Forty
You forgot this,” Dune said, holding out Bridie’s raincoat the morning after the auction.
“Oh,” Bridie said. “I would have picked it up from my mom. You didn’t have to come over here.”
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” He was unshaven but freshly showered. Looking a little worse for wear around the edges. “I owe you an apology.”
“You don’t owe me anything. I’m fine.”
“I know you’re fine, but I want to apologize for last night. I took a few of our beef suppliers out to dinner before the event, and boy, those guys can put it away. I don’t have the tolerance anymore. I should have gone home. Can I buy you breakfast?”
Bridie had to admit she was kind of curious about present-day Dune, but didn’t know if she was ready to go out on the town with Dune. She hesitated.
“Please,” he said.
Over breakfast, a nice quiet place where they had a table in the back of a mostly empty room, Bridie learned that Dune was the driving force behind so many changes at Finnegan’s she thought brilliant.
The in-house bakery that produced better-than-decent baguettes and a good sourdough and excellent country loaves.
The expansive counter with exotic (to Bridie) cheeses from Europe.
The cases loaded with iridescent species of unfamiliar fish, the tiny quails nestled in a tray next to a selection of their miniature spotted eggs, the hanging cured meats and specialty sausages.
He told her how he’d fallen in love with the town markets and food halls during his travels in England, France, Italy, Spain, and Denmark.
He’d dreaded returning to Rochester and taking up his post at Finnegan’s.
“My first month, Helen had me tag along to a food industry conference in New York. Four days of walking around from booth to booth schmoozing with other grocers and retailers and food suppliers and design experts.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“It was interesting if you’re curious about how to maximize shelf space or fit all the new flavors of Lean Cuisine in the freezer case or the genius of ‘value added’ meat.
” When Bridie looked confused, he clarified, “Lamb chops already seasoned and ready for grilling, skewers of chicken sitting in a store-made marinade. That kind of stuff. Hours and hours of conversation about how to sell convenience, but zero conversation about food. Food! If I don’t care about the actual food, who will? ”
Helen Harper was territorial, he explained, and suspicious of Dune and fearful about her job.
“I get it,” Dune said. “Her work is her life. But I like Helen. I’m happy to let her do her thing.
” She’d taken a lot of convincing, so he’d started small.
One elaborate cheese counter at the store downtown.
“We built a story around the product, starting with regions. We printed maps so customers could see exactly where in France or Ireland or Denmark the cheese came from. We know what the animals eat and how the cheese is aged and how that translates into taste. That one location sold more cheese than all the Finnegan’s Grocers combined.
” Gradually, he said, Helen opened up to most of his ideas.
“Can’t get her on board with on-site butchering of entire sides of beef, but I’m working on it.
It’s what we used to do. The only way for true quality control. ”
But Dune truly lit up when he described the training program that sent their best employees all over the world to master a specialty.
“Imagine,” he told her, eyes wide, “one day you’re working behind the meat counter in Henrietta and the next week you’re down in Argentina learning about cattle.
” Dune told her they’d sent six store managers to a cheese cave in southern France for two months.
They had a group working on a salmon farm in the Pacific Northwest.
“I’m envious,” she finally said. “Maybe I should fill out an application. I’ve never been to Europe. Or Seattle.”
“I’m talking too much. Sorry. A little nervous, I guess.” He put his hands around the coffee cup like he needed warmth, but they’d been sitting there for two hours, the mug couldn’t possibly have any heat to it, and Bridie noticed his fingers were trembling.
“Nervous or hungover?” she said.
“A little of both. I’ve been doing really well moderating with alcohol.
It’s hard in this business not to overdo it.
A job of excess.” Bridie nodded and picked at a donut sitting on a plate in the center of the table.
She wasn’t sure she was ready to become Dune’s confidante.
His friend. Even though they were just sitting and having coffee, she felt the wrath of Clara all the way from New York City.
“I haven’t drunk like that in months.”
“Is that what this breakfast is about? Do you need a recommendation? For a sponsor, a supportive sober community, a good AA meeting?”
Confused, he asked, “Are you in AA?”
“No. I’m a social worker.”
“Right. Right! But no. God, no. I didn’t ask you here for advice.”
“I’d be happy to help.”
“I’m okay.” He started flicking the end of a pack of sugar, fidgeting in his seat. “I’m good at controlling the drinking ninety-nine percent of the time.”
“Ah yes. That pesky one percent. I know it well. Support is really helpful. And often illuminating.”
“Thanks. I’ll think about it. I didn’t remember you were a social worker. What do you do exactly?”
Bridie understood he was more eager to change the subject than he was curious about her work, but you couldn’t push a person before they were ready.
“Mostly reproductive stuff at a clinic downtown. We’re affiliated with the University of Rochester.
Birth control, STD prevention, unplanned pregnancy counseling.
We also have a big AIDS testing program. ”
“One-stop shopping for private parts.”
“If you need free condoms, I’m your girl!” She bent her head and tried to take a sip from her empty mug of tea. She was blushing.
“The AIDS testing doesn’t make you nervous?”
“Why would it make me nervous? You don’t get AIDS from being near people who might have AIDS.” She was so tired of this conversation and realized she was snapping at Dune, but honestly. Did people not read?
“I know that. I didn’t know if you had to handle blood samples or something.”
“I don’t. I’m not a nurse like your sister, who does handle blood samples. Is Fern afraid?”
“Bridie, I’m just asking questions here. No judgments. I’m glad you’re both doing what you’re doing.”
“Sorry. It’s just, with my dad and all, I get defensive. I know that.”
