“Hello,” he said.
She looked up and smiled like Betty Crocker's grandmother.
“Well, look who's here. Come to sign up for cooking class, did you, Mr. Curran?”
He scratched his head and winced. “Not exactly.”
She picked up a jar off the counter and tipped her head back to read its label.
“Some pickled fiddlehead fern, then?”
He laughed and said, “You're kidding.” She handed him the jar. “Pickled fiddlehead fern,” he read. “You mean people actually eat this stuff?”
“Absolutely.”
He glanced at the assortment of jars and read their labels. “Chutney—what in the world is chutney? And pecan praline mustard glaze?”
“Delicious on a baked ham. Just smear it on and bake.”
“Oh yeah?” he said, taking a second look at the glaze.
“Steam a few fresh asparagus spears with it, a couple new potatoes with the skins on, and you have a meal fit for a visiting dignitary.”
She made it sound so easy.
“Trouble is, I don't have anything to steam them in.”
She turned with a flourish of the palm, presenting the whole of her shop. “Take your pick. Metal or bamboo.”
He perused the store and felt out of his league. Pots and pans and brushes and squeezers and things that looked as if they belonged in a doctor's office. “I don't cook,” he admitted, and for the first time ever, felt foolish saying so.
“Probably because nobody's ever turned you on to it. We have a lot of men in our basics classes. When they start they don't know which end of a spatula goes up, but by the time they finish they're making omelettes and quick breads and poached chickens and bragging to their mothers about it.”
“Yeah?” He cocked his head and turned back to her, genuinely interested. “You mean anybody can learn to cook, even a dodo who's never fried an egg?”
“The name of our beginners' class is ‘How to Boil Water 101.' Maybe that answers your question.”
When they'd both chuckled, she went on. “Cooking has become a unisexual skill. I'd say we probably have an even mix of men and women in our classes now. People are marrying later in life, men leave home, get apartments of their own and get tired of eating out all the time. Some get divorced. Some have wives who work full-time and don't want to do the cooking. Voilà!” She threw up her hands and snapped her fingers. “The Cooks of Crocus Hill! The answer to the yuppie quandary at mealtime.”
She was such an excellent saleswoman, he didn't even realize he was being pitched until she asked, “Would you like to see our kitchen? It's right upstairs.”
She led the way past a tall, fragrant display of coffee beans in clear plastic dispensers to an open stairway of smooth, blond varnished oak. On the second floor more stock was arranged on neat white Formica cubes. Beyond it, at one end of the building, they emerged into a gleaming stainless-steel and white-tiled kitchen. A long counter with blue upholstered stools faced the cooking area. Above it hung a long mirror angled so that any demonstrations in progress could be viewed from the retail sales floor. When Michael hesitated she waved him in. “Come on . . . have a look.” He meandered farther inside and perched on one of the blue stools.
“We teach you everything from basic equipment to how to stock your kitchen with staples, to the proper way of measuring liquid and dry ingredients. Our instructors demonstrate, then you actually prepare foods yourself. I take it you're single, Mr. Curran.”
“Ah . . . yes.”
“We have a lot of single men registering for classes. College graduates, widowers, divorcees. Most of them feel like fish out of water when they first come in here. Some are genuinely sad, especially the widowers, and act as if they need . . . well, nurturing, I guess. But do you know what? I've never seen one leave unhappy that he took the class.”
Michael looked around, trying to imagine himself struggling with wire whips and spatulas while a bunch of people looked on.
“Do you have an equipped kitchen?” Sylvia Radway asked.
“No, nothing. I just moved into a condo a few months ago and I don't even have dishes.”
“I'll tell you what,” she said. “Since you and I are going to be neighbors, I'll make you a deal. I'll give you your first cooking class free if you buy whatever kitchenwares you need from the shop. I won't sell you a thing that's unnecessary. If you enjoy it—and I have a hunch you will—you'll pay for any extra classes you want to take. How does that sound?”
“How long do classes last?”
“Three weeks. One night a week, or afternoon, if you prefer, three hours each class. If you enjoy them, the second series continues for an additional three weeks.”
It was tempting. He hated that empty kitchen at home, and eating out all the time had long ago lost its appeal. His evenings were lonely and he often filled them by working late.
“One other thing, Mr. Curran . . . speaking from a purely objective point of view, just in case you're interested, today's women love men who cook for them. That old stereotype has definitely done a turnaround. It is often the men who woo the women with their culinary expertise.”
He thought about Bess and imagined the surprise on her face if he sat her at a table and pulled a gourmet supper out of the kitchen. She'd get up and search the broom closet for the cook!
“All I have to do is buy a couple kettles, huh?”
“Well . . . I'll be honest. It'll take more than a couple kettles. You'll need a wooden spoon or two and some staples at the grocery store. What do you say?”
He smiled. She smiled. And the pact was made.
* * *
On the night of his first class, Michael stood in his walk-in closet wondering what a person wore to cooking school. He owned no chef's hat or butcher's apron. His mother had always worn housedresses around the kitchen, and often had a dishtowel slung over her shoulder.
