Chapter 9 New Beginnings
Ross calls me on Tuesday evening while I'm watering the garden. I set the hose down and answer.
"I have a question," he says. "And I want to be straightforward about it because I think that's important."
"Okay."
"I'd like to take you to dinner this Friday. Not coffee. Not a work meeting. Not a festival where I happen to be running a tent. Dinner. A real dinner at a real restaurant where I pick you up and we sit across from each other and I tell you how much I enjoy spending time with you."
I stand in my backyard holding the phone and looking at the garden bed along the fence where the tomato plants are starting to ripen. My heart is beating faster than usual and my face is warm.
"I'd like that," I say.
"Good. I'll pick you up at seven."
"Where are we going?"
"There's a place on Orchard Road called Sullivan's. It's small and quiet and the food is excellent. My dad took me there for my birthday last year."
"I've heard of it. I've never been."
"Then Friday will be your first time. I'll see you at seven."
I hang up and stand there in the garden for a minute. Then I pick up the hose and finish watering the tomatoes and go inside. I sit on the couch and stare at my phone for about thirty seconds before calling Amanda.
"He asked me to dinner," I say.
"When?"
"Friday."
"Where?"
"Sullivan's."
"Sullivan's on Orchard Road? Brook. That's the nicest restaurant in Wildhorse."
"I know."
"He's taking you to a real dinner at the nicest restaurant in town. This is happening. This is officially happening."
"I need something to wear."
"I'm picking you up Thursday after work. We're going shopping."
Amanda takes me to a clothing store downtown on Thursday afternoon.
I haven't bought new clothes for anything other than work in over a year.
Kirk and I stopped going out to restaurants about six months ago.
He always said he'd rather eat at home. Now I know why.
Going to a restaurant with me would have complicated whatever else he had going on.
Amanda helps me pick out a simple navy dress that's comfortable and flattering without being overdone.
She also makes me buy new shoes because the ones I was planning to wear are three years old and she says they look it.
I protest mildly about the expense but she reminds me that the money I'm spending is money that Kirk no longer has access to. That settles it.
"You look beautiful," Amanda says when I try the dress on in the fitting room. She's sitting on the little bench outside the door with her arms crossed and her chin up. "Like yourself. Like the Brook I remember from before Kirk started dimming your lights."
"Nobody dimmed my lights."
"Someone convinced you to stop shining them. Same result."
I buy the dress and the shoes and a pair of earrings that Amanda adds to the counter without telling me.
She pays for the earrings before I can argue.
"Consider it an investment in my own happiness," she says.
"Watching you get ready for a date with a man who actually deserves you is the best entertainment I've had in years. "
Friday evening I get ready at home. I shower and dry my hair and put on a little more makeup than I usually wear for work. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to feel polished. I put on the new dress and the new shoes and I look at myself in the bathroom mirror.
I look good. Not in the way that Kirk used to define good.
Not "cleaned up" or "presentable" or "finally making an effort.
" Just good. Healthy. Rested. Alert. My eyes aren't tired the way they were a month ago.
My face isn't carrying the stress that I've been wearing since the night I stood outside Kirk's apartment.
I look like someone who is taking care of herself and it's been a long time since I could say that.
Ross arrives at seven. He comes to the front door and knocks. When I open it he's standing on the porch in a dark blue button-down and gray slacks. His hair is neater than usual. He's holding a small bouquet of wildflowers.
"These are from the field behind the archives," he says. "I know that's not very sophisticated but they reminded me of the lavender you bought at the festival and I thought you might like them."
"I love them."
I put the flowers in a glass of water on the kitchen counter and we leave.
He opens the truck door for me without making a production of it.
Just reaches past me and pulls the handle and waits for me to get in.
Small gestures. Consistent gestures. The kind that come from who someone actually is rather than who they're pretending to be.
The drive to Sullivan's takes us out of town on Orchard Road.
