It Burns a Lovely Light (16 page)

"He said to tell you he'll call you tonight and fill you in."

"I can't wait to hear every detail. Is William around?"

"Claire had a meeting with Ham. William went along to play with Eileen." She paused. "The summer's over, lovey. Come on home."

"Would it be all right if I stayed a little longer?"

Billie Kane lay in her hospital bed, dressed in a flowing blue satin robe. The top buttons were undone to reveal her pale, unlined neck
and a modest yet impossibly sexy hint of bosom. She glowed with fever; her hair was perfect. All of her loved ones gathered around her bed. Everyone - even the handsome doctor - fought back tears...

"Billie." Eileen poked her stepmother's arm.
"Get up. You said to wake you up in an hour."

She groaned. "How many times have I told you to call me Mommy?"

Eileen pouted as Billie hooked the necklace around her neck.
At the center of the necklace dangled a heavy silver #1. It was the most butt-ugly thing Eileen had ever seen.

She stomped her foot. "Why can't I cut my hair? Farley cut her hair short."

"She most certainly did," said Billie. "And now she looks like a lesbian." She clenched Eileen's chin, hard. "Aren't you the lucky girl, going to Patty England's birthday party and getting to wear my special 'best realtor in all the land' necklace?"

Eileen glared, but held her tongue.

"Hands up." Billie rotated her finger to indicate that Eileen should twirl.

Miserable, Eileen lifted her arms above her head and
rotated. The lace from her pink blouse itched, her pink tights sagged at the knees, and Patty England was a goddamn bossy bitch. And Billie was a big fat, butt-face bitch.

Ham shuffled through the papers in his briefcase. "A lot
of fuss for a child's birthday party."

"Not when the child's father is one of the richest men in the state," sang Billie.

"What does that have to do with Eileen?"

Billie crossed her arms and gave her husband a sarcastic smile.

"I'll be outside," Eileen mumbled.

When Billie did that smile with her mouth but not with her
eyes, it was time to get a move on.

"Let me remind you," said Billie, checking her purse for her business cards, "of the three most important qualities of a successful realtor: networking, networking, networking. As the mother of an
invited guest, it would be rude for me not to introduce myself to Mr. and Mrs. England and make polite conversation."

"Politely promoting yourself."

Billie sniffed. "A successful realtor is not afraid to
toot her own horn. If Mr. England wants to look at purchasing or listing real estate, do you think he is going to call a
strange
realtor?"

I'm sorry Eileen isn't here," said Ham, pouring William
a glass of lemonade. "Believe me, she would rather play with you than dress up and go to a birthday party."

"I know." William began sifting through Eileen's
crayon box, enjoying the waxy smell.

"I'll only keep your aunt a few minutes. Are you sure you don't want any more ginger snaps?"

"No, thank you. I don't like the feeling of being full."

"I wish I didn't like the feeling of being full," said Ham, closing his study door.

Claire chuckled. "You and me, both." She picked up a framed photo of Billie and Ham on their wedding day. "This is a lovely
picture of the two of you. Look at those smiles."

Leaning back, Ham pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes. I deserve this, he thought, resisting the urge to giggle hysterically.

He had wanted - no, needed - someone to take away his fear
of raising Eileen on his own, and Billie fit the bill. She was smart, attractive, and successful. She brought fancy, girly gifts for Eileen and charmed his partners at dinner parties. She wore tantalizing red panties with
matching bras 'just for him' and was athletic and willing in the bedroom. Check, check, check. So he married her.

William's voice called from the kitchen. "Aunt Claire?"

"Sorry, Ham." She held up a finger. "Give me
one second."

Ham's heart beat double-time as he watched her cross the room. How different his life might have been if Claire hadn't turned him away. He recalled his painfully awkward advance, made after she moved back to Bridge
Manor. Why had he rushed her? If he had waited....

"All right," said Claire, closing the door. "Let's get started."

Forcing his thoughts to return to the present, Ham removed a
thick file from his bottom drawer.

"I don't want you to be discouraged," he said, unfolding a single white sheet of paper. "There are still a few things we can..."

"We lost the appeal."

