out right. “He still does all of the cooking, though.”
“Why don’t you open a bottle of wine or something?”
“Sure,” I said. I needed something to do with my hands. I also needed a drink. “Red or white?”
“We’re having steaks, so how about a Merlot?”
I glanced quickly at a row of wine bottles in a beautiful wrought-iron wine rack on the counter until I found the word Merlot on one of them. I removed it carefully from the rack and Lily handed me a corkscrew. We never had wine in our house growing up. Daddy drank beer, and when Ma drank, it was always bourbon.
“I’ve never been very good at this,” I said. “But let me give it a shot.”
I twisted the corkscrew and then started to press down on the silver arms like wings. The cork promptly dropped into the bottle. Pungent wine splashed into my face and on my T-shirt. “Shit,” I said. “Sorry.”
Lily turned away from the potatoes. “It’s okay,” she said, grabbing a sponge from the sink and wiping furiously at the counter top. Long after all of the wine had been soaked up, Lily kept running the sponge across the smooth granite surface. She made one last swipe and tossed the sponge into the garbage bin under the sink.
“I’m really sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay. I’ll open another one. Are you hot?” She went to the wall and adjusted the air conditioner. I felt a cold gust of artificial air blow across the back of my neck. Then she gracefully and silently pulled the cork from another bottle of Merlot and poured me a glass. I took a long swallow and felt the wine warming me against the chill in the air.
Rich came home just as I was about to sneak upstairs and find a sweater in one of Lily’s closets. Lily met him at the door and ushered him past Violet, who had finally fallen asleep, into the kitchen.
“Indiana Jones,” Rich said and hugged me. I have always liked Rich. He reminds me a lot of Daddy. His family is from Boston, hard workers. He went straight to work after high school for his dad’s construction company. He worked his way up until he was foreman and then when his dad died, he and his brother took over. He opened up the Phoenix branch of the company to be near Lily. He and Lily met on a cruise that he took his mother on after his father’s funeral. The story of how they met is one of those stories that makes me think of a photo spread in one of the magazines Lily read when she was in junior high and I was in high school. It is dimensionless. Colorful and smiling, but flat and glossy. Forgettable. He simply saw her sipping on a piña colada at the end of an outdoor bar and thought she looked like an angel. He told her so, and one year later he had relocated to Phoenix and they were on the same ship on their honeymoon. It makes me laugh to remember how Peter and I met when I hear stories like these. The story of how we fell in love is more like the crackly black-and-white films that Peter shows at the theater than the pink, lavender, blue of Lily and Rich’s romance.
“When did you get in?” Rich asked and pulled a beer out of the refrigerator.
“This morning.”
He popped the top off and just as he was about to set it on the counter, Lily glared at him, and he scooted past her to put the cap in the trash. Lily was amazing. When Peter and I moved from our apartment into the cabin, I found about a hundred bottle caps underneath cushions and behind books on shelves.
“Have you been by the hospital yet?” he asked.
I shook my head. I watched Lily stiffen.
“Rich, can you get the candleholders out?” she asked. The steak crackled under the broiler. Lily emptied a pint of sour cream into the bowl of potatoes.
Rich smiled at me and squeezed my shoulder. He handed me the candleholders, which I arranged in the center of the table, and he set down three plates from Lily’s china cabinet. They were white with the faintest raised flowers at the center. I couldn’t imagine her letting red meat touch these
“Why don’t you open a bottle of wine or something?”
“Sure,” I said. I needed something to do with my hands. I also needed a drink. “Red or white?”
“We’re having steaks, so how about a Merlot?”
I glanced quickly at a row of wine bottles in a beautiful wrought-iron wine rack on the counter until I found the word Merlot on one of them. I removed it carefully from the rack and Lily handed me a corkscrew. We never had wine in our house growing up. Daddy drank beer, and when Ma drank, it was always bourbon.
“I’ve never been very good at this,” I said. “But let me give it a shot.”
I twisted the corkscrew and then started to press down on the silver arms like wings. The cork promptly dropped into the bottle. Pungent wine splashed into my face and on my T-shirt. “Shit,” I said. “Sorry.”
Lily turned away from the potatoes. “It’s okay,” she said, grabbing a sponge from the sink and wiping furiously at the counter top. Long after all of the wine had been soaked up, Lily kept running the sponge across the smooth granite surface. She made one last swipe and tossed the sponge into the garbage bin under the sink.
“I’m really sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay. I’ll open another one. Are you hot?” She went to the wall and adjusted the air conditioner. I felt a cold gust of artificial air blow across the back of my neck. Then she gracefully and silently pulled the cork from another bottle of Merlot and poured me a glass. I took a long swallow and felt the wine warming me against the chill in the air.
Rich came home just as I was about to sneak upstairs and find a sweater in one of Lily’s closets. Lily met him at the door and ushered him past Violet, who had finally fallen asleep, into the kitchen.
“Indiana Jones,” Rich said and hugged me. I have always liked Rich. He reminds me a lot of Daddy. His family is from Boston, hard workers. He went straight to work after high school for his dad’s construction company. He worked his way up until he was foreman and then when his dad died, he and his brother took over. He opened up the Phoenix branch of the company to be near Lily. He and Lily met on a cruise that he took his mother on after his father’s funeral. The story of how they met is one of those stories that makes me think of a photo spread in one of the magazines Lily read when she was in junior high and I was in high school. It is dimensionless. Colorful and smiling, but flat and glossy. Forgettable. He simply saw her sipping on a piña colada at the end of an outdoor bar and thought she looked like an angel. He told her so, and one year later he had relocated to Phoenix and they were on the same ship on their honeymoon. It makes me laugh to remember how Peter and I met when I hear stories like these. The story of how we fell in love is more like the crackly black-and-white films that Peter shows at the theater than the pink, lavender, blue of Lily and Rich’s romance.
“When did you get in?” Rich asked and pulled a beer out of the refrigerator.
“This morning.”
He popped the top off and just as he was about to set it on the counter, Lily glared at him, and he scooted past her to put the cap in the trash. Lily was amazing. When Peter and I moved from our apartment into the cabin, I found about a hundred bottle caps underneath cushions and behind books on shelves.
“Have you been by the hospital yet?” he asked.
I shook my head. I watched Lily stiffen.
“Rich, can you get the candleholders out?” she asked. The steak crackled under the broiler. Lily emptied a pint of sour cream into the bowl of potatoes.
Rich smiled at me and squeezed my shoulder. He handed me the candleholders, which I arranged in the center of the table, and he set down three plates from Lily’s china cabinet. They were white with the faintest raised flowers at the center. I couldn’t imagine her letting red meat touch these
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