Chapter Eight
After the hiatus following Marc’s death, Phoebe set to work at the church. There was much to be done and she found the work absorbing. She took out books from the library on personal finance and capitalizing your investments. She kept a steady eye on her stocks and bonds in the business section of the Star Tribune as well as the Wall Street Journal and started to take real pleasure in watching the ups and downs of her stash.
The phone rang one morning in mid-November. Phoebe was washing up the breakfast dishes and staring out the kitchen window at the brown remains of Marc’s perennial garden and feeling a little sorry for herself. Lost in self-pity she was hesitant to pick up the phone and be brought back to the demands of real life but she reluctantly answered, nearly letting the receiver slip from her sudsy, wet hand.
“Hello,” she said, reaching for a red dishtowel that hung from a magnet hook on the refrigerator door.
“Phoebe. Hi. Timing all right?”
“Well, yes. I guess so. Who…?”
“It’s Steve, Phoebe. Steve Dobbs. Have I called at a bad time?”
“Oh, Steve. No, no. This is fine. How are you?” Phoebe tossed the towel onto the counter, folded her arms and leaned against the wall as she talked.
“I’m good. Hey, I called cause I wondered if maybe you forgot about my invitation for you and Jade to come riding?
“What? Oh, no, I didn’t. I just…” She nearly had, but didn’t say that. She couldn’t remember a time during Marc’s life when Steve had made a personal call to either one of them. She was surprised to hear his voice and realized she’d never thought about it before, but he had a soft, deep voice that sounded sexy over the phone.
“I was just thinking, my girls are going to their mom’s parents over the Thanksgiving holiday, and, well, I wondered if you and Jade have any plans that weekend, or, well, if maybe that would be a good time for the two of you to come out and ride.” He made a nervous little coughing sound at the end of his sentence. “I mean, how does that sound?”
Phoebe hesitated a bit, not quite sure what she thought of the idea, but then said, “Steve, what a nice invitation. Unfortunately, Jade is going to her friend, Jolee’s, cabin for Thanksgiving and I hadn’t really thought to make any plans. It’s the first holiday since, well, you know… I’m not at all sure how it will affect me. I know it’s wrong but I feel a little abandoned by Jade. I probably should just be happy she has plans that will distract her.” Phoebe surprised herself at how much she was confiding to Steve.
“Well, listen. Sounds like we’re in the same boat. Why don’t you come out here? We’ll put a turkey in the oven or on the grill or something, and, hey, those suckers take a long time to cook, we’ll have plenty of time for a ride.”
“Hmm. I just don’t know. What kind of company would I be?” Phoebe simply hadn’t had the idea of a man or a date or anything remotely like that since Marc’s death. Her whole focus was on being both mother and father to Jade and making sure the two of them didn’t end up out on the streets before Jade made it to college.
“Well, hey. You know it kind of sounds appealing, Steve, but can you give me a little while to think about it? Can I call you back?”
“Sure. Hey Phoebe, no pressure. I’ll understand completely if you feel you have to say no. I just want you to know it would sure improve my Thanksgiving day prospects to have you share the day with me.”
“You’re kind, Steve. I promise I’ll call you before the weekend and let you know one way or the other. And, really … this is very nice of you, thanks.”
“I’ll wait to hear from you then. Take care of yourself Phoebe. Hey, say ‘hi’ to Jade for me too, okay?”
“Sure thing. You say ‘hi’ to Jodie and Jacquie too. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Phoebe set the phone down and wandered to the mirror to have a discussion with herself. Was this a date, she wondered. If she said yes, would this be her first date, in, what? — twenty-three years? No, she told herself. Stupid. He called to ask you and Jade, remember? This is not about dating. Don’t even think about that.
But, she looked away from the mirror, and thought about Steve. She supposed he was really quite a good-looking man. She had no practice in noticing such things except in her conversations with Karen where they analyzed the characteristics that made certain movie star types or other celebrities appeal to them or not. She truly had eyes only for Marc all the years she’d loved him.
Steve didn’t look at all like Marc. If Marc was her type, which he certainly was, could people have more than one type? Steve was probably just short of six feet tall, had wavy dark brown hair with touches of gray in it and wore a mustache. He had dark skin and eyes and looked just a touch Mediterranean. He was slim with a wiry sort of muscular build. She had to admit to herself she’d noticed the tendons in his arms, his nicely shaped hands, the day she sought counsel from him a couple of months ago. He’d worn a soft cotton plaid shirt, open at the collar, tucked into his blue jeans that day. He wore Wellies instead of cowboy boots. She liked the thought of that. He wasn’t the country western kind of horse rancher. He didn’t strike her as a British polo horse type either. Maybe something in between.
Now she tried to remember details of his face. She remembered his teeth were straight and white and when he smiled a dimple appeared in his right cheek. Yeah. Now that she thought about it, Steve was a quite, quite good-looking man.
So what though, she thought. What in the world am I thinking? He’s a kind man. He’s just being thoughtful to a widow and her broken-hearted daughter. I need some perspective here she said to herself as she picked up the phone and dialed Karen’s number at the gallery.
“Kline Fine Arts, may I help you?” Karen answered the phone.
“Gosh, I mean, God, how’s that? I sure as heck, I mean, hell, hope so.”
