”

Patrice took his hand in both of hers. “We were pretty good buds, huh? I mean on top of all that other stuff.”

Tyler smiled. “Yeah, we were good buds. You were kinda fun to hang out with.”

“Especially on Monday mornings.” Patrice's shop was closed on Mondays and she and Tyler often stayed in bed until after noon, making love, holding each other, listening to music, and just replenishing. On most winter Mondays they would never leave the house, while afternoons the rest of the year were devoted to errands and other necessities to get them through the week. As a rule, though, they spent every Monday together unless a conflict couldn't be avoided.

Tyler risked locking eyes with his former lover. “I think I really miss Mondays.”

Patrice closed her hands over his and neither said anything for a long moment. “You're doing okay, though?”

“I'm okay. Like I said, I wish I was selling more pictures and, well, it's been a year, you know? But I'm holding up all right.” He liked feeling his hand embraced by Patrice's and was thankful that she didn't have any qualms about touching him this way. “How about you?”

“Six-and-a-half on a scale of ten.”

He nodded knowingly. “What would make it better?”

Patrice squeezed his hand and then tilted her head to the side. She was gorgeous from any angle. “More of this.”

Was she saying what he thought she was saying? “More of…us?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I'm being ridiculous, aren't I?”

“No, why is that ridiculous?”

She shook her head. “Oh, I don't know.”

“I think more of this would make me better, too.”

She looked right into his soul this time. If it were possible to allow her deeper, he would have. “Do you really think so?”

“Patrice, you were the definition of ‘better' for me.”

“Until I wasn't.”

“No. Always.”

They actually managed to finish their meals, but Tyler had no idea what he'd eaten. All he could think about was being alone with Patrice, about recapturing the best of what they were together. He recognized the feeling building up in him, the hunger for all of her, for a seamlessness between the two of them. It wasn't that long ago that he felt it regularly.

They drove home quietly, Patrice playing with the hair on the back of Tyler's neck while Tyler wished he'd picked a restaurant closer to the cottage. When he stopped the car, there was no question about where the evening was going. Patrice leaned over, kissed him deeply and said, “Let's go inside.”

They embraced in the very foyer that had seemed so strange to Tyler earlier. They kissed and pawed at each other, barely remembering to close the front door first. Slowly, they sank to the floor. The bedroom was perhaps forty feet away, but it was miles further than Tyler was interested in traveling at that moment. So underneath the daylily, they explored each other, passionately and hungrily. The suppleness of Patrice's skin, the curve of her knees, and the softness of her breasts were wonders to him, something he knew so well but thrilled to as though he'd never experienced them before. Tyler hadn't as much as kissed a woman since he'd split with Patrice, and now he wondered if anyone else could possibly make him feel this way. In this moment, though, that wasn't an issue. Maybe it never would be again.

Eventually they made it to bed and began making love again. Tyler couldn't remember the last time he had been this voracious. Afterward, they lay facing each other, Tyler's fingers running along Patrice's back as he kissed her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her exposed shoulder.

“I am so glad I forgot what that felt like,” he said dreamily.

“What do you mean?”

“If I remembered what making love to you felt like while we were apart, I think I might have jumped off a bridge.”

Patrice kissed him passionately again and the thought came to mind that it might not yet be time to go to sleep. “I don't want you to forget it again,” she said.

“No, I definitely think I'll remember it this time.”

She nuzzled against him and he kissed her hair. Holding her was nearly as much of a pleasure as any other physical act between them. “You can stay, right?” she said.

“There's no place else I want to be.”

Maria's affection for James Taylor bordered on the obsessional. Since she had been a teenager, JT had been the one singer-songwriter guaranteed to affect her mood precisely the way she'd hoped. If she needed to raise her spirits, she could always turn to “Whenever I See Your Smiling Face,” or “Only One,” or his great cover of “Up on the Roof.” If she needed to feed her melancholy, there was always “Fire and Rain,” or “Millworker,” or the entire
Mud Slide Slim
album. If she needed a little romance, JT was there for her. If she needed a little thoughtful contemplation, JT was there for her. Her relationship with JT was one of her most reliable, really.

Still, she'd forgotten how edifying it was to play James Taylor. Clearly, she couldn't sing like him, and no one replicated the guitar sounds he created, but the songs filled her in an entirely different way when she was able to bring them to life herself.

She was into the third verse of “Gaia,” one of JT's most profound sociological songs, when the phone rang. Maria thought about letting the call go to voicemail as she'd done a couple of times a few hours ago when she'd first started playing, but the interruption had taken her out of the song. She might as well answer it.

As soon as she did, she wished she hadn't. It was the credit card company calling to confirm some recent charges. Doug had gone online last night to buy them both tablet computers, which triggered the company's alert systems. As an electronic voice asked her to confirm everything from their dinner the other night, to the produce she'd bought yesterday, to the gas Doug had obviously gotten on his way to work this morning, Maria wished she were back singing JT. She was all for fraud protection, but couldn't they program their computers not to worry if a big electronics sale one night was followed by nothing more than a stop at the neighborhood Gulf station the next day?