He chose creased blue jeans and a stylized blue-and-white sweatshirt with a ribbed collar.
At The Cooks of Crocus Hill, the class numbered eight, and five of them were men. He felt less stupid to find the other four men present, even less when one leaned close and quietly confided to him, “I can't even make Kool-Aid.”
Their teacher was not Sylvia Radway herself but a plain-faced Scandinavian-looking woman around forty-five, portly, named Betty McGrath. She had a cheerful attitude and a knack for teasing in exactly the right way that made them laugh at their own clumsiness and revel in each small success. After a brief lecture they were given a list of recommended kitchen supplies, then they made applesauce muffins and omelettes. They learned how to measure flour and milk, crack and whip eggs, mix with a spoon—“Muffins should look lumpy”—grease a muffin tin, fill it two-thirds full, dice ham and onions, slice mushrooms uniformly, shred cheese, preheat an omelette pan, test it for readiness, fold the omelette and get the whole works cooking at the proper time. They learned how to test the muffins for doneness, remove them from the tin and serve them attractively in a basket lined with a cloth napkin, along with their nicely plumped omelette, all timed to end up on the table together—hot and pretty and perfect.
When he sat down to taste the fruits of his labor, Michael Curran felt as proud as the day he'd received his college diploma.
* * *
He furnished his kitchen with Calphalon cookware, oversized spoons and rubber scrapers. He bought himself some blue-and-white dishes and a set of silverware. He found to his delight that he enjoyed poking around Sylvia Radway's shop, buying a lemon squeezer for Caesar salad dressing, a French chef's knife for dicing onions, a potato peeler for cleaning vegetables, a wire whip for making gravy.
Gravy.
Holy old nuts, he learned how to make gravy! And cheese sauce on broccoli!
They did it the night of the second class, along with roasted chicken, mashed potatoes and salad. That night when the meal was done, the man who'd whispered he couldn't make Kool-Aid—his name turned out to be Brad Wilchefski—sat dow
n at the table grinning and saying, “I don't believe this, I just damn well don't believe this.” Wilchefski was built like a Harley biker and came close to dressing like one. He had frizzy red hair and a beard to match and wore John Lennon glasses. He looked like a man who'd be at ease walking around a campfire gnawing on a turkey drumstick and wiping his hands on his thighs.
“My old lady'd shit if she could see what I done,” he said.
“Mine, too,” Michael said.
“You divorced?”
“Yes. You?”
“Naw. She just took off and left me with the kid. Figured, what the hell, she was dumber'n a stump. If she could cook, I can cook.”
“My wife always did all the cooking when we were first married, then she went back to college and wanted me to help around the house but I refused. I thought it was woman's work but you know something? It's kind of fun.” It didn't occur to Michael that he hadn't even referred to his second wife, only his first.
Wilchefski chewed some chicken, tried some potatoes and gravy and said, “Any of the guys tease me and I'll serve 'em up their own gonads in cheese sauce.”
* * *
Michael was amazed at how cooking had changed his outlook. Evenings, he left the office when everyone else did. He stopped at Byerly's and bought fresh meat and vegetables and hurried home to prepare them in his new cookware. One night he dumped some wine from his goblet into the pan when he was sautéing beef and mushrooms, delighting himself with the results. Another night he sliced an orange and laid it on a chicken breast. He discovered the wonders of fresh garlic, and the immediacy of stir-frying, and the old-fashioned delectation of meat loaf. More important, he discovered within himself a growing satisfaction with his life as it was and a broadening approval for himself as a person. His singleness took on a quality of peace rather than loneliness, and he began to explore other lone occupations that brought their own satisfaction: reading, sailing, even doing his own laundry instead of taking it to the cleaners.
The first time he took a load of clothes out of the dryer and folded them, he thought, Why, hell, that was simple! The realization made him laugh at himself for all the months he'd stubbornly refused to use the washer and dryer simply because he “didn't know how.”
* * *
He hadn't seen Bess since the wedding but in mid-May she called to say the first of his furniture had arrived.
“What exactly?”
“Living-room sofa and chairs.”
“The leather ones?”
“No, those are for the family room. These are the cloth-covered ones for the formal living room.”
“Oh.”
“Also, the workroom called to say the window treatments are all done and ready to install. Can we set up a date for my installer to come out and do that?”
“Sure. When?”
“I'll have to check with him but give me a couple of dates and I'll get back to you.”
“Do I have to be there?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Then any day is okay. I can leave the key with the caretaker.”
“Fine . . .” A pause followed, then, in a more intimate voice, “How have you been, Michael?”
“Okay. Busy.”
“Me too.”
He wanted to say, I'm learning to cook, but to what avail? She had made it clear the kisses they'd shared had been ill-advised; she wanted no more of them or of him on a personal level.
They spoke briefly of the children, comparing notes on when they'd last visited Lisa, and how Randy was doing. There seemed little else to say.
Bess put a postscript on the conversation by ending, “Well, I'll get back to you about when to leave the key.”
Michael hung up disappointed. What had he wanted of her? To see her again? Her approval of the strides he was making in his life? No. Simply to be in the condo when she came by with her workmen to bring furniture or trim windows. He realized he had been subconsciously planning to see her repeatedly during those times but apparently that was not to be the case.