“Hi Phoebe. How goes it? Talk to me, honey. This art scene is deader than a library today. To what do I owe the pleasure? Oh, and, yes, that’s a good start on the swearing.”
“Hey Karen, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. I … you won’t believe this … I said the bad F word to the mirror the other day! Well, actually, I said it the first time the day I went to my accountant … Hmmm … I wonder …”
“What’s ‘hmmm’, Phoebe? What are you talking about? What do you ‘wonder’?”
Phoebe was thinking Freudian thoughts about how she’d said “fucking” for probably the very first time in her life the day she went to see Steve after Marc died. She brushed the thought away. How embarrassing.
“Oh nothing. Nothing about ‘hmmm’. No. I called because … I called because, well, I need your advice.”
Phoebe told Karen about Steve’s invitation trying to color it in innocence the way she believed it had been issued. But Karen read her mind.
“Hey, girlfriend looks like you didn’t die with Marc after all! Yes. Yes. Unequivocally yes. Get on that phone and call the hunk-oleo back. What the hell can it hurt to say yes? So he screws up the turkey … So you fall off the horse … You got anything better to do? I mean, Christ Phoeb, get on that phone and call the dude back.”
“Karen. You are no help at all! What was I thinking by calling a horny old goat like you anyway? You are forty years old and all you think about is sex! This is not about sex, for cripes sake. Oh, what the hell. Yes, I said it, Karen. Yes, you heard me right. What the hell was I thinking?”
“Look Phoebe. Call me any names you like. Cuss your guts out sugar, but I’m hanging up now and you are calling Steve, you hear me?”
“Karen, you’re so great. I love you, do you know that?”
“Okay chicky-babe, now, get off the phone. Good-bye.” She hung up.
Chapter Nine
Jade was brutal in her outrage when she heard her mom was planning to spend Thanksgiving with a man. And alone too. She knew who Steve was, had met him a few times in the course of things, and it wasn’t who he was that bothered her. It was the very thought her mom could conceive of time spent alone with a man after all Marc had meant to her. Jade was afraid it meant her mom had stopped loving her dad, something, she herself would never, never, ever do.
“Jade, please just sit down and we’ll talk about this. I really think I can make you understand. You’re making more of it than it is. Steve’s an old friend who, I’m sure, feels sorry for me, for us, honey. You know he invited you too.”
“Ick. Ick. Ick, is all I can say.” She folded her arms across her chest, sat down, one leg crossing the other, her Tritorn clad foot bouncing up and down in her anger and frustration with her mother’s stupidity and insensitivity. She looked down and away from her mom at the bobbing tennis shoe. It was hard for Phoebe to see through her daughter’s child sized horn rims if she was mostly sad or mostly angry. Afraid, is what she decided. This was all about fear. Phoebe knew a lot about that emotion.
She rose and walked across the room to sit next to Jade on the couch. She put her arm around her shoulder and tried to pull her to her but Jade stiffened and shrugged her arm away.
“Jade, honey …” Phoebe tried again.
“I don’t want to talk about it Mom. It’s disgusting, that’s all.” She stood and headed down the hall toward her bedroom. “I know you won’t listen to me because you only care about yourself, so just do whatever you want.” She closed her bedroom door behind her.
Phoebe felt hurt and misjudged. Wanted to say something like, “Don’t you dare talk to your mother like that, little lady.” She knew she should do something to put this little piss ant in her proper place in relation to her mother but, with all Jade had suffered the last thing she needed was punishment or response in kind. Phoebe had to swallow her pride and hope Jade would begin to let her in to share all the fear and pain. Phoebe told herself she had to be the adult here. Quickly the hurt she felt was overcome with sorrow for the pain her little girl was suffering.
Phoebe’s grief counselor warned her that Jade might judge her pretty harshly if she showed signs of moving on with her life. Jade, of course, needed every permission to move ahead and put her grief in perspective with her whole life ahead of her. A consolation to grieving children seemed to be this blame they heaped on the head of the surviving parent and Phoebe was told it could be a challenge to handle it with diplomacy and understanding. She consoled herself with the occasional experience she continued to have where Jade allowed her to fold her into her arms and let her be her mommy. These times were becoming increasingly rare and their rarity accentuated Phoebe’s isolation.
Whether Jade liked it or not, Phoebe was not going to spend Thanksgiving Day alone. She wondered if she would have to start keeping her plans hidden from Jade.
She couldn’t get Jade to come out of her room at dinnertime. About 8 o’clock Phoebe talked her into a bubble bath and Jade let her wash her back. Jade was like a very little girl, letting her mom help her from the tub and towel her dry. Phoebe wrapped the towel warm around her and, forgetting her little girl was a big nine year old now, stooped to pick her up in her arms like she hadn’t done since she was five or six.
“Mom,” Jade laughed, “it’s alright. I can walk.” Phoebe knelt and wrapped the towel snug around Jade’s shoulders then stood and guided her to her bedroom. She sat on the edge of Jade’s bed thinking how soon the time would come when Jade would need very little from her. Maybe Jade sensed her mother’s nostalgia, because, once she pulled her extra large Boy George sleep shirt over her wet head, she handed her mom a comb and backed herself between Phoebe’s legs to let her comb the snarls from her hair.