Finally satisfying the machine she'd spent the last seven minutes with, Maria returned to the den and her guitar. Should she try “Gaia” again or move on? That song was all about the emotional build, and it wouldn't feel the same if she tried to recapture that feeling so soon after she'd last gone after it. As she sat down on her stool, though, she noticed that the song on the music stand was “Something in the Way She Moves.” That was odd. The songbook was in alphabetical order, so this song was nowhere near “Gaia,” and she'd used the book so often over the years that the spine was completely broken. There was no chance that the book would have flipped to those pages because of some movement in the room.

The thought of the new song stirred a memory of Deborah from something like fifteen years ago. Deborah was having her first serious crush – Cal, or Carl, or Kurt, or something like that – and she would ask Maria to play the song incessantly while she mooned over the boy. Maria pretended to play the song grudgingly, but she was secretly tickled at the idea of providing the soundtrack to her sister's love life. She also enjoyed the far-ranging conversations they'd have afterward, conversations that always started about the boy – Clark! That was his name – but would evolve into talks about family, friends, careers, food (of course), music (
of course
), or even recent movies. They could talk for an hour or more barely stopping for breath. When was the last time their conversation went for more than four minutes without trailing off?

For that matter, when was the last time Deborah mentioned a man? Had she even dated anyone since those regrettable few weeks with Tom from the hardware store? That had gone so badly that the entire family still had to drive to another town if they needed a screwdriver.

Looking down at her guitar, Maria played a few lines from “Something in the Way She Moves,” remembering how Deborah's eyes sparkled when she used to talk about Clark. She hoped her sister got another chance to sparkle like that soon. Maybe that's why the book had magically flipped to this song; maybe Deborah was dating someone.

The phone rang again and Maria stopped playing. She got up and checked the caller ID. It was an 800 number. There was no chance she was going to deal with a credit card company and a telemarketer on the same day. She let the phone finish its programmed five rings while she went back to the stool.

When she got there, she found the songbook page turned to “Gaia.” She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Maybe it was time to switch to a different songwriter today.

The small talk rarely went this deep into the meal. Whenever Maxwell had lunch with a Chamber board member, there was always time for sharing pictures, bringing everyone up to date on the family, and chatting about sports. Usually, though, by the time entrees arrived, the conversation got more intense and even confrontational. Not today, though. When the waiter came over to take coffee orders, the topic was lawn maintenance. Just three buddies chewing the fat. What was the agenda here? Were Will Champion and Mike Mills planning to ask Maxwell to go steady with them?

“So was I the only one who thought Bruce looked pretty ragged at the Columbus Day parade?” Mike said as his cappuccino arrived. He pulled the cup up to his lips and peered over it at Will.

Will moved in his chair as though Mike had kicked him under the table. “Well, I think your paper's little exposé has him very nervous.”

Mike spoke through his coffee cup. “He should be nervous.” He put down his drink and leaned toward Maxwell. From the corner of his eye, Maxwell could see Will doing the same thing. “Don't you think so, Maxwell?”

They'd obviously moved on to today's key topic. Maxwell still wasn't sure what the agenda was, though. “You're not thinking he's going to get indicted, are you?”

Mike shrugged broadly. “It isn't inconceivable.”

Maxwell tipped his head toward first Mike and then Will. “It's inconceivable to me. Bruce might be a small-town politician, but he has the savvy of a ten-term congressman. There's no way he doesn't slither out of this.”

Mike nodded slowly. “It might not be as easy as you think for him to escape this time.”

Maxwell chuckled. “Your judgment is a little suspect in this area – though you've never told me why you have such an obsession with Bruce.” He looked over at Will. “You don't think he's going to hang over this, do you?”

Will looked down at his coffee, then over at Mike, and finally at Maxwell. “Hang as in be removed from office or go to jail? Nah, there's very little chance of that. Next November is another story, though.”

Maxwell finally reached for his own coffee cup. “Really? That's more than a year from now. This isn't the first time Bruce has been implicated in dirty stuff, and he's been reelected twice. You don't think the town will be over this by then?”

Mike smiled slyly. “Not if the media does its job.”

Maxwell laughed. “What
did
he do to you?”

Mike put up a hand. “That's not the point. The point is we have reason to believe the mayor might truly be vulnerable to opposition this time.”

Maxwell remembered similar talk three years ago. Bruce took sixty-four percent of the vote. “If anyone is crazy enough to oppose him.”

Will put a hand on Maxwell's forearm. “‘Crazy' is a strong word, Maxwell.”

Maxwell found the solemnity in Will's tone surprising. “Are you telling me that one of the two of you are thinking about running? Is that why the
Post
is going after this story so hard?”

Even Joey would have been able to read the conspiratorial glance that passed between Maxwell's two lunch companions then.

“Neither of us has the right constitution for politics,” Will said slowly. “You, on the other hand, have both the mettle and the vision.”

