Once Upon Another Time (24 page)

 “Make yourself at
home, while I check on dinner.” 

Like the kitchen,
the great room was not typical of most bachelors.  It didn’t have the “man cave”
look.  No oversized black leather sectional sofa, sports memorabilia, or bobble
heads on the bookshelves. 

The narrow planked
hardwood floors looked original and newly sanded and stained.  Seurat and
Cézanne hung on moss colored walls as well as a Redon over the mantel above the
fieldstone fireplace, straight ahead.  I closely examined the beautiful replica
paintings, as if they were originals hanging in the Louvre.  Grouped perfectly
in the middle of the room in front of the fireplace was a camelback damask sofa
opposite two leather wingback chairs that sat on a large Persian area rug.  I
imagined a crackling fire and Gavin wearing a Hugh Heffner smoking jacket with
a pipe in his mouth. 

The coffee table
in front of the sofa was set with two blue tapered candles placed in silver
holders, two place settings of blue toile china, fancy silverware, and blue
linen napkins.

Where on earth
did this man come from? 

To my right, an
antique Chateau De Ville hutch with charming old world detail of decorative
carved accents and glass doors, displayed porcelain pottery, small bronze
figurines, and other items.  The great room connected to the short hallway
leading to the foyer. 

“I hope you like
lasagna,” Gavin called from the kitchen.

Although I was
wary of his cooking, the mingling of basil and garlic spices had my senses
tingling to create a glorious surge of appetite.

 “I love lasagna,”
I called back as I strolled toward the hutch, “especially when it’s made with
lots of sauce and gooey cheese.”

The base of the
hutch had glass doors as well, filled with books, none looking like antiques. 
I squatted down to read the titles.  “The Reincarnation of Edgar Cayce,” “How
to Uncover Your Past Lives,” and “Old Souls: The Scientific Evidence for Past
Lives.”

I stood upright
and stared down at the books. 
What are the chances I’d find two men
fascinated with reincarnation?   

“Here you go chaton
.
”

It was as if I
felt a sudden shift in time.  I turned so quickly I practically stumbled while
coming face to face with Gavin.  “
Chaton
?”  I felt a bit dazed. 

“Yeah, it’s French
for ‘kitten,” Gavin said looking proud of himself, as he handed me a
long-stemmed glass of merlot. 

I looked at him
curiously.  “Yes, I know,” I said and looked down into my glass of wine.  Matt
was fluent in French and
chaton
was the pet name he’d call me.  I looked
back up at Gavin.  “By any chance do you speak French?”

“Not at all,” he
said shaking his head.  “Odd, but I don’t even know where I picked that up
from.  I hope you don’t mind.  By the way, your hair looks great like that,
swept up into a ponytail.”

“Thank you,” I
said, while still feeling as if someone had just walked over my grave. 

“Sorry about the
coffee table being a substitute dining table.  But as you can see,” he said,
while glancing toward the empty breakfast nook with its large bay window, “I
haven’t found a kitchen table that suits my taste.”

My heart pounded
as I stared into Gavin’s eyes.  “The eyes are truly the windows to the soul,” Matt
said to me one day.  “If I die first, promise you’ll look for me.”

“No, please don’t
apologize.  The coffee table is perfect.”

“I’m glad you’re
so accommodating.  Would you mind helping me bring in a few things from the
kitchen?”

Stop reading
something into nothing.

“Of course not,” I
said.

Together, we set
the coffee table with salads of romaine lettuce, a basket of warm Italian
bread, freshly grated parmesan cheese, two steaming plates of lasagna, and a
bottle of merlot.  Gavin ditched the dippy looking apron and lit the candles. 
Harry Connick coolly crooned over the stereo sound system at a volume that was
conducive to seductive conversation.  Gavin had a seemingly effortless way of
setting a romantic scene.

“Please sit,” he
said as he set two oversized throw pillows down on the tapestry rug for us to
sit on. 

I casually studied
his profile, as he sat down cross-legged next to me.  He had a rugged sexy
look, handsome, but not flawless like I first thought.  His nose had a sight
hump at the bridge, and his wavy black hair receded at the temples, but his
eyes were perfect--a beautiful cosmic blue. 

“I’d like to make
a toast,” he declared, as he raised his glass of wine.  “To Mr. Davis.”