Phoebe wanted to take her little girl in her arms and rock her to sleep. She knew that would be pushing it but couldn’t help asking Jade if she might like that. “For old time sake?” Phoebe asked the back of her daughter’s head. Jade turned and took the comb from Phoebe’s hand, set it back on the dresser and climbed into bed saying, “No, Mom. That’s baby stuff.” Tonight, she said, she only wanted a happy good night song and she wanted to sing too. Together they sang “Duke of Earl,” and laughed together. Then Jade read Phoebe the story of “Atalanta“ from Free to Be, You and Me. It was a story they both loved for all the possibilities it presented for girls to grow to be women with freedom and choice.
The story’s a modern, anti-sexist version of a fairly tale in which a Prince and Princess are promised to each other in marriage. They are mere children when they meet and have different ideas than their parents about the proper relationship between the two of them. Ultimately a foot race is held in which the two compete and find they are head to head in every way.
“’Very well. Young John,’ said the king …” Jade read in her most kingly voice, “’You have not won the race, but you have come closer to winning than any man here. And so I give you the prize that was promised — the right to marry my daughter.’”
Jade turned the page and her mother snuggled close to her on the bed, “’Young John smiled at Atalanta, and she smiled back. ‘Thank you, sir,’ said John to the king, ‘but I could not possibly marry your daughter unless she wished to marry me. I have run this race for the chance to talk with Atlanta, and, if she is willing, I am ready to claim my prize.’”
“’Atalanta laughed with pleasure. ‘And I,’ she said to John, ‘could not possibly marry before I have seen the world. But I would like nothing better than to spend the afternoon with you.’”
“’Then the two of them sat and talked on the grassy field, as the crowds went away. They ate bread and cheese and purple plums. Atalanta told John about her telescopes and her pigeons, and John told Atalanta about his globes and his studies of geography. At the end of the day, they were friends.’”
“ ‘On the next day, John sailed off to discover new lands. And Atalanta set off to visit the great cities.’ ”
“’By this time, each of them has had wonderful adventures, and seen marvelous sights. Perhaps some day they will be married, and perhaps they will not. In any case, they are friends. And it is certain that they are both living happily ever after.’”
“Ain’t it good to know? Ain’t it good to know? You’ve got a friend?” Phoebe sang the line from the Carol King song and Jade smiled and joined her.
Phoebe tucked the covers up under her daughter’s chin and left the room thinking maybe Jade had used the story to say she understood her mom’s Thanksgiving with Steve didn’t have to be about replacing her father with another love.
Phoebe went to the living room to light a fire, pour herself a glass of wine and ponder this baffling, brilliant gift who was her very own child.
She put the stereo needle on a Jackson Browne album and substituted the word “girl” for “boy” in the lines from “Only Child”:
“Girl of mine, as your fortune comes to carry you down the line;
and you watch while the changes unfold;
and you sort among the stories you’ll be told
-- if some pieces of the picture seem hard for you to find,
and the answers to your questions are hard to hold …
take good care of each other and remember to be kind,
should one thing or another take you from behind.
Though the world may make you hard and wild
and determine how your life is styled,
when you come to feel that you’re the only child
-- take good care of each other.
Let the disappointments pass,
let the laughter fill your glass,
let your illusions last until they shatter.
Whatever you may hope to find
among the thoughts that crowd your mind,
there won’t be many, that ever really matter.
So, take good care of each other …”
She left the stereo on and Jackson’s words from another song floated from her voice.
“As the years give way to uncertainty,
and the fear of living for nothing strangles the will…
I will lift my spirit to the gentle sounds of the waters lapping on the higher ground.
Say Yeah
-- Yeah, yeah, yeah!”
Now Phoebe was dancing, singing along softly through tears she couldn’t have stopped if she wanted to.
A while later, in her bed alone, tears gone for now, she imagined a sort of communion she might be able to share with others through the songs that had filled her heart over the years. She never really met any one who seemed to like the range of music and artists she liked; never met anyone who confessed to the love of singing that filled her own life. She imagined people who all their lives dreamed of becoming famous musical performers and then did everything they could to realize that dream. Hers was not a dream of fame or fortune at all though. It wasn’t a dream of personal recognition for the beauty or power of her voice or her own words even. It was communion and connection she sought.
She believed Marc had always enjoyed the times they danced together and he loved music in a variety of forms. Sometimes they’d even spend an evening, he on one end of the couch, she on the other listening to music as it filled the room around them.
She never knew if he felt the songs fill up his soul the way they filled her. She thought he probably didn’t. Sometimes she had to insist on his attention in listening to words and music she wanted him to share. He said he didn’t really listen so much for the words as the music; was more enthralled with the instruments and the technical implications of sound itself. He had trouble remembering the words to songs and often felt impatient trying to understand the lyrics through the music.
Phoebe wondered what would happen if, after Jade didn’t need her so much anymore; maybe after she started college -- what would happen if she could find a way to connect with others through her singing. Maybe some kind of club -- maybe the “Never Say Die Club” for aging rock and rollers. Now a name came, “Reclamation Project,” -- maybe that would be the name she’d give this now vague, but steadily forming concept that might allow her to realize her rock and roll dreams.