She reached for the document:

"The original investigation determined that the accident was due to personal misconduct on Colonel James' part. The airman was found to
have initiated a dispute with a fellow officer. The reckless manner and speed of the car that Colonel James was driving was found to have been the primary cause of the accident. Nor was Colonel James acting in the line of duty at the
time of death. Since the original investigation, no new evidence has surfaced to contradict these findings. Therefore the appeal for Colonel James' government benefits, specifically VA dependency and indemnity compensation, is denied."

Fifteen screaming seven-year-olds bolted around the England's back yard, intent on staining their party clothes. Billie stood in the shade, disgusted. Mr. England was nowhere to be found. The wife - Tami with an 'i,' of all things - had greeted her warmly enough. But she had cut Billie off, too wrapped up in her little party to hear about Billie's third year in a row as a member of the Carter and Wilder Realtors Million Dollar Club. Selfish bitch.

Preoccupied with her thoughts, she didn't notice the dumpy
man in a multicolored clown costume until he was right in front of her, twisting a long balloon into a wiener dog. He bowed, presenting the balloon dog with an exaggerated grin, as if the warped balloon was actually worth
something.

"Get that repulsive thing away from me, you moron," Billie hissed, slapping the balloon.

One more look around the yard, and she headed for the door. On her way out, she placed a small stack of her business cards - the new ones
with her latest glamour photo - on the table in the foyer.

Henry handed Farley a can of Iron City.

"Here's to you," she said, raising her beer. "You did it."

"Strictly speaking,
you
did it. You and your cast of characters."

"Strictly speaking, you could have at least waited
until I got back from Kiawah to buy the place."

"Who knew you were going to stay so long? It's practically winter. Mom thought she was going to have to evict you."

She smacked his arm.

"Seriously," he said, "I'm glad you're feeling better. We all are."

Farley returned to Bridge Manor in early November, as the
first snow threatened. She'd been sad to leave Kiawah, but was excited to get on with the rest of her life.

"In all your dreams," she teased, "did you ever think your restaurant would be just down the hill from your auntie?"

"Don't jinx me; it's not mine until I sign my life away tomorrow morning."

"Everything will be fine."

"I know it," he said, sounding very Veda Marie. He
licked the foam from his upper lip. "I have to say, I couldn't have found a more perfect place. The strip district is just across the bridge, so I can buy fresh seafood and produce. We've got vineyards and farms nearby, and a greenhouse out back. It's full of junk right now, but eventually I'll grow vegetables and
herbs in there. I can't wait to show you everything."

"Why wait?" She grabbed his hand. "Come on, let's go."

They parked in the empty lot and stared at the two-story wooden building.

"I wish I could show you the inside, but I don't get the keys until tomorrow."

Farley opened the passenger door. "I'm sure we can find
a way in."

They walked around the back of the building. A nervous Henry kept watch as she tried the doors and windows. Almost immediately, she found an unlocked window.

"I don't think this is such a good idea, Farley."

"Don't worry," she said, slowly working the window up. "And quit looking over your shoulder. You look like a bad spy. No one can see us; nobody drives by here anymore. Which reminds me, you're going to
need a tall, well-lit sign that people can see from a distance. You're only a few blocks from the waterfront, but you're off the main road."

"Still as bossy as ever, I see."

"I am not." She grabbed onto the window ledge and bent her leg. "Boost me up."

"Stay here," said Henry. "The flashlight is in the kitchen."

They took their time touring the building, discussing everything from bathroom mirrors to walk-in freezers. Henry was impressed by Farley's extensive knowledge of even the most minuscule details of the food service industry.

"You learned all this waiting tables?"

She shrugged. "I used to drive my manager crazy coming up with ways to do things better."

"I'm sure he appreciated it."

"Not as much as one might think," said Farley. "He fired me."

Laughing, he opened a door that led to a narrow stairway. "Come on, I'll show you my apartment."

"Your apartment?"

For some reason, she had assumed he would live at Bridge Manor.

Henry put the car in park and turned off the ignition.

"I'll never forget the day Mom and I drove up." He pointed to the lawn. "You were right there, taking zombie pictures with your hair all Medusa-wild."

Farley smiled at the memory. "I was so impressed that
you - a teenage boy - treated me like a real person."

"I make it a point to talk to anyone who smells like fried chicken."

"I mean it, Henry. You were the first person to ever
take my dream seriously."

He twisted in his seat to face her. Sometimes he was struck by how much Farley resembled her mother. Of course, Veda Marie had warned him long ago to keep that tidbit to himself.