“Mr. Davis?”

“Yeah, if it
wasn’t for him, we might never have met,” he said, with a wink.

“Well, then by all
means,” I said, as my glass clinked with his.

Candles, wine,
soft music, his leg brushing up against mine, the room was ultra primed for romance. 
I was so hypnotized I could barely speak.  As we raised our glasses to our lips
to take a sip of wine, mine accidentally dribbled down the front of my chin,
making me feel a little like the Grinch who stole romanticism.  I quickly
grabbed my napkin and wished I could crawl between the layers of my lasagna to
hide.

“I’m sorry.  I
don’t do well at walking and chewing gum at the same time either.” 

Gavin laughed. 
“Don’t worry about it.  What’s a little spilled wine between friends?  Let’s
eat!”

Gavin put a
forkful of lasagna in his mouth, which brought to mind a feature article from
the latest issue of Cosmo, “Sensual Foods to Sex up Your Evening.”  Like
lobster dripping with butter sauce or whipped cream and big red, juicy
strawberries.  I entertained the thought of trying a little tongue action with
the gooey, stretchy cheese, but an attempt to be sexy with food was uncharted
territory for me. 

“Wow, this is
great.”  I was pleasantly surprised considering the burnt sauce I’d seen
sitting in the pan on the stove.

“Glad you like
it.  It’s my mom’s recipe, but I have to apologize for us having Italian twice
in a row.  First, I take you to an Italian restaurant and now this.  I didn’t
think about it until the lasagna was already baking in the oven.”

“Oh, please don’t
apologize, I love Italian food.  I learned to appreciate it at a very young
age.  I was the skinniest kid at St. Michael’s, and half the kids there were
Italian.  I couldn’t walk into any of my friends’ houses without their mothers
trying to feed me.  I think a skinny kid in the eyes of an Italian mother is
viewed as a sacrilege.”

A chuckle came
from Gavin as he dipped a piece of crusty Italian bread into the sauce on his
plate.  “So, are you Catholic?”

“I don’t know if
I’m any one religion.  My parents were brought up Catholic, but they wanted to
broaden my religious views and have me experience different cultural aspects of
life.  I spent some years in Catholic schools attending daily Mass, as well as
a few years at an Episcopalian school and most years, public schools.  My
parents even had a Jewish friend bring me to Synagogue to explain the Torah
scrolls they read.  It all boils down to the same thing.  Having belief in God
or like my parents say, belief in a Higher Power.”

Gavin looked deep
in thought as he nodded.  “Although I only met your parents briefly, I’ll bet
they’re very wise people.  They raised a beautiful and very successful
daughter.”

I felt the heat in
my face.  Blushing wasn’t something I’d experienced in many years.  But Gavin
had an innate way of stirring emotions I’d kept buried, and that evening I
began to feel a distinct turning point in my life.  I must have had the same
influence on him because during our forty-minute dinner he fully opened up
about his parents. 

I learned all the
details of his boyhood and that fatherhood for Jeb was merely a fleeting moment
in time like Dorothy visiting Oz.  His mother was like the northern star that
kept him on track, and guided him through difficult times.  Gavin told me he
had forgiven his father long ago for abandoning him.  And that he was happy he
had come back to Providence.

I finally changed
the subject to something a little lighter.

“So, I see you
like antiques.”

“Antiques are
relics of a time lost and to me anything old is very fascinating.”

That certainly
answered the burning question of why he liked me. 

“I’m intrigued by
things that are real old,” he said earnestly.  “Like sitting in a chair from
another century and trying to imagine who sat in it, and how they were dressed,
what the house looked like, was the chair part of a family with kids?  It’s
like trying to uncover a mystery.” 

“That’s a very
interesting perspective.”  I glanced toward the hutch.  “I noticed you have a
few books on reincarnation.  Do you believe in it?”

Gavin paused and
looked down at his glass of wine, as if the answer was floating somewhere at
the bottom.  “I usually don’t discuss that subject with anyone.  I think it
bothers some people and others, well, they might find it kind of odd.” 

“I don’t think
it’s odd.  I find it very interesting,” I said, adventurously

He pulled his eyes
away from the glass to look at me.  I saw a tinge of eagerness in his
expression.