* * *
On the day of the installation, Michael arrived home in the evening to find his living-room sofa and chairs sitting like boulders in a wide river, looking a little forlorn before the fireplace, but his windows sporting new coverings: vertical blinds and welted, padded cornice boards in the living room, dining room, family room and bedrooms; unfussy little things he immediately liked in the bathrooms and the laundry room.
On the kitchen counter was a note in Bess's handwriting.
Michael,
I hope you like the living-room furniture and the window treatments. I hung the custom bedspreads in your entry closet until your beds arrive. I think they're really going to look classy. The upholsterer who's covering the matching pair of chairs for your bedroom says those should be done next week. One of the vertical vanes in the living room (south window) had a smudge on it so I took it along and will return it as soon as the shop replaces it. I have shipping invoices on your guest-bedroom furniture and the family-room entertainment unit, which means they should be coming in next week, so I'll probably have to bug you to let me in again soon. It'll be exciting to watch it all come together. Talk to you soon. Bess.
He stood with his thumb touching her signature, befuddled by the emptiness created within him by her familiar hand.
He went to the entry closet and found the thick, quilted spreads folded over two giant hangers and got a queer feeling in his chest, realizing she'd been here, putting his house in order, hanging things in his closet. How welcome the idea of her in his personal space, as if she belonged there, where she'd been years ago. How unwelcome the thought of being no more to her than a client.
In those moments he missed her with a desolate longing like that following a lovers' quarrel.
He telephoned her, striving to keep his voice casual.
“Hi, Bess, it's Michael.”
“Michael, hi! How do you like the window treatments?”
“I like them a lot.”
“And the furniture?”
“Furniture looks great.”
“Really?”
“I like it.”
“So do I. Listen, things are going to be coming in hot-and-heavy now. I got some more invoices today from Swaim. All of your living-room tables have been shipped. Would you like me to hold them and bring them out all at once or keep bringing them out as they arrive?”
As they arrive, so I have more chances to bump into you. “Whatever's more convenient for you.”
“No, I want to do whatever is more convenient for you. You're the customer.”
“It's no bother to me. I can just leave word with the caretaker to let you in whenever you need to, and you can go ahead and do your thing.”
“Great. Actually that does work out best for me because my storage space is really limited and at this time of year, after the post-Christmas rush, everything seems to be coming in at once.”
“Bring it over, then. I'm only too glad to see the place fill up. Any sign of my leather sofa yet?”
“Sorry, no. I'd guess it'll be at least another month or more.”
“Well . . . let me know.”
“I will.”
“Ah, Michael, one other thing. I can begin bringing in small accessories anytime. I just need to know if you want me to choose them or if you want to help. Some clients like to be in on these choices and others simply don't want to be bothered.”
“Well . . . hell, Bess, I don't know.”
“Why don't I do this. When I spot accessory pieces I think would fit, I'll bring them in and leave them. If there's anything you don't like just let me know and we'll try something else. How does that sound?”
“Great.”
He grew accustomed after that to coming home and finding another item or two in place—the entry console, the living-room tables, a giant ceramic fish beside the living-room fireplace, a pair of framed prints above it (he loved how the snow geese on the right print became a continuation o
f the flock on the left), a floor lamp, three huge potted plants in containers shaped like seashells that suddenly made the living room look complete.
His divorce became final in late May and he received the papers feeling much as he did when a business deal was concluded. He put them away in a file drawer, thought, Good, that's final, and made out one last check for his lawyer.
He signed up for his third series of cooking classes and learned to plan menus and make a chocolate cake roll with fudge sauce. He met a woman in class named Jennifer Ayles, who was fortyish and divorced and relatively attractive, and who was looking for ways to alleviate her loneliness so had joined the class to fill her evenings. He took her to a Barry Manilow concert, and she talked him into using her son's golf clubs and trying golf for the first time in his life. Afterward at her house he tried to kiss her and she burst into tears and said she still loved her husband, who had left her for another woman. They ended up talking about their exes, and he admitted he still had feelings for Bess but that she didn't return them, or, maybe more accurately, wouldn't let herself return them and had warned him to stay away.
He bought a patio table and ate his evening meals on the deck overlooking the lake.
A torchère appeared in his bedroom and a faux pedestal in the center of his gallery with a note: You sure you want me to pick out this piece of sculpture? I think this one should be strictly your choice. Let me know.
He left a message with Heather at the Blue Iris: “Tell Bess okay, I'll look for the piece of sculpture myself.”
Another time a message was left on his answering machine: “Get yourself some new sheets, Michael. Your bed is here! We'll deliver it tomorrow.” He bought designer sheets that looked like blue-and-lavender rain had splashed across them driven by a hard wind, and slept in a fully decorated bedroom suite for the first time since separating from Darla.
And finally, in late June, the message he'd been waiting for: “Michael, it's Bess, Monday morning, eight forty-five. Just called to say your dining-room table is here and your leather sofa is on its way by truck from the port of entry on the east coast. Should be here any day. Talk to you soon.”