"I believe we all need something to strive for,"
he said. "Even if that something changes along the way."

For the next hour she didn't hold anything back; from standing in their Las Vegas kitchen that horrible morning, to her suffocating
grief that became an almost comfortable obstruction for her to hide behind. She spoke of her disregard for her brother's needs and her emotional and physical deterioration, which led to her healing trip to Henry's own family beach house.
She shared her conservative optimism for the future.

"Ham Kane offered me a job typing and filing. It's only temporary, but it will give me time to find a 'real' job. If I work hard and
save my money, William and I should be able to move on in a year or so."

"Would you ever consider staying in Pittsburgh?"

"We've already been here longer than we've ever lived anywhere," she said, as if that explained everything.

"So moving on is still in your plans, even if you won't exactly be wandering free." Henry scratched his chin. "Any hope for the 'trusty camera' part?"

Farley looked at her hands. "I don't know."

The day she and William moved into Bridge Manor, she had buried her camera case in the back of her closet. She hadn't touched it since.

Later that night, Farley stood in front of the open closet. She pushed aside an old suitcase, a box, a pair of boots. Slowly at first, then faster, she began tossing things - digging her way toward the back of the cavernous closet until she found her camera case. Carrying the dusty case to the window
seat, she unhooked the latch and pulled out her Minolta, lenses, filters, and film kit, and lined them up side by side on the bench. Then she buried her head all the way down inside the case and inhaled the smell of her youth.

"I'm not even going to ask," said Resa, passing by Farley's room.

Two months later, Farley pushed open the front door of the
restaurant. "Hello?"

She had to yell against the roar of the snowstorm. Winter had come late, and more brutal than normal.

"Back here!"

The dining room was a mess. Floors covered with paper,
boxes, boards, tools, drawings, and tables and chairs stacked to the ceiling. Henry's desk was piled so high with papers, only the top of his head showed.

"I thought you were getting some filing cabinets,"
she said.

Grinning, he spread his long arms. "They're around here somewhere."

Only the large kitchen was partially organized. On the far end, the floor-to-ceiling bookcases were lined with row after row of preserved
foods: large jars of tomatoes, beans, garlic, onions, and pickles, which provided a vibrant backdrop against the shiny, stainless steel appliances.

"You were right about the main dining area," said
Henry, coming up behind her. "The acoustics are bad and there's not enough light. I've got a meeting with the contractor on Thursday. Do you think you could come?"

"I can't; I have to work. Besides, I don't know
anything about construction."

"You knew enough to spot the sound and lighting problem."

"Those were obvious."

"Not to me. I've got a meeting about the new
ventilation system, and I can't find my receipts."

"You need help. When does Colette get here?"

"Not for a few months." He looked at Farley, his brown eyes pathetic and pleading. "I've got a proposition for you. Help me
through this first part, and I'll help you become the best restaurant manager in the city."

"Me? The only experience I have is waiting tables."

"You've worked in the industry," said Henry,
reeling his points off on his fingers. "You learned it from the ground up...starting in the bowels. You know what it takes to run the front of the house. You're smart as hell, you've got great ideas, and I trust you. Come on,
Farley. I need you."

"I'm still planning to leave, Henry."

"Fine. Can I have you until then?"

She blushed. "I don't know...."

"I'm begging you. Help me with this ludicrous paperwork. Help me decipher the permits and inspections. I need a schedule and a master checklist so nothing falls through the cracks." He threw up his hands. "And you know...any other stuff that comes up along the way."

She laughed. "Oh, is that all? I thought you meant, like, something hard."

"Okay, Mr. Winston." Henry slid three small plates across the table. "Veda Marie tells me you have impeccable taste buds."

Mr. Winston tucked a napkin under his chin. "I do hope
she meant that as a compliment. I must admit to a particularly sensitive palate."

"Fair enough. I'd like your palate's assessment of my cinnamon-almond cake."

Mr. Winston took a small bite, then a drink of milk.
"Moist."

Henry nodded. "Try the second plate."

Picking up a new fork, Mr. Winston took a bite. "The texture is different."

Farley consulted her notes. "Henry eased up on the ground
almonds."

Using his napkin, Mr. Winston wiped the corners of his mouth. "By all means, bring back the almonds."

As Farley scribbled in her notebook, Henry tapped the third
plate with his pencil. "Last one."