“When you’ve found another soul who sees into your own, take good care of each other … be aware of each other…” That’s what she never quite had, however deep the love between her and Marc. That’s what would come to her if her heart’s dream was ever completely fulfilled.
“Oh Marc, Honey, Honey, Honey, is this betrayal? I don’t mean to. . . Forgive me.”
Chapter Ten
Steve was up early Thanksgiving Day. Actually, he’d had trouble sleeping since Phoebe had called back to say yes, she’d love to come. He had extended the invitation the first day she sought his advice, because he had wanted to somehow help two really nice people who had suffered such a sad loss. He pictured a scene with Jade and his two girls Jodie and Jacquie, thinking they might hit it off and young girls do seem to love horses. Now it had become something else entirely. Maybe it was fate that it worked out this way he told himself. He’d dated once in a while since Lani left but his life felt pretty complete the way it was, without any primary romantic relationship involved.
He never really knew Phoebe over the years he did the family’s accounting. He knew Marc pretty well in college but had mostly had business dealings with him since. He pretty much left the church without looking back after graduating from college. He had little concept of what would make a young man with a beautiful, spirited wife go into the ministry. He was curious about what made Phoebe tick.
He’d always thought Marc was a lucky guy. Phoebe lit up any room she entered with her ready smile. She was average height, he guessed about 5’6” or 7”, great looking legs she didn’t mind displaying (preacher’s wife or no), long black hair you couldn’t help but want to touch and a complexion he thought of as golden. All he knew about her was that she always seemed friendly, polite and kind. Phoebe seemed to put her husband and child first in her life and, Steve knew, she had been a tremendous asset to Marc and the church he served.
When Phoebe called they decided together what each would bring to add to their Thanksgiving feast. He called Lunds and reserved a fresh turkey. He thought it might be fun to cook it on the Weber and called his dad to find out how to do that. So, he’d said to Phoebe, “I’ll take care of the turkey.”
Phoebe wondered if he liked skin-on garlic mashed potatoes because she had a good recipe and would bring her pressure cooker if that sounded all right. He would pick up a pumpkin pie at Baker’s Square and she volunteered the whipping cream. She insisted on biscuits and cranberry sauce -- she’d do the biscuits; he’d make his mom’s recipe of cranberry/orange relish with walnuts. Now they needed a green vegetable and they found out French cut green beans with almonds and just a touch of sour cream was a favorite in both their families.
“Wine?” he asked her. “What do you like? Chardonnay? White Zin?”
“Oh, I’m strictly white wine. I like Soave or Chardonnay. White Zinfandel is ‘pink’ as far as I’m concerned.”
“Okay. I’ll pick up a Chardonnay then.”
“Well, I can bring something too. Let’s each pick something white and dry that we like and see how we like the other’s choice.”
“Good idea. We got everything covered here? Any special traditions we’re forgetting?”
“It’s all going to be pretty new to me, but, frankly, I find that appealing. I’m really looking forward to riding. Should I just wear jeans? I have some leather boots, should I wear those?”
“Boots and jeans are great! Bring a change of clothes just in case. It’s a bit muddy out there on the trail this time of year.”
“Okay. Thanks Steve. I’m looking forward to this. See you then. Bye.”
“Drive safe, Phoebe. I’ll see you on Thanksgiving.”
Steve had never made much of Thanksgiving since Lani left. The girls took charge of making everything just the way they wanted it and gave him instructions on what table cloth, plates, glasses they thought would be nicest for the occasion. They knew their dad was expecting company on Thanksgiving and they helped him clean the house the weekend before. They shopped with him for suitable candles and a centerpiece for the table. Jodie, his six year old, insisted on a paper turkey whose orange body expanded through some kind of interlocking crepe paper design, into a standing, 3-D “Thanksgiving Table Centerpiece” as it said on the cellophane wrap. He bought orange taper candles and planned to position one on either side of the “centerpiece.” Jacquie, twelve, was secretly bent on sabotage. She didn’t understand why her dad didn’t come with them to their grandmother’s. She was pretty sneaky, though, play acting enthusiasm. She was pretty sure Jodie’s choice of centerpiece was supremely tacky so she whole-heartedly applauded it and added a paper table cloth with pictures of Indians, Pilgrims and turkeys all around the border. Steve didn’t feel he could accept Jodie’s contribution to the décor and turn Jacquie down. Besides, he thought the combination wasn’t half-bad. Jacquie picked out orange napkins and a small bowl shaped like a pumpkin and suggested he fill it with candy corn he could serve as an appetizer.
Steve sorted through his record collection trying to come up with something he hoped would seem tasteful dinner music to a recently widowed minister’s wife. He had very little classical music since his taste didn’t run in that direction, but he had some old L.P.’s he remembered his parents played on just such occasions. He put Arthur Feidler’s Boston Pop’s Orchestra on the stereo and the strains of Greensleeves filled the room. He thought that sounded pretty nice and he asked the girls what they thought.
Jodie thought he should play something by Boy George or the Thompson Twins to show Phoebe that he’s really a cool guy. Jacquie said she thought the music he picked was perfect. He set out a backup of 101 Strings playing Vivaldi just in case one album didn’t get them all the way through dinner. He had no way of knowing Phoebe’s tastes but somehow knew you couldn’t go far wrong with Vivaldi.