“Your dad?” he said, genuinely surprised.
“My—gay dad?”
“Sam is gay? You’re kidding me.”
“I am not. How do you not know this?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t! You have to admit it’s fucking bizarre how little we all know about one another.”
“Now you know.” She was irrationally pissed. The lines had been drawn years ago. Nina didn’t talk to the girls about Finn’s family and vice versa. It made sense at first, but Dune was right to call it strange. Talk about secrets. Talk about shame. She waved for the check.
“Wait a second. What did I say? I didn’t know, but I don’t care. I think it’s great that your dad is gay!” He said the last sentence so loudly that several tables turned around and stared at them—half with disapproval, half amused. They couldn’t help but laugh.
“Want to get out of here and go for a walk?” Dune said.
That’s how it started. The occasional coffee and a long walk.
Talking on the phone. Catching each other up on the past fifteen years.
How much it bothered Dune that Fern still felt responsible for Honey all these years later.
How Bridie worried that even though Sam had reconfigured his life he was still lonely, how it seemed as if he would never fully embrace his identity.
“He brings a quote-unquote friend around every once in a while,” Bridie said, “but that’s it.
I can’t tell if he likes the solitude or if secrecy makes him feel safe. ”
“But you talk about him being gay? It’s understood?”
“Yes. Clara and I figured it out—well, Clara figured it out before me. She went to see him back when he lived in San Francisco. We were both worried sick. If he heard you and I having this conversation, he would be mortified. I wish he were more comfortable with all of it. I wish he could find joy and companionship. Maybe he has, but he can’t share it with us. ”
“I have to imagine that for Sam, being kind of out of the closet is a big deal.”
“I suppose that’s true. This city doesn’t easily make room for anyone trying to reinvent themselves.” Bridie confided in Dune how Clara still ran hot and cold with Nina, vacillating between aloof and grudgingly trying.
“Is she ever in Rochester?” Dune asked, not sounding as casual as he hoped.
“No. I’ve visited her in New York a handful of times.
It’s fun. We always have fun. But then I can’t help myself.
I try to get her to come home for the holidays or remind her about Dad’s or Mom’s or, worst of all, Finn’s birthday and she snaps shut like a poked clam.
Sometimes she’ll have dinner with Mom and Finn when they’re in New York and sometimes she’s ‘too overbooked.’ Sometimes she’s nice; sometimes she’s a bitch.
When was the last time you saw her?” They were rounding the reservoir at Cobb’s Hill, a pretty walking spot where nobody noticed or interrupted them.
A glorious summer day. The park beneath them a vivid green.
“I don’t know. Maybe at the party for Fern after she graduated from nursing school?”
“She wasn’t there. She only came home when Dad sold the house. Took some stuff. Spent forty-seven of the forty-eight hours she was here complaining about the weather and the restaurants and the food shopping.” She looked at Dune. “No offense.”
“None taken. Before my time.”
“I think she has a boyfriend. She’s never at her place when I call. And she thinks I don’t notice that she only calls me when she knows I’m not home.”
“Her loss,” he said.
Bridie watched Dune’s expression carefully. She’d last talked to Clara three weeks ago and had oh-so-casually mentioned that she’d gone to a Red Wings baseball game with Dune.
“Wait a second,” Clara said, “are you dating Dune?”
“Of course not!” Bridie said, her voice cracking even though she was telling the absolute truth.
“Of course not,” Clara mimicked. “Why do you sound like you’re lying?”
“I don’t because I’m not lying. I’m not dating Dune. How come you’re never home? Are you dating someone?”
“Maybe.” Bridie could hear the smile in Clara’s voice.
“Who—”
“A photographer. But that’s all you’re getting because I have to run! More later.”
Just as autumn prematurely poked its head out in late August, a temperature drop, a chilly breeze, the quickening red of the maple leaves, all harbingers of winter, which Bridie dreaded, Dune invited her over to his apartment for dinner.
As soon as she walked through the door, she felt a charge in the air.
Candles. Music. Something sublime spattering away in the oven.
Over dinner, they talked about the ways that staying in Rochester was good (“Nick Tahou’s garbage plate,” Dune said dreamily.
“That thing is disgusting,” she said, “but I’ll take a Zweigle’s hot dog any day.
” “White hot?” he asked, pointing his finger at her.
“Never! Red or nothing. And I couldn’t live without my beloved half-moon cookies.
And the lilacs. Sue me, but I love the Lilac Festival.
”) and all the ways that staying in Rochester felt limiting, especially given their family history.
“Sometimes I see it on people’s faces, you know,” Dune said.
“Mostly older people but not always. I was in Ireland one year and ran into the Tannenbaums. Remember them? From down the street?”
“Oh my god, yes! I think they still live in that house.”
“One of those kids, I don’t remember his name, introduced me to his friends and told everyone the story. Everyone. Like hey, this here is Dune Finnegan! His father eloped in the middle of the night with the neighbor when we were in high school! Like I was the evening’s entertainment. In Dublin!”
“That’s awful.”
“It mostly felt silly. Like a story that doesn’t have anything to do with me anymore but also has everything to do with me. Do you know what I mean?”
“Of course I do. Of course.”
“Oh man,” he said. “As usual, I’m going on and on.
” It was late and they stood to clear plates and as they finished loading the dishwasher and wiping down the counters, working quietly but in a comforting syncopated rhythm, they turned to each other at the same moment, smiling, like a scene from a corny rom-com, and all Bridie could think about was that old song by the Crystals: Then he kissed me.
And then she kissed him.