Jennifer Greene - Cupid’s Confederates

“He is a character,” Bett agreed.

“I told him I’d bring him a home-cooked dinner sometime.” Elizabeth adjusted the neck band of her orange blouse. “The old coot. I felt sorry for him.”

Bett nodded, curiosity and amusement reflected in her clear blue eyes. “That was nice of you.”

“He doesn’t deserve it,” Elizabeth said flatly, and then sighed. “I thought I’d do up a pot roast, some of those small new potatoes, maybe an apple pie-”

Bett smothered a grin. “He’ll never recover.”

“The thing is…” Elizabeth stood up and started wringing her hands again. “Grady’s one thing. Of course I’ll take him over a dinner. Brittany, you know I’d do that for anyone. But Grady is not Aaron,” she said nervously. “And Aaron. He actually had the nerve to…”

“What?” Bett asked, perplexed.

“Ask me to dinner. Actually like a date,” Elizabeth said disgustedly. “Can you believe that? At my age? Married for twenty-five years?” She took a book from the shelves, and started leafing through it. “I think I’ll read tonight. I’m just too tired to work on my afghans.”

Pesticide Management? “Now just sit down a minute, Mom,” Bett coaxed.

Elizabeth promptly collapsed in a chair. “It’s ridiculous. What would Chet think? Your father would think I encouraged him. I didn’t do a thing, Brittany; I can’t imagine anything more foolish than people our age-”

“I don’t think it’s foolish at all,” Bett said gently. “Why on earth shouldn’t you go out to dinner with him?”

“Because what would your father have thought?” Elizabeth said unhappily.

Bett’s words were measured, very soft. “I think Dad would have been delighted to know that someone cared enough about you to ask. And he would have been happy to know you were having a good time. You think he would have liked the thought of you being alone?”

Tears welled in Elizabeth’s eyes. “I still miss your father.”

“I do, too, Mom.” Matching tears welled in Bett’s eyes.

Elizabeth stared directly at the bookcase. “They were such good years, Brittany, every one. We didn’t always agree, but that never seemed to matter. It’s funny, how little that’s really a measure of anything. And sometimes…sometimes I get terribly frightened at how very many years I have left. Too many-always to be alone, never to have anyone to do for again, to fuss and cook for, to just be with. I wouldn’t want anything the same. I would never expect or even want to love anyone the way I loved your father, but I…and then suddenly I feel so wretchedly disloyal for even considering…because if you think for any minute I could forget your father…”

“Mom.” Bett pushed herself out of the rocker and went to lean over her mother, folding her close, smelling the same faint rosewater scent she could remember from the time she was a baby. “You wouldn’t be disloyal to go out to dinner with someone else. To see someone else. You would be pleasing Dad very much. You think he would want you never to care for someone else just because he’s gone? You just can’t think that, because Dad just wasn’t like that. Now, you love to go out to dinner-”

“Well, I told him no, anyway.” Elizabeth rubbed nervously at her eyes. “I still think it’s halfway foolish.”

“You can call him back. It isn’t foolish.”

“I’ve never called a man in my life, and I’m certainly not about to start now.” Elizabeth stood up, and picked up her book, staring at it blankly. “Besides, I haven’t a thing to wear.”

“So…Brittany.” Elizabeth emerged from the closet, holding first one dress and then a second up to her slip-clad body. “What do you think? The blue or the yellow print?”

Holding on to the tag end of a mile of patience, Bett dutifully surveyed the choices. The navy dress was polka-dotted, simple in line, set off by a crisp red belt. The other was a bright splash of orange and yellow and green. “The blue,” Bett suggested.

“But the blue would need beads. They’re wearing chunky beads this season and I really don’t have any to match the dress,” Elizabeth explained. “You really think the blue?”

“I really think the blue. You don’t have to have beads.”

Elizabeth turned. “What you really think is that I’m worrying too much about going out to this dinner.”

The tag end was running out. “It is just a din-”

“I think the yellow is much…perkier.”

“That it is,” Bett said crisply.

“With orange shoes.”

“Fine, Mom. You’ll look just fine.” Bett rose from the bed and moved swiftly toward the door. Fresh from the shower, she’d just had time to don an old jumpsuit before the questions started. She’d been answering the same questions for days. In the meantime, her hair was wet and she was still barefoot; Zach had come in from the woods more than an hour ago and she knew he was starving.