Lani came by to pick up the girls the night before so they could get an early start to her mother’s house in St. Peter. He’d asked Phoebe to come over about ten so they’d have plenty of time for riding. By eight he had the table set, the music all ready to go, and had checked the pie, cranberry relish and turkey in the refrigerator more than a dozen times. He was already showered and dressed in his jeans and had finished off an entire eight cup pot of coffee by himself.
Finally the little hand on the clock above the mantel neared ten and he looked to see Phoebe on the dirt road approaching his driveway. He took a quick look in the bathroom mirror, ran a comb through his hair and smoothed his mustache with his fingers.
“Hi, Phoebe. Come on in.” He took the picnic basket from her hands and leaned to kiss her cheek in welcome. He set the basket on the chair by the door and offered to take her coat.
“Hi. Oh, I’ve got some other stuff in the car. Should I just? Well, I’ll get it later. It’s just my other clothes and stuff.” She unbuttoned her jacket and handed it to Steve.
Steve had started a fire in the fieldstone fireplace and Phoebe wandered that direction rubbing her cold hands together. She looked around her at the house where she would spend her first widowed Thanksgiving.
“Lovely fire, Steve. And welcome, too. It’s darned cold out there this morning!”
“Yeah. I was out for a few minutes checking the horses. Looks like winter’s finally ready to strike. You think it’s too cold to ride?”
“Oh no. Better not be. Hey, I wore layers. It’ll be fun to get all pink cheeked and come back to this fire I think.”
She wandered from the fireplace and caught a glimpse of the dining room with its pointedly Thanksgiving motif. She turned and smiled at him. “The girls help?” she asked.
“Oh, what gave you that idea? You think you’re looking at some kind of a guy here, don’t you? You think I need female types to tell me how to decorate for Thanksgiving? Is that it? Huh? Well, okay, you caught me. I still haven’t decided if they helped or hurt with this first impression I’m trying to make. What do you think?”
“I think it’s absolutely adorable and very, very thoughtful -- plus, it’s funny too, and there’s nothing I need more than laughter.”
“I’m glad I’ve pleased you. Now, I’m going to need your assistance with this bird. Come on in the kitchen, okay?”
Steve had started a fresh pot of coffee brewing just before ten so he’d have some to offer Phoebe. He poured her a cup, then waved an open container of half and half in her direction from the open refrigerator when he went to retrieve the turkey. She put a little in her cup and returned the container to the refrigerator.
She was surprised at how relaxed she felt -- how welcome in this near stranger’s home.
Together they prepared the turkey for the grill. It would take about three and a half hours to slow cook, so they could eat at about two o’clock.
They got ready and went out to the horse barn. He wore a Barbour jacket with a corduroy collar over an Arran knit wool sweater. They both had scarves wrapped around their faces and Steve supplied earmuffs to wear under the cowboy hats he kept on hand in the barn. Phoebe was to ride the chestnut mare she’d seen last time she was here. The mare’s name was Sophie and Steve helped Phoebe into the saddle. Steve climbed aboard Bridget, a gray speckled horse that was taller than Sophie by half a head. He led the way out of the barn and across a pasture edged by a wooded trail.
Phoebe wished she’d brought a camera. She thought Steve looked wonderful, like a character out of a romance novel. She scolded herself inwardly for attaching any romantic notions to Steve.
It was a wonderful ride. The trees protected them from the cold wind and the silence of the forest floor had a calming effect on Phoebe’s anxious heart. Neither of them found it necessary to talk yet it seemed to each that they were in the presence of a friend.
They rode for more than two hours, then walked through the fragrant scent of turkey cooking on the back patio as they entered the kitchen through French doors.
The fire in the living room was vivid red embers now.
“Do you mind if I stoke this fire?” she asked Steve as she took the screen from the hearth.
“Not at all. The wood’s right there on the back deck where we just came in. Let me get some.”
While Phoebe built the fire up, Steve opened a bottle of wine and brought her a glass along with a bowl of mixed nuts. On his way into the room he gave a sideways glance at the orange pumpkin bowl filled with candy corn and reminded himself to tuck that in a drawer or somewhere on his return trip. He laughed to himself finally figuring out what Jacquie had been up too.
“Oh great! These are loaded with Brazils and Cashews! My favorites. Steve. I’m impressed. What a host.” She took the patterned china bowl and set it on the mantel. “Now, go get your glass of wine. It’s time we pay tribute here. Time to ‘toast the host.”
“I’ll be right back. I’ve got these other little salmon and cream cheese things you might like.”
“My gosh! You’re kidding — There’s more? I’m overwhelmed. Plus a little ashamed. I only brought what we agreed to over the phone. This was supposed to be 50/50 I thought.”
“Well, if all goes well, you can play ‘hostess with the mostest” for me some time and make it all up to me.”
“Got yourself a deal, cowboy.” She raised her glass and said, “To the counting cowboy who so kindly offered me the pleasure of his company.” She drank from her wine.
“Phoebe, thanks, but the pleasure is all mine.” He lifted his glass in her direction before drinking.