Maxwell was so unprepared for this conversation, that he thought he might have heard the stationery story owner wrong. “The mettle and the vision for what?”

Mike leaned forward. “Don't try to tell me you've never considered political office.”

Had
he ever considered political office? In many ways, being president of the Chamber was exactly that. Certainly, it was political enough. “Are you guys saying what I think you're saying?”

Mike smiled at him. “If you think we're saying you should seriously consider running for mayor next year, then yes.”

Maxwell felt his gut tighten. Mayor? Him? It wasn't as though he'd never considered the idea of some day pursuing an elected position in Oldham. He'd been so focused on enterprise, though. The Chamber position was a nice bridge because the policymaking was all about business. Would he have an equal passion for education, civic affairs, security, and the like?

“There are a lot of people who would rally behind you, Maxwell,” Will said.

Maxwell guessed that was true. The merchants in Oldham were extremely vocal, and monthly spats aside, he'd been a strong advocate for them.

While he was still wrapping his mind around the idea of running for mayor, he had to consider the possibility that running might lead to winning, even if Bruce had crushed his other opponents. If he won, his life would change dramatically. This meant that Annie and Joey's lives would change as well. Maxwell was sure the toddler could handle it. After this weekend, he wasn't positive he could say the same about his wife.

“Well, I can honestly tell you that this is the last thing I thought we'd be talking about today, guys. You're going to have to give me a little time to absorb this.”

Maria had no idea why she hadn't thought of this sooner. Providence was only an hour and a half from Oldham, which meant she only needed to get out of the house by ten or so any time she wanted to have lunch with her daughter. Olivia had seemed so far away since she went to college, but Brown was actually closer than either Manhattan or Boston, and they'd taken day trips to both cities numerous times over the years. And getting out of the house was much less of an issue for her the past week than it had been since late August. On most days, Maria would find herself stirring when Doug got up for his shower, and by the time he was off to work, she'd be gearing up for a session with her guitar and her songbooks.

Shawn Colvin's album of cover songs was on the iPod for the drive. Listening to a distinctive singer-songwriter like Colvin interpreting other songwriters was inspirational for Maria, making her realize she needed to infuse more of herself in the songs she chose. Many of the artists Maria admired covered the work of others on occasion – several of JT's most successful songs were covers – but for some reason it never struck her until now that she should be doing what singers did with the best covers, performing the song as though she'd written it herself.

Between Colvin's silky voice and Maria's rumination on interpretation, the drive seemed to last no more than a few minutes. In fact, it seemed to take as long to navigate through the traffic around the campus, as it had taken to make the entire trip up I-95.

Maria wanted to surprise Olivia with her visit, so she hadn't let her know she was coming. Now that she was out of the car, though, she had to call Olivia's cell phone, since she wasn't sure where her daughter might be. Wednesdays were good days to visit Olivia, because she had a ten o'clock class and then a long break until her class at four. Wednesdays would in all likelihood be the days Maria came up when she wanted to take her daughter to lunch.

Olivia picked up on the third ring. “Hey, what's up?”

“Nothing,” Maria said, trying to keep the playfulness out of her voice. “I was just thinking about getting some lunch.”

“Gee, Mom, thanks for sharing that. Did you post it on your Facebook page?”

“I appreciate the reminder. What are you up to?”

“I hung back to talk to my professor for a few minutes after class and I'm walking back to my dorm now. I'll probably grab some lunch myself pretty soon.”

“Sounds good,” Maria said, hearing the smile in her voice. “So where should we go?”

“Huh?”

“Well, I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I'd hit a greasy spoon with my daughter.”

There was a pause on the other end, and Maria imagined Olivia's wide-eyed expression at the thought that her mother had made this trip just to see her.

“You're here?” Olivia said after ten seconds or so.

“Isn't that cool?”

“Yeah, cool. And you want to have lunch?”

“Well, it's about noon and we're both hungry, so it seems like an option we should consider.”

“Uh, yeah, great. There are a few places just off campus I've been wanting to try. I just need to drop my stuff off in my room.”

They set up a place to meet and Maria strolled around the campus for fifteen minutes while Olivia did whatever she needed to do. It was windier up here than it had been in Oldham this morning, and Maria wished she'd brought a heavier coat. None of that mattered, though, when she enfolded her daughter in her arms.

“I can't believe you just got in the car and drove up here,” Olivia said when they started walking toward the restaurant.

Maria smiled broadly. “It was really easy. This could be a thing we do, you know? I know I don't usually like to drive too far by myself, but this was a piece of cake, really.”

Olivia just nodded, cinched up the collar of her coat, and they walked to the restaurant without saying much else.

They wound up at an Indian buffet that Olivia hadn't been to before. “I hear it's good,” she said, “and we won't have to wait for our food.” They got a table, went up to fill their plates, and by the time they returned, their waiter had come by with naan and pieces of tandoori chicken.

“I'm not going to want to have anything for dinner tonight,” Maria said, examining the bounty she'd put on her plate. “Your father's going to have to get by with leftovers.”