“Then why did you tell me to wear the blue, if you thought the yellow would do just as well?”

Bett sighed. “I do like the blue better, but the yellow is fine. Now, if you don’t mind, Mom, I’m going down-”

“I don’t like the blue at all.”

“Then don’t,” Bett said ominously, “wear the blue.”

Elizabeth steadfastly regarded the expression on her daughter’s face, then pulled on a ruffled robe over her slip. “You and I, Brittany, have simply never shared the same taste in clothes. I’ll ask Zach.”

A very poor idea. Bett opened her mouth to say so, but her mother could occasionally move on winged feet. From down the hall, Bett heard the rapid knock on her bedroom door, quickly followed by a garbled cry. Elizabeth’s flushed face reappeared seconds later; she wouldn’t meet Bett’s eyes. “I forgot,” she said flatly, “that Zach sometimes…walks around like that after a shower.”

Zach, in the next room, was debating whether to leave the door standing wide open or to purchase stock in a dead-bolt company. To close the door was simply without purpose. Closed doors drew Elizabeth like a magnet. Absently, he pulled on a pair of jeans and then a pullover, running a rough brush through his wet hair afterward. After a long run of irritability all week, humor had gradually taken over. An issue of self-preservation.

He’d never really cared if an entire convent saw him naked, but this was the week for Elizabeth and doors. Liz always panicked when Bett was on the other side of a closed door-he was beginning to believe she had a hidden device invisibly connected to Bett’s thigh that lit up lights when he touched his wife-but this week, she’d picked on Zach. Twice when he was fresh out of the shower, once when he’d been shaving and once when he had the stupid idea that he could corner Bett for a little kiss and tickle if they were safely behind a door and a shower curtain-he doubted that his mother-in-law had recovered from that one yet. Thank God they could still escape to the woods every once in a while for alfresco lovemaking, but the weather would be turning chilly soon…

Elizabeth was remarkable. The farm season was finally winding down. Used to immediately claiming more time with Bett, Zach suddenly found his wife hovered over by a more zealous chaperone than a vestal virgin in early Rome would rate. The lady was rarely shakable. She never slept. Come in for a nice relaxing cup of coffee, and she was full of exhausting chatter. Turn on a football game, and the washing machine went manic. One thirty-second grab at Bett’s fanny, and those eyes were all over him. On occasion, Liz hesitantly suggested she might go to town by herself, and they all but pushed her out the door… It was a question of making hay while the sun shone.

In the meantime, if he’d had any idea how much turmoil one simple little dinner date with Aaron was going to cause this household in anxiety and preparation… Zach went down the stairs two at a time, headed for the kitchen and started haphazardly opening cupboards.

The thought of nutrition made him ill. Broccoli was a very healthy food. Broccoli and salmon loaf went well together; they’d had that combo twice this week. Zach searched the bottom cupboard until he found a can of spaghetti in the very back, one of a few cans Bett had stocked about two years before in case of a winter snow-in. Not that they’d ever use that kind of thing, she’d told him. Bett was crazy. He’d lived on the stuff in college. And the thought of pure starch delighted him.

He opened the can and was pouring the contents into a pan when the doorbell rang. Absently wiping his hands on a towel, he strode toward the front door and greeted Aaron, he hoped without showing in expression or action that he would have bribed him to take Liz out if the dear man hadn’t thought of the idea himself.

Aaron wasn’t really husband potential for Elizabeth or anyone else; he simply liked conversation and didn’t like to eat alone. An old bachelor at sixty, he was a gentle man, and provided the ideal means of getting Elizabeth’s feet wet, so to speak. Dressed in simple dark pants and a corduroy jacket, Aaron smiled easily as he stepped inside. Zach thought wryly that the poor man couldn’t possibly guess that his arrival had been prefaced by an entire week of agonizing over hairstyles and new shoes, deep depressions over the state of Elizabeth’s wardrobe, and searching out the town for matching purses for every outfit she might want to wear.

“Can I get you a drink?” Zach asked, hoping for his own sake that Aaron would accept.

“No, thanks, Zach. We’ll probably have a little wine at the restaurant. Season go okay for you and Bett?”

“Terrific. Been busy?”

Aaron’s schoolteacher background showed. He told Zach all about his arthritis, his grapes and the politics in the community, while Zach moved into the kitchen, stirring the spaghetti. Finally Bett popped in the door.