* * *
As soon as they brought the turkey in and put dinner on the table it started to snow. Phoebe looked up from a forkful of mashed potatoes and noticed the first flakes falling on the deck. The sky was blue/black, but the deck light flooded the area beyond the window where great flakes like bright, bleached doilies drifted and accumulated on the ground.
“Look. How pretty. Great fluffy flakes of snow.”
“Beautiful. I didn’t hear a weather report did you?”
“No. I didn’t think to check. We haven’t had anything but flurries so far this year so I imagine this will play itself out -- probably won’t accumulate.”
“Probably not.” Steve agreed.
Weather was a great topic of conversation in any Minnesota gathering. It was the great equalizer of all segments of society. Soon after coming to Minnesota Phoebe heard, so often it became boring as a matter of fact, that saying that goes, “Hey this is Minnesota! Don’t like the weather? Wait five minutes.”
She found it to be sort of true, but, in fact, winter in one form or another, started at the end of September and continued until early May. Honestly, you couldn’t safely plant a flower until May 1st.
“The summer Marc and I got married and moved to Minnesota he found a job right away, but I waited a couple of months so I could play the happy little housewife in our basement apartment.” She waved her fork, saying, “Can you believe that place only cost us ninety dollars a month?” She poked a piece of turkey and smiled down at her plate, feeling a little silly in her nostalgia. Thinking too how much she sounded like somebody else’s grandmother.
“But I remember the shock at the daily tornado watches and warnings. I didn’t know the difference. And I swear, every single day, by three or four in the afternoon, the sky would turn an awful shade of green, or better yet, pitch black and I’d dive under the bed thinking it was either the second coming or a tornado, and, either way, I surely needed protection.” She put a forkful of food in her mouth and her laugh came out her nose as a kind of snort. She felt a little foolish, but when she looked up at Steve to check his response, he was grinning at her.
“You outsiders!” he said. “I guess Minnesota would be a shock to the system after the balmy temperatures of Upstate New York.”
“No. Well, I mean, we had snow. I truly thought we had winter in spades. But we had the kind of snow you could go out and play in. The kind of ice on the ponds that allowed you to skate without the slightest possibility of frostbite. Turns out, that’s not winter at all, is it?
“Not to me it isn’t. Of course, I grew up north of here. Minnesota prairie land. You ever been up that way? Toward Fargo, you know. God, the wind across the plains is fierce. So, I probably have no right to tease you about being an outsider -- we all have reason to fear winter here. Spring and summer too with the severe thunderstorms and tornadoes.”
Phoebe had cleaned her plate. Steve reached toward it, thinking to clear the plates, simultaneous with Phoebe grabbing for another biscuit.
“Oops,” he said. “I thought you were finished. Pretty good eater aren’t ya?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t, after all…” she aimed the biscuit at the basket where three remaining biscuits awaited their fate. “But I really haven’t had my fill of biscuits and gravy. To me, it’s the ultimate comfort food.” She took the biscuit, split it open and scooped gravy on top. She thought she caught a glimpse of Steve shuddering slightly. Had a moment of longing for the good old days when Marc shared her Thanksgiving food cravings. As it was, she’d had to make gravy out of boiled stock from the turkey gizzard since there were no juices available from the bird as there would have been if Steve had cooked it in the oven.
Too, she hadn’t uttered a word of complaint about there being no stuffing. But, she did think to herself, “No stuffing! What is he thinking? Can you imagine!?” She sure as heck wasn’t going to deny herself another biscuit and gravy whether he thought he’d invited a pig to dinner or not.
Steve helped himself to another biscuit. It was probably just to set her at ease, but it really was a sweet gesture and he did eat the whole thing. She wondered if she’d imagined the shudder. Decided she had.
As Phoebe and Steve cleared the table together they noticed the sky taking on dusk tones and the pace of the falling snow had increased significantly. The snow, falling harder and faster created a sort of music as it hit the hot grill on the deck. It ping-ed and sizzled into a minor cloud of white steam.
“Just look at that! Reminds me of the stage set for “The Little Match Girl.” Hardly seems real! They use dry ice to get that effect in the theater, don’t they” I always thought that was playing it a bit overly dramatic. Now I see it was stark realism! Beautiful, though, isn’t it?” Phoebe fairly pressed her nose against the chill window glass. She spoke aloud and to Steve but her thoughts and the nostalgia accompanying them carried her out beyond the floodlit deck to where the snow fell on the darkened pasture.
Steve came and stood close to her, looking out the window. “It is beautiful … but..” Phoebe turned to face Steve and noticed the crease in his forehead.
“You’re worried, aren’t you?” She asked. “You think this is a serious storm setting in?”
“Well, it’s hard to tell, but it’s beginning to look pretty fierce out there. Better check the weather I guess.” Steve pushed the button on the radio. It was set to WCCO AM which she never listened to but recognized as a popular guy-type talk radio station with an emphasis on sports. She wondered if her presence had kept Steve from one or more Thanksgiving football games.
Phoebe went to the kitchen to start work on the dishes. She brought out two glasses of wine and asked Steve about the weather report.
“Well, we were wrong about zero accumulation, I’m afraid. It’s not very deep yet but the prediction is a good foot of snow and already all the highways have white-out conditions.”