“Take for instance
someone who had never had a lesson on a piano, but can play like a concert
pianist,” I said.  “And others who were never taught to paint could pick up a
brush and create a masterpiece.  Some philosophers claim these people are the
reincarnation of great people like van Gogh and Bach.  I can’t say I believe in
reincarnation, but it’s an interesting theory.”

“It is,” Gavin
said eagerly.  “Theorizing about the possibility of the soul living on is
fascinating, and in ways it makes perfect sense.  For example, the Laws of
Physics state that energy can’t be destroyed.  It also states that
thought
is energy, and that the individual energy pockets of thought, feeling, and
experience that comprise our individuality, or our souls can’t be destroyed. 
However, they can be transformed from one state to another.  Therefore, if that
theory is correct, our souls are eternal, and they must still exist after
death.”

Transformed…exist
after death
?

I felt as if I had
entered some kind of time warp, causing my mind to instantly rewind.  The more
Gavin talked the more he reminded me of Matt.  Gavin’s beliefs and views on the
subject of reincarnation was everything Matt used to hypothesize, not to
mention the other strange similarities between Matt and Gavin.

I took big gulps
of wine, while trying to digest what Gavin was saying.  Like chemical energy
can become kinetic energy and mathematics is infallible and energy is
definable.  After forty-five minutes, I was left with an overwhelming sense of
intergalactic spirituality.  Mother would have been so proud of me.

Our conversation
tapered down to our own lives in the real world, our insecurities, and leftover
baggage from childhood and failed relationships.  Perhaps the wine loosened my
lips, but I felt there wasn’t anything I couldn’t tell Gavin.  My soul felt
more cleansed that evening than all the times I’d talked to Father Martino in
the confessional booth.

As the sun went
down, reflections from the flickering candles on the coffee table did a gentle
tango across the wall.  Gavin’s eyelids were like half-closed Roman shades, as
he gently took my hand in his.  Before I knew it, his sweet merlot soaked lips
were on mine.  His warm, sensual kiss made my stomach flutter.

My insecurities
flared, as I excused myself and asked to use the restroom.  I felt the need to reapply
lip-gloss and make sure my eyeliner hadn’t smeared to give me the Uncle Fester
look.

Gavin turned on
the single light bulb hanging in the center of the twelve-foot high ceiling in
the foyer.  I studied the old oak stair rail missing some of its balusters. 

“So, maybe I shouldn’t
hang on to the rail on the way up,” I said teasingly.

He smiled.  “I’ll
go cleanup the coffee table.”

The wooden stairs
creaked while climbing them, which reminded me of what Gavin had said about
antiques and how different the world was when they were brand new.  I couldn’t
help wonder about the family who first climbed those very stairs more than a
century ago.

I reached the top
of the staircase and passed Gavin’s bedroom.  Like a gleaming trophy to proven
manhood, I’d found his “man cave.”  In the corner was a monstrous leather
recliner large enough to hold an arsenal of TV and stereo controls, snacks, a six-pack
of beer, small car...you get the picture.  Clothes hung from the dresser
drawers and four-poster bed like overripe fruit on a tree.  Down the hall
dust-bunnies gathered to mate in the corner on the worn hardwood floor.  In the
bathroom, the half-peeled dilapidated wallpaper was a project Gavin told me he
had started months ago.  A neat freak he wasn’t, a procrastinator, maybe. 

    When I returned
downstairs and walked back into the living room, Gavin was nowhere in sight. 
However, the French doors on either side of the fireplace in the living room
were open.  A reading lamp close to the doors cast a soft halo onto a limestone
patio outside where I joined Gavin as he stood under a starry sky. 

“Hey you,” I said
as I walked up to him.

He coiled one
strong arm around my waist and brought me close to him, then raised his hand to
trace the side of my face with his finger. 

“Why are you
smiling at me so mysterious like?”  I asked.

“It’s a secret,”
he said, as his lips covered mine.

It was countdown
time for Camp Big Foot--twenty-four hours left to go.  As Nicholas stacked a
pile of clothing on his bed to pack, Buster contently kneaded his paws into a
soft pile of freshly laundered T-shirts.  I sat cross-legged on the floor in
his bedroom sewing annoying little nametags inside every piece of clothing,
while I daydreamed about the three glorious weeks that Gavin and I had been
dating.