Chapter 20
Dirk
Her hair is fragrant as she lets me hold her. Lucy Beston. My neighbor. Even in this dark corner, her diamonds sparkle in the dim light.
What have I done? I don’t need another dependent.
I’m finally doing alright; escaped the never-ending needs of too many patients in my family practice; got out of the home Millie worshipped, and all its demands.
My housekeeper cooks my dinners. I see my old friends and children regularly. I have a new life.
Lucy is silent and her head becomes heavier.
She has fallen asleep beside me. I sip my wine and think of how brittle she is; how all the chirpy talk about joy, the fun with hairstyles and makeup and elegant clothes is a mere facade.
Beneath it all, Lucy Beston is as vulnerable as we all are, deep inside, and I smile.
Humans. We’re all just humans: Fantastic, complicated, treacherous, loving, lashing out, creative, stubborn humans.
I shake my head and sip more wine, and swirl the many flavors around my tongue – bitter, sweet, metallic, musky, fruity, mellow, sharp.
Beside me, fast asleep, Lucy is vulnerable. I must be more careful. I hope I haven’t led her on. There’s nothing date-like about this, is there? We’d both walked miles. We were ready for a rest. That’s all this is. A brief rest on a friendly, neighborhood walk.
She murmurs in her sleep. Is she faking it? She’s smart. Jill is right, I should be on my guard.
I’m new to this, being single.
Lucy moves her head, then wakes and stiffens. She moves away from me, embarrassed.
“Oh no! Did I fall asleep? On you, Dirk? I’m so embarrassed! Did I drool?” She retreats to her side of the table. “Can I order us pizza or something? Or more wine?”
“I think I’ll walk home now, Lucy.”
“Of course.” She wraps her scarf back around her neck, and at the door, I hold out her coat for her.
“Such a gentleman, Dirk. I’m really sorry I fell asleep on you. That’s terrible.”
“Relax,” I say. “Sorry to be such boring company.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dirk. It was just such a weight off my mind, to talk about, you know, my ... daughter.”
I’m on my guard. Maybe it’s all an act. Jill says the diamonds should be a warning to me; that Lucy has targeted me and if I let her under my skin she’ll get a bull’s eye – “a sweet and unsuspecting widower” is what Jill calls me.
Just then, Lucy’s chin wobbles. Can she fake tears that well? She pushes a fingertip to her eyes and blinks.
“I’m so sorry, Dirk. I hate this vulnerability, the treachery of my emotions, cracking me wide open, letting out my grief for all the world to see. Does this pain ever go away?”
“It’s okay,” I say.
She’s silent as we walk home. I let her slide her hand under my arm. It’s companionable. There’s nothing seductive about it. Jill doesn’t know what she’s talking about, and I’m no fool. Lucy lets go of me as we approach Brighton Court. At her door, she turns to me.
“I really can’t thank you enough, Dirk.” This Lucy is serious. She tries to smile, reaches up to cup my forearms in her gloved hands and squeezes. “I owe you. Brownies?”
“I thought you said you’d get me fit if we walked together. Brownies will cancel it out.”
“Healthy brownies, then. Did you know you can make them with avocado? And beetroot. You can! I like baking. Give them to your children if you don’t want them.”
“Okay. Good night.” My smile costs nothing. It’s neighborly, nothing more.
Mrs West has been here. It’s lasagne, her Tuesday specialty and the aroma fills the spaces, makes it feel like home. The place is spotless. I peer in the oven and refrigerator, hoping for more of that cherry pie. No luck.
There’s an old-fashioned envelope in the middle of the dining table, propped against the vase of white flowers. It has a pale harlequin pattern all over it, and it’s embossed with a huge gold, old-fashioned “RFF” in the top left hand corner. It’s not my birthday.
I’m intrigued, and turn the envelope over, then sit back, remembering Jamison’s comment about the fundraising ball for old Raymond, Rest In Peace.
I’ve already agreed to attend, with Dee, but I use the mother-of-pearl and silver letter opener and slide out the thick, cream-colored card, the same pastel artwork outlined in a gold frame on the cover.
The lettering inside is also gold.
“Please join us for the launch of the Raymond Fontaine Foundation, honoring my late husband and raising money for medical research in his memory. Bettina Fontaine.”
I exhale through pursed lips. Jamison must have given Bettina my new address. I hate charity events. This one is five hundred dollars a head. If people just donated the money and didn’t bother with the venue and drinks and food, there’d be so much more money to go around.
But then I remember Raymond, diagnosed far too early with dementia, an old occasional lunch pal who could always be relied upon to share a few tips and jokes about the world when I needed alternative views to my father’s.
My name appears below: “Doctor Dirk O’Connell plus one.”
“Plus one” – that old chestnut. Bettina is a good sort.
She made contact when Millie died. I wouldn’t flatter myself to say she’s interested in me, but I want her to be in no doubt that just because we’re both single, we don’t belong together, like a pair of old shoes.
Bettina is admirable. Raymond worked in Big Pharma, and Bettina was once a chemist who transferred into sales before she and Raymond became an item. Bettina on the loose ...
“Plus one.” The words haunt me.
It’s ages since I’ve gone to an event like this. Millie loved them. She’d go on the organising committees.
I’m about to throw the invitation in the trash, when I rest it back against the vase instead.
Bettina at least deserves a hand-written apology.
She and Raymond were a wonderful couple.
Though I’d never be romantically interested in her – nor anyone else, ever again – I feel for her loss. And it’s an honorable cause.
I could just make a donation. It’s what I usually do.
A vision of Lucy in the emerald green ball gown emerges and won’t go away. I ignore it.
The lasagne waits. I need dinner. I don’t need more of Lucy in my life any more than I need Bettina.