“You’re kidding! Maybe I should go right away. If I wait any longer I could be in real trouble getting home. It’s close to twenty miles isn’t it?”
“Phoebe, I hate to tell you, but it’s already too late.”
“No. It can’t be. Don’t you think I can make it if I get started right away?”
“Well, I can’t tell you what to do, but I wouldn’t go out in this. Not to try to travel twenty miles. These whiteouts can be deadly. What little snow we’ve had has turned to ice on the roads and the blizzard conditions make it hard to tell where the ice patches are, not to mention where the road starts and stops.”
“Oh no. Oh no. This is terrible. I’d better try to reach Jade and let her know. All right if I use your phone?”
“Of course. There’s one in the kitchen — oh, or in the bedroom too — if you’d like some privacy.”
She went to the bedroom and, using her calling card, dialed Jolee’s number at the cabin. After three rings an operator came on saying the phone lines were down due to a winter storm. Jade was trapped too. She’d be trying to reach her mother, probably tried before the phone lines went down and couldn’t get anybody.
Phoebe felt panicky. She knew Jade disapproved of her spending the day alone with Steve and now, oh God — she felt justified in at least thinking the Lord’s name in vain to herself — now she would be spending the night with this man. How incredibly awkward for everyone!
She looked white when she returned to the living room where Steve poked the fire. “I can’t reach her. The phone lines are down. The storm must have started there before it hit us. Steve, I’m so embarrassed. What an imposition on you!”
“Not at all, Phoebe. I can see you’re worried about Jade but I’m sure she’ll be fine. Best thing, with these storms, is just make the best of it. We’ll just settle in and play cards or Parcheesi or something. Here, best if you let me refill your wine glass.” He poured the last of the Chardonnay into her glass. They hadn’t touched the Soave yet, but from the look of it, they might be cooking up leftovers for tomorrow’s dinner and another shared bottle of wine wouldn’t hurt a thing.
Phoebe tried Jade one more time and then left a message on her own answering machine at home in case Jade came in before she did and wondered what had happened to her mother. She tried to leave a similar message at Jolee’s house in Hopkins but the answering machine didn’t seem to be on. She decided to try to relax and make the best of things as Steve suggested.
She looked out at the deck again to check the storm’s progress. The grill had ceased its steam and sizzle and wore a four-inch cap of snow.
Phoebe retreated from the window, curled herself into a corner of the sofa in front of the fire and, within minutes, was asleep.
Steve bundled up and went out to the deck to bring in some more firewood. He put the afghan off the back of the couch around Phoebe’s shoulders when he came back in.
He still had his riding clothes on so he went to his room and changed into gray cord trousers and a v-neck navy blue sweater.
He hadn’t thought to put the needle on Greensleeves earlier and now he thought Vivaldi might be nice. He put on 101 Strings and sat in his Easy-Boy chair by the fire finishing his wine. He dozed after awhile and when he came to it was after eight o’clock. He heard Phoebe making some subtle plate-clattering sounds in the kitchen.
Phoebe poked her head around the corner and saw that Steve was awake.
“Dessert?” she offered. “We never had the pie! I’ll just whip the cream and bring us each a piece. Sound good?”
“Sounds great, but why don’t you let me whip the cream? You go change into your other clothes. Wouldn’t you feel more relaxed?”
“Yes. Oh, but you know what? I never got them out of the car.” She looked out the window and saw nothing but a snow mound where she was sure her car was parked earlier. “Oops. Guess those clothes will just have to stay there.”
“Let me get you something of mine to wear then.” He left her momentarily and returned with a soft white flannel shirt, navy knit drawstring pants and a pair of cushy white crew socks for her feet.
“Oooh, comfy. Thanks. I’ll just be a minute.” She went to the bathroom and changed. She brushed her hair up off her shoulders and secured it at the top of her head with a big barrette from her purse. She felt quite at home and much more at ease than a few hours before.
After dessert she wandered past his record and tape collection but all she found were Beatles, Beach Boys, Jan & Dean and the Kinks -- none of which she liked in the least. It astounded her a bit that he would have narrowed his taste in such a way as to include these few artists she didn’t like. It seemed to her she had such wide-ranging tastes when it came to rock and roll. Oh well. What’s one night without music. Anyway, the Vivaldi had been quite nice. She put the needle back on 101 Strings.
She thought it might be nice to read a little before bed but his magazines didn’t interest her much, “Field and Stream,” and “Sports Illustrated.” On her bedside table at home she had Louise Erdrich’s Love Medicine and a Tom Robbins book, Jitterbug Perfume that Karen recommended. Steve had a small shelf of Louis L’Amour westerns along with a Robert Ludlum and a Mario Puzo novel and the Laura Ingalls Wilder books presumably for the girls, but nothing in the collection really captured Phoebe’s attention.
For a while she and Steve sat and talked about their girls, how they were doing in school, what sports they were involved in, what subjects they seemed drawn to. They talked a little about the custody arrangements Steve and Lani had. It was a pleasant conversation without becoming particularly intimate or confiding on any level. At eleven Steve said he was pretty tired. He urged her to take his bed. He’d sleep in the girls’ room.
