CATHEDRAL by Patrick Sean Lee (novels to improve english .txt) 📖

flights of stairs to the dining room.

As we approach the open doorway I hear voices; laughter, snappy comments, more laughter. I squeeze Matthew’s hand and ask a spur of the moment question before we arrive. “Matthew, how long were you really planning on staying up here?”

He answers. “Forever. If you’ll stay with me. Maybe I’ll ask Bernie and Gertie to consider selling the lodge to me.”   

Oh my God!

Why was I thinking two or three weeks? What did I really imagine would come of all this when I told Matthew I’d return to him? A flurry of images overwhelms my brain—Annie; I see her for some reason, and Gloria. My house, Stanfield, the orange trees in the back yard, Main Street and crowds of tourists. Bunches of white daisies with drooping heads. And Brad. Why, why Brad? Why must I continue to see the pain in his eyes?

 Matthew is drawing me closer with his strong arm as we walk—as he walks and I nearly stumble. He’s looking intently at me when I am released from the shock of his answer. He is smiling with a very large question mark on his face. I am at the moment incapable of any response, yet I say, “Forever? Forever, Matthew? Here?”

A Winter's Tale

 Isabella

 

“Why not?” The two words echo in my head. Rumble like thunder in an August storm.

Why not? At this moment I can only come up with a thousand reasons. My business back home. My friends. My Stanfield—who will in time find Annie’s apartment more than suitable, I suppose. As long as his food dish is kept full…My house! Everything inside!

That’s four. No, five, and they compromise only the first few letters of the novel of reasons! I can’t possibly inhabit this latest of my fantasies for very long. If Matthew is irrational, I cannot be.

I think.

The door to the dining room is open. Above the doorway I see words etched in fire on the woodwork. “F-o-r-e-v-e-r”. We walk in, my head reeling.

Gertie notices us first and snaps her head in our direction. Her eyes light up with her smile. Bernie and Edward are sitting next to one another. Bernie is telling him something, gesturing with his gnarly old hands, and at first neither of them sees us. At the far end of the table, in front of Jack who is perched behind him on the library table, Charlie sits quietly, stiffly upright. He glances pensively at this couple entering who have occasioned such a formal affair. I’m glad he’s going to be with us, but he looks so out of place, like a Pygmy at the opera. I know he would be more at ease eating this meal alone at the unadorned kitchen table, or in the solitude of his bunkhouse attached to the livery outside.

The long table has been set with Roosevelt Lodge’s finest. An embroidered white tablecloth, silver dinnerware, crystal, and gleaming china service. Someone—no doubt Gertie— has fashioned a centerpiece of pine boughs, cones, sprigs of red ribbon, and—I smile at the thought of it—red roses, gyp, and stephanotis…I catch the lovely odor long before I do whatever dish she has prepared that stands covered, in front of Bernie. I wonder what poor creature gave its life recently for our—their—pleasure? I am prepared for Gertie’s lettuce, tomatoes, and kidney beans. I’ll be fine, but I think tomorrow I’ll invade her kitchen and cheerfully ask to help her in the creation of a tasty, meatless dish. If she’ll allow me, that is. She has also brought out half a dozen three-tiered candle holders, and the tapers are all lit, flickering, bright at the centers of the flames, a reflection of my spirit tonight.

Edward breaks free of Bernie’s banter suddenly when he finally notices us, and he stands. Bernie is caught off-guard momentarily, but he puts it all together, turns to see Matthew and me, and then he follows Edward’s lead. Poor Charlie has long ago lost remembrance of social graces I’m afraid, but he is soon enough on his feet, too. He is dressed roughly in his best attire; a terribly out of date black suit, white shirt, and narrow, black tie. I can’t help but notice the terrible scar on his throat. He pretends to straighten the tie, but his hand lingers, covering a portion of his throat until I look away.

“I’ll dim the lights,” Gertie giggles as she rises and pats Bernie’s arm, caught up in the moment.

“Gosh darn, Gertie, it’s dark enough in here already!” Then to me, “Well I’ll be darned if you somehow didn’t get prettier all the sudden. Don’t know how that’s possible, but you sure did.” He is all lit up like a kid in front of the tree on Christmas morning, turns to Edward, who is smiling himself. “Ain’t she?” Edward does not answer, instead closes his eyes for a second and simply nods his head, yes. He is wearing the same well-tailored suit that he arrived in, but he looks fresh. Clean shaven, face slightly flushed and shining, even, in the candlelight.

Matthew seats me across from Gertie, and then takes a chair next to me. When I am comfortable, everyone else sits down once again, except Gertie. She folds her hands near her chest as though she’s about to break out in prayer, and proudly announces, “In honor of your return, dear little Isabella, I have—with the help of Matthew, of course—put a meal together that I think you’ll lick your chops over…”

“Gertie!” Bernie stops her, his eyes narrowed in amusement. “She ain’t the type to lick her chops. Good grief!”

