Installment One - Installment Two - Installment Three - Installment Four - Installment Five - Installment Six - Installment Seven - Installment Eight - Installment Nine - Installment Ten - Installment Eleven - Installment Twelve - Installment Thirteen
THE HUGE ROSES (working title)
copyright 2014 by Betty van den Betsy; not for reprint or publication without permission
It took almost five minutes for
Tory to regain her composure, and when she did, she realized the dogs still
needed their night-time run. She took
them out the back door and let them race around the barn looking for mice while
she grabbed an armful of logs to take back up to the house.
The prosaic activities,
unfortunately, let her mind wander.
Hardly wander, really, as her thoughts hammered away at the same
question, in looping variations: What
was I thinking? What did he think of
me? Did he think I bumped him on
purpose; that I was coming on to him? I
don’t even know how to come on to
someone! Why did that happen? Should I have done something different?
One thing Tory had learned for
certain, observing the romantic tribulations of her older siblings and numerous
friends: second-guessing is not worth
the time it takes or the agony it extracts.
Three steps from the back door, in her good topcoat, with an armful of
logs and Hal urging her to start a game of fetch by thwacking a great stick
he’d found against her calves, she stopped and took a deep breath of the cold
November air. As she exhaled, she
imagined all her doubt and anxiety leaving her, wafted away in a cloud of
condensation, to dissipate into the night sky.
Considerably calmer, she entered the house after commanding Hal to drop
his muddy branch. Stacking the logs in
the mud room, and still trying to exhale anxiety, she announced to the quiet
house, “But crikey, that was one seriously excellent kiss.”
Immediately, the ruckus in her head
started up again, as she made her way into the kitchen and slumped down at the
table: So it was a great kiss. So I should do it again? And then what? And what if it was just a run-of-the-mill
kiss for him? So maybe the next time it
might be even better? What next
time? He didn’t even like it! He didn’t want to come in, he pushed me away. Would you have invited him in? And then what? He’s here for a few weeks and then he goes
home to his Rolls Royce and his perfect girlfriend and his mother in Chanel
suits or something. So do you want to be
the stammering American girl he slept with a couple times?
“Oh, just shut up!” Tory shouted aloud, standing abruptly. She turned on the radio – Top 40, a bit too
loud – and banged the kettle against the sink as she filled it with water. “Right,” she said, more quietly but with
decision, “It was just a kiss. I’m
making a list. Groceries. No, garden plan. And then to bed.” Thirty minutes wrestling with corn in rows
versus corn in clumps, with a mug of peppermint tea to aid her thinking, sent
her up to bed drowsy and content. “I’ll
probably start worrying again the minute I’m horizontal,” she thought, and fell
deep asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
She felt better the next morning;
more clear-headed. As she explained to
Fiona, lying atop her to enjoy the early-morning sunshine that touched Tory’s
bed, “I am not usually a short-term kind of person. One wowser kiss isn’t going to change
that. And he is clearly not my long-term
guy, so I can just forget about it. The
impulse of a moment, and the moment gone and done. Fine.
Move on. And get off me, kitty; I
need to wash.” Thus Max van den Nie was
labeled, filed and closed up in a box.
Theoretically, at least.
Tory did have to listen to the
twins’ very different raptures over the Dutchman when they phoned that weekend,
but a few ‘uh-huhs’ and a ‘yup’ covered her end of the conversation. Thanksgiving might prove tricky if Neil or
Emma noticed any tension between Max and her, but she’d make sure they
didn’t. After all, why should there be
any tension? They were both
grown-ups. Sophisticated adults do not
stress out over a couple of enjoyable conversations and a kiss. “So, I have ten days to become sophisticated,”
Tory joked to herself as she cycled home one afternoon.
The weather had taken a definite
turn to the better, as if in apology for the early burst of winter. She was able to bike to and from work each
day, albeit well scarved and gloved, reveling in the blue skies and crisp
air. Dr. Bachman kept staggered office
hours, 7:00am to 3:00pm two days a week.
On those days, she took a direct route on her way to work – less than
two miles – but a longer, scenic route home, enjoying the last of the day’s
sunlight. The thirty or forty minutes
allowed her to exercise her body and clear her mind. Her work wasn’t all new-baby visits – Diana
Schwahnn had been in that afternoon with her very tiny daughter: ten little
fingers, ten miniature toes and a thatch of down-soft black hair. But they’d also had to share bad results from
a mammogram, reconfigure the prescription for a favorite patient, endlessly brave
in the face of increasingly severe chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, and
spend hours doing paperwork and navigating the labyrinths of various
insurers. Clearing her head was an
important part of being able to do her work well.
So she spun around the lake,
pounded up a few hills, and swooped back down them on the other sides. She was getting ready to turn toward home
when she saw, just barely, a small pool of thick, brownish liquid at the edge
of the street. She was braking, swinging
a leg over her bike, before her conscious mind even recognized it as blood.
The trail of drops was hard to see
in the cover of dried leaves and pine needles along the roadside, but the
injured kitten taking shelter under a bush was easy to find. The black and white spots of its calico
pattern stood out against the rust-colored ground cover. Resigning herself to getting scratched for
her trouble, Tory dropped to her hands and knees and began crawling toward the
cat, speaking softly as she approached.
Max,
driving Josh Brown’s BMW coupe toward his home office for a quiet evening
amongst his data sets, saw the bright green bicycle lying next to the pavement
first. Almost immediately, he noticed
the shapely lower body extending from a roadside shrub. Tory had changed into shiny grey exercise
tights for the ride home, and their spandex blend did nothing to hide the
curves of her legs and hips. She vaguely
noticed the sound of an engine, but paid no attention as she seemed to have
gained the kitten’s trust, and her focus was on emerging safely with the
frightened animal.