This time Mr. Winston closed his eyes as he chewed. "Cinnamon butter glaze." He waved his fork. "There's your winner, Freeman."

Mr. Winston wasn't the only Bridge Manor resident to be recruited by Farley. By the time spring arrived she had gotten everyone in on the act. September took over the gardening. Before long, pots containing plants
in various stages of growth covered the wooden tables running the length of the greenhouse. Tiny signs in each pot read: thyme, oregano, parsley, basil, tomatoes, squash, zucchini, and peppers.

In the spring, shoots of lettuce, peas, and radishes were
moved to the large bed behind the property, followed by tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers and zucchini as the days heated up. Small buds of snapdragons, alyssum, marigolds, black-eyed Susans, daisies, and lavender were spread about the property, from which flowers would be cut for table decorations.

William helped September with the gardening after school. He could pretty much count on having a nocturnal emission whenever he spent the day with her. Sometimes he helped out in the office as well, humming to the
radio or bursting into song as he filed the burgeoning mounds of paperwork. Not counting the day he got a paper cut and bled all over the laundry receipts, William was an excellent filer.

Veda Marie slipped into the role of Freeman's team mother,
cheering each new improvement, making sure no one went too long without food, and washing and folding Henry's laundry. She kept Mary updated on Henry's progress, sending photos and writing long, descriptive letters. Resa planned to
wait tables whenever her dance schedule allowed. Even Ryan came down periodically to bless each new stage of construction, claiming 'better safe than sorry.'

It was Claire who turned out to be Farley's most valuable
resource. As a former librarian, she could put her hands on anything; inspection checklists, employee forms, and contact information for local business associations. Farley would leave questions for her on the kitchen chalkboard before she left for work. Often by the time she got home that evening,
the answers were on the board and any materials relating to Farley's questions were on the counter.

"It's all here," said Claire, brandishing her library card as if it were a police badge. "You just have to know where to
look."

Veda Marie was determined to walk through her cramp. She and Claire had been hiking for less than ten minutes, but for her, getting started
was the hardest part. Her breath heaved in and out, sharp pains ran up her legs, and her feet throbbed. A level-headed person would turn around and head straight home to a cool bath and a tall glass of iced lemonade. But she couldn't. Not after finally getting Claire into a daily exercise routine of
hiking the hills below Bridge Manor.

"Eight in the morning and it's already warm," said Claire, wiping beads of sweat from her upper lip. "Suddenly I'm not so
opposed to Farley's outdoor shower idea."

Veda Marie grunted in response.

Unlike Veda Marie, Claire tended to be talkative and energetic at the beginning of their walks. Later, as the humidity of the
morning threatened to suffocate her, she would begin to wear down - usually around the time they were making their way back up the slope. By the time they reached Bridge Manor she would have to practically drag herself up the lawn.

"Joe's been offered the job of head coach for the
Frosty Devils hockey team," said Claire.

Veda Marie waited until her breathing evened out before she tried to talk. "Head coach? What about school?"

"He says he'll have more time to study because the rink
is nearby - right behind South High. Paddy's going to hit the roof."

"Speaking of Paddy, was that him on the phone last night?"

"Ha, ha, very funny. As if you didn't know. He wanted
to take me out to dinner Sunday." She glanced at her friend. "Pull your eyebrows out from under your bangs, Veda Marie. I invited him to join us for Sunday dinner, instead."

The women had recently added a traditional Sunday Dinner to Bridge Manor's meal schedule, for those who might be available. Based on the laughter, the endless stories, and everyone's reluctance to get up from the table, the Sunday afternoon gatherings were already a hit.

"I'm glad to hear it," said Veda Marie. "The man looks like he could use a good meal."

"I'm worried about him; he's under a lot of stress."

"More layoffs?"

"Yes. And I'm afraid it's only going to get worse."

Henry ducked his head as he stepped through the small
greenhouse door. He started holding his staff meetings in there over a year ago, when the dining room floors were being re-finished. It had quickly become the staff's favorite place to meet. The air was damp, thick with the aroma of
soil and vegetation, and the room had an organic, calming atmosphere. He clipped off a limb of rosemary and swept his hand up the branch, giving it a little pressure to release the oil. Cupping his hands to his face, he inhaled
the invigorating aroma as he looked around the room.