“No. I don’t want to take your room. Besides, I’m a girl. How about I sleep in Jodie and Jacquie’s room? Unless you think they’d mind …”
“Hey, mum’s the word. Jodie wouldn’t care a bit, but Jacquie’s been kind of funny …”
“I understand. Believe me. Well, how about you point me in the direction of Jodie’s bed”
He showed her the girl’s room and told her where towels, soap, shampoo were in the bathroom. He routed around in a drawer in the sink cabinet and came out with a still wrapped Oral B toothbrush and handed it to her. “Last trip to the dentist,” he explained. “I have an extra.
“And, hey, if you’d enjoy a bath or anything, just go ahead. I’ll hit the sack now and see you in the morning. I’m going to have to make my way out to the horses pretty early to be sure they’re okay in there.” He started away from her, then said, “You know what, Phoebe? I’m not a bit sorry you couldn’t make it home tonight, are you?”
“You know, I’m not. I’ve had a lovely day. Sleep tight, Steve. Think I will take a bath. Thank you so much for your kindness to me.”
“Thank you too, Phoebe. Good night now.”
* * *
In the girls’ bedroom Phoebe looked through the books on the shelf by Jacquie’s bed and found a copy of Girl of the Limberlost. Phoebe had always meant to read it and thought it would be the kind of book she and Jade might both like.
She took the pillow off Jacquie’s bed and added it to the ones on Jodie’s and curled into the single bed under the rainbow motif comforter. A lace shaded, milk-glass bedside lamp provided reading light. She felt like a little girl, one whose protective big brother slept in the next room keeping her from harm. She read for a while then let her mind drift to thoughts of the day past.
After awhile she reached to turn off the light. A light, she assumed came from the barn, lit the falling snow outside the girls’ bedroom window above the ruffled rainbow half-curtains. She lay there looking out into the night and tried to determine the significance of a rainbow in a snow filled night sky. Lulled by the rhythm of the falling snow she closed her eyes and slept.
She dreamed the outline of a tiny baby’s foot pushing against her lower abdomen. Felt a distinct pressure and a foot shape when she reached to explore. Then she felt the hard, round shape of a baby’s head at her throat. Next thing she knew, she was holding the naked newborn in her arms with an awareness its twin has been left inside her. She dreamed she and Marc went to the emergency room of United Hospital, but she appeared so healthy and so did her baby, that she couldn’t get any attention. She felt panic for the life of the unborn twin, but couldn’t get anyone to examine her to determine how far she’d dilated, how near to giving birth she was. Her head swam. She was entirely baffled at the appearance of the new life in her arms. How could a baby be born so? She felt like something was terribly wrong. Jade stood near her when the nurse weighed Phoebe and the two shared an understanding, when the nurse pronounced her weight at 115 pounds, that it was clearly her pregnancy that had caused her weight gain. In the dream both she and Jade reacted as if 115 pounds was huge, though in real life Phoebe had seldom weighed under 130.
Phoebe put the living baby to her breast. White milk circled his lips. At first she thought the baby was Marc’s and she and Jade agreed his head was shaped like her dad’s. Then she feared the baby was not Marc’s at all but the product of a betrayal of him, or at least a betrayal of Jade -- and that the baby would be cursed in some way. As she looked closer the baby kept changing appearance and became, first, an obviously Mid-Eastern child, then African, then Hispanic or Latino -- There would be no way to convince Jade this was her dad’s offspring.
Briefly, Phoebe calmed herself with the knowledge of how cute and charming little Jewish or Arab babies are. Jade and Phoebe first thought to call him Ian as she and Marc always thought they’d name a son. Ian was the name they’d picked to use if Jade had been a boy. Phoebe then suggested Eliot, but Jade didn’t like that. All the while the baby kept metamorphosing as Phoebe held him against her. She felt there was so much to be done to assure his happiness, health and survival and, she felt, it all had to be done at once. She felt desperate to protect him and baffled at his very existence. Thoughts crept in between all the frantic surprise of him, the wonderful feel of him, her instant love for him -- need for him to be real and all right in spite of the bizarre and unreal means of his birth.
She wondered, in the midst of dreaming, what impact would this birth have on her life as a widow? What changes would he bring in her life? Plus, she felt some subtle sense Jade would feel upstaged and therefore, betrayed. It all seemed so real that upon waking, Phoebe suffered a horrible, sad sense of loss. From that dream place where twins filled her heart, she wakened to a grief real and familiar to her. The grief inspired by empty arms. She started the day with an overwhelming sense of grief that wouldn’t let her go.
She stood and pulled on the knit drawstring pants under her shirt -- she’d slept in the soft white flannel. The sound of Steve in the kitchen stomping snow from his pants and boots, drew her toward him.
Seeing him there, just inside the kitchen door at that moment he appeared to her a bulwark. She went to him and pulled his boots from his feet, unwrapped the scarf from his neck and removed his wool jacket.
“Steve,” she said, “would you please put your arms around me?”
He smelled of cold snow mixed with a subtle sense of hay and horse as he held her there in the kitchen leaning against the butcher-block counter top. She murmured her grief and sorrow against the warmth of his sweater-clad shoulder. Something about rainbows and snow drifts, dreams and reality — something about not letting any of it ever go unnoticed.
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