The fields on either side are green and flat and the sky is starting to turn that deep amber color that means the day is almost done.
Ross drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the console between us.
He doesn't turn on music. He asks me about my week.
"Fiona sent a follow-up letter to Kirk," I tell him. "He hasn't responded to the first one yet."
"Is that stressful?"
"It was at first. Now it's just one more thing I'm handling. Fiona is good at what she does. I trust her."
"You should. Having someone you trust in your corner makes everything easier."
"Is that what you are? In my corner?"
He glances at me and then back at the road. "I'd like to be. If you'll have me."
I don't answer right away. I let the words sit between us for a moment.
Then I reach over and put my hand on his and he turns his palm up and our fingers close together.
We drive the rest of the way holding hands and neither of us says a word and it's the most comfortable silence I've ever experienced.
Sullivan's is a converted farmhouse on Orchard Road about ten minutes outside the center of town.
The dining room is small with maybe fifteen tables and the lighting is warm and low.
The walls are exposed brick and there are candles on every table.
It's the kind of place where conversations happen at a reasonable volume and nobody is competing with a television mounted above the bar.
Ross holds the door open for me and we step inside.
The hostess greets him by name. "Good to see you, Ross.
Table for two?" He nods and she leads us to a table near the window.
I notice that he doesn't look around the room to see who's watching.
He doesn't scan for people he knows. He pulls out my chair and sits down across from me and gives me his full attention.
That's it. That's the whole performance.
Except it isn't a performance. It's just who he is.
The hostess seats us at a table near the window.
Ross orders a bottle of wine and we look at the menus.
The food is simple and well-prepared. Steak.
Fish. Roasted vegetables. Homemade bread.
I order the salmon and Ross orders the ribeye and we hand our menus back and settle into each other's company.
"I want to tell you something," he says. "Before we go any further."
"Okay."
"I know you just went through something difficult.
You've mentioned Kirk a few times and I've gathered enough to understand that it wasn't a good ending.
I don't need the details unless you want to share them.
But I want you to know that I'm not trying to rush anything.
I'm here because I enjoy being with you and I think we have something worth exploring.
But only at whatever pace feels right for you. "
I take a sip of wine and look at him. He's watching me with that patient expression that I've come to recognize.
The one that says he's comfortable waiting.
That he's not going to fill the silence with reassurances or promises or pressure.
He said what he wanted to say and now he's giving me room to respond.
"Thank you," I say. "That matters to me more than you know."
"It should matter. It should always matter."
The food arrives and it's excellent. The salmon is perfectly cooked with a lemon butter sauce that I could drink straight. Ross's ribeye is thick and tender and he offers me a bite from his plate without hesitation. We share everything easily. Food and conversation and silence and laughter.
I tell him about the preservation project and about the Archer family land grant I found.
He tells me about his father's latest project.
A rocking horse that Maxwell is building from scratch for the neighbor's grandchild.
He describes his father with such obvious love and respect that it makes me ache in a good way.
The way you ache when you see something beautiful that you'd forgotten existed.
"Your dad sounds extraordinary," I say.
"He's the best person I know. He never raised his voice. Never broke a promise. Never made me feel like I was anything other than exactly who I was supposed to be. I measure every relationship in my life against what he taught me about how to treat people."
"That's a high standard."
"It should be a minimum standard. It should be the baseline. Honesty. Consistency. Showing up when you say you're going to show up. Those aren't exceptional qualities. They're basic. The fact that they feel exceptional says more about what people have accepted than about what they should expect."
I set my fork down. He's not lecturing. He's not performing wisdom or trying to impress me. He's telling me what he believes because I asked. And what he believes is so fundamentally different from what I spent nine years living with that it takes my breath away.
"Kirk never showed up," I say quietly. "Not really. He was there physically. Most of the time. But he never showed up. Not in the way you mean."
"You deserve someone who shows up."
"I'm starting to believe that."
"Good."