Chapter 3 #5
And I did relax. After stowing my groceries in Sam’s fridge, I settled across from Peter in a booth and let Sam treat us not only to his lasagna, but to Caesar salad and garlic bread. Sam, himself, kept us company for a bit, then others stopped by to say hello.
They were curious about Peter, I knew. They were also timid, unsure of what to say to him.
As mild as he was, as smiling and patient, they were awkward.
It didn’t matter that he looked very much like them in his dress, in the wind-muss of his hair and the late-day shadow on his cheeks.
In their eyes, he represented glitz, and glitz was foreign to them.
It wasn’t foreign to me, still I knew what they felt.
In his own subtle way, Peter was larger than life.
He’d seen more, done more than we had, and he ran in circles that I’d given up on fitting into long ago.
Had he and I been alone, I’d definitely have felt awkward—though how much of that would have been due to his looks alone, I wasn’t about to wager. Fortunately we weren’t alone for long.
Steven Willow, whose family had run the hardware store for three generations, stopped by to quietly ask what I thought about his buying a computer. “To keep watch on inventory,” he told me. “Paulie says we should.”
“Paul is a student at the Community College,” I told Peter.
“He’s taking business courses.” To Steve, I said, “It’s worth looking into.
Computers cost less now than they used to.
Would you want to use one?” I knew that the major force against modernization in a town like this was habit. Steve’s answer supported that.
“Not me. But Paulie. He’ll be takin’ over one day.”
I thought about that for a minute before repeating, “Look into it with Paulie. There are probably uses you’d have for a computer besides the one you’d be buying it for. It might be well worth the money.”
With a two-fingered salute of thanks, he moved on, only to be replaced several moments later by Noreen McNard. She was one of the town’s newest residents, having married Buck McNard, Jr., only two years before.
“My parents are coming to visit,” she told me after shyly greeting Peter.
Noreen came from northern Vermont. Since the drive was a long one, with precious few superhighways on the way, she didn’t see her parents often. She’d been particularly lonely of late. I was pleased for her now. “That’s exciting! When?”
“Next Friday.” Her eyes sparkled. “A week from today. They’ll stay the weekend.” She was slightly breathless. “We’ll give them our room. We can sleep in the attic.” Her eyes widened, her voice lowered. “But I don’t know what to cook.”
“No problem. I have dozens of good recipes.”
“I’m a terrible cook.”
I squeezed her arm. “You are not. I tasted your potato salad at the fair last month, and it was great.”
“But that was her recipe,” Noreen whispered. “I can’t serve her everything she taught me to make. She has those things all the time. But I ruin every new recipe I try.”
“You won’t ruin mine. You can’t. I have nine years’ worth of fool-proof recipes. None of them has more than five ingredients. It’s impossible to spoil them.” I saw glimmers of hope and relief in Noreen’s eyes. “Want to come by on Monday and we’ll go through my file?”
“That would be great,” she said with a grateful smile. Still smiling, she lowered her eyes and darted a self-conscious look at Peter. “Pleasure meeting you,” she murmured and scurried off.
Peter watched her leave, then arched a brow my way. “You’re a regular consultant. Is it always this way when you hit town?”
I shook my head. As though to contradict me, Noel Bunker chose that moment to walk up. I dragged in a breath, feeling vaguely sheepish. “How’s it going, Noel?”
“Okay.”
I introduced him to Peter as the owner of the local gas station and a good friend of Cooper’s.
Peter took that in, as he had all the other information I’d given him on people we’d seen or talked with, but he didn’t ask questions.
I assumed he’d taken to heart my warning about the townspeople being wary, but in any case, it was a wise move on his part.
He was giving us time to get used to having him around, which implied that he was going to be around for a while.
I didn’t like the idea of having him around for long.
I didn’t want to think about having him around for long.
So I looked up at Noel and asked, “How’s Lisa?”
“’Bout the same,” Noel answered. Kneading the pocket of his checkered wool jacket, he added, “We got to do something.”
In a quiet voice, I explained to Peter, “Lisa is Noel’s daughter. She’s seven. She broke her leg this summer. The cast has been off for four weeks now, but she’s still not walking right. The doctors say that the pain will go away, but the leg just doesn’t look right.”
“Has it been X-rayed?” Peter asked.
“Oh yes. They say the broken bones have knit, but I wonder how well.” Feeling Noel’s worry as my own, I looked up at him. “Can I get the name of that specialist?” I’d been offering to do it for two weeks, but Noel and his wife had resisted. Until now.
Noel nodded. He continued to knead his pocket, as though the wool were worry beads.
“First thing tomorrow,” I assured him gently. “Boston’s a little closer. Should we try there?”
“Guess so.”
I knew he was feeling low and tried to convey encouragment in a smile. “Done. I’ll get a good man, Noel. Lisa will be fine.”
He nodded at me, nodded at Peter, then moved on.
“They love you,” Peter said, picking up where he’d left off before Noel had arrived.
“It’s mutual. These people are real people. They may not say much, but when they do speak, you can bet it’s the truth, and I love them for that.”
“But they love you. You’re their guru.”
That embarrassed me. “I am not. I’ve just had more experience than they have in the world beyond this town, so they come to me with their questions.
I like being involved in their lives. They sense that, I suppose, and that encourages them to come back.
If I weren’t here, they’d find the answers all by themselves—” I paused “—but I don’t usually tell myself that.
These people make me feel needed. Illusion or not, I don’t care. I like the feeling.”
Indeed, I did. I was in my element here.
Among these simple and unpretentious people, I felt as fulfilled as I ever did—except when I was home, in my attic studio, pouring my heart and soul into slabs of clay.
They were two different kinds of fulfillment.
The first gave me satisfaction as a human being, the second as an artist. But there was a third kind of fulfillment, one that I became acutely aware of several hours later as I prepared for bed.
Wearing my long white nightgown with lace at the hem, wrists and high collar, I sat on the end of my bed and listened to the sounds of Peter preparing for the night in the room beside mine.
My cheeks grew pink, my palms damp. Against my wishes, my body tingled in places where tingling wasn’t allowed.
I wondered then about the kind of fulfillment that a woman can only get in the arms of a man, and I prayed that the urges I felt were passing ones.
Because I wasn’t about to experience that kind of fulfillment again—particularly not with Peter, who was the kind of man Adam might have been, had I not led him off to the sea.