We all laugh at the two of them. Everyone except poor Charlie and yawning Jack.

“Yes, well. Matthew and me used his fancy computer to look up a whole slew of vegetabletarian dishes, and here’s what we thought would taste real good.” She bends forward and lifts the lid from the silver serving dish. Whatever it is, it must taste delightful because it smells so wonderful; strongly of herbs and spices and a mixture of vegetables that are tangled together like lovers. Beneath the covers. Or in the shower. Or beneath a woolen blanket in front of a blazing fire.

“It’s Broccoli-Potato Strata,” Gertie says proudly. “I threw in a pinch o' garlic, and some salt and pepper to liven it up, you know. The only thing missing is some venison or beef. Anyways, I think it’ll hit your taste buds pretty good.”

I am delighted. Unless she’s ruined the dish with too much garlic and salt, I can’t imagine a nicer meal. Or at least a nicer thought about a meal.

“Broccoli and potatoes. You are so sweet, Mrs. Davenport! Thank you for thinking of me.”

“Oh Lordy, Isabella, it’s Gertie to you, you know that! And you’re welcome very much. Now, dig in. It ain’t potatoes, neither, it’s sweet potatoes. Bernie went to the cellar and got a real good...” As she is speaking, Gertie surveys the table and frowns; turns to Bernie and snaps, “Where’s the wine? You forgot to bring the wine in!”

Bernie reacts as if she has grabbed hold of his earlobe and shaken his head. The one task entrusted to him, and he has blown it. He scoots the chair back, shoots me an embarrassed look, then rises and scurries off to the kitchen. In a moment he returns victorious with the bottle of wine. I am sure whatever it is it will be perfect for the meal.

“So sorry! I think you’ll like it, though.” He motions to me, and I hand him my glass. “A Medoc wine—Chateau Margaux, 2003. Perfect, perfect. Spicy, with a vanilla oakiness.” He is beaming as the light red wine whispers down the side of the crystal glass. Before handing it to me he sniffs the bouquet. “Ah, a hint of…” He sniffs again. “Violets!”

“Violets? You ain’t never even smelled one, let alone tasted one!” Gertie teases him.

I’ve never tasted a violet either, or any other flower for that matter. I try to remember the odor of one, but hard as I concentrate, nothing comes. Yes, vanilla, okay. Oak—that, too. But no violets. Edward is chuckling, waving his hand in a circle above his head. I’m betting for some reason he’s had prior olfactory experience with violet wine. Everyone except poor Charlie is enjoying our connoisseur’s description. He remains passively stiff, extremely uneasy. I sniff the contents of my glass, and I believe Bernie might be correct. There is a slight flowery odor as well as a pungent whiff of oak. I sip it and savor the first taste as it rolls across my tongue. It borders on spicy. It’s delicious, smooth, and I nod my approval, for what that’s worth. This is not a random selection I’m certain, and equally certain that the bottle was pricey. If Bernie is a little on the common side in most of his speech and mannerisms, he is definitely a professor when it comes to knowing a good vintage from one with tarry, slightly ragweed qualities. I’ve been into those selections a time or two. He closes his eyes, then opens them with a smile.

Now I turn my attentions back to Gertie’s creative masterpieces.

We have salad—but not just any old salad. This little gem is something out of Il Fornaio’s kitchen back in Santa Monica. Elegant looking. Navy beans, walnuts; it looks like diced red onions, crumbled cheese, and slices of avocado. All of it artfully arranged on a base of Romaine lettuce and bias-sliced carrots. Suddenly I'm famished!

 

                            *

 

Our dinner progresses in a most delightful, low-key way. Edward is engaging—and UCLA educated we learn. A limo driver; go fish. I’ll bet there’s a very interesting story there. Charlie maintains an air of civility, but I know he’s suffering. It’s very apparent that the poor old guy doesn’t like Gertie’s veggie concoction because, more than lifting it to his mouth, he shoves the fork round and round on the plate. Looking for dead animal, Charlie? I smile at his agony. You’ll survive.

 

Matthew utters an ahem, and then he drops the bomb.

 

The Bells Toll

 Matthew

 

Gertie, my late-in-life new mom, dropped her fork when I made the announcement. As for Bernie, his eyes shot wide open, and he spat a glop of half-chewed lettuce onto the table, the shock was so total.

“Buy our home?” Gertie (who fortunately for everyone had already swallowed her forkful a second before I opened my mouth) said. Isabella daubed my cheek with her linen napkin, and I continued while Bernie coughed.

“Just a thought…Bernie, are you okay?”

“Ye…”