The Bar and Grill Pt. 03

"Perfect for a cold winter night. But that takes quite a bit of time," I said. "I can probably start it in the morning, though. You can help me finish it when you get there in the afternoon."

She shook her head. "No. If I'm going to learn to make something French, I should be in on it from the beginning, right?"

I nodded. "Suppose so."

"Is ten too late?"

"About perfect."

With that, she turned back and finished the dishes while I mopped and wiped off counters.

The next day, Friday morning, we cut ten pounds of chuck roast into two-inch cubes and made a simple burgundy wine marinade with crushed garlic, peppercorns, and bay leaves. That night, I told her I'd swing over to her parents' house the next morning to pick her up. And before I knew it, Saturday morning was there.

The start of the day that would change my life.

In ways both good and bad.

TWENTY-TWO

We entered the kitchen through the garage, and Nicole stopped to take off her snowy shoes and layers of jackets. December in northern Illinois can get cold.

"Hey, little man," she murmured as Ernie did his best to jump into her arms. She bent down and petted him. "What's your name?"

"That's Ernie," I told her, throwing my jacket over a stool and going to the refrigerator to pull out the marinating beef and other ingredients we'd need.

"This is nice," Nicole said, holding Ernie in her arms as she stood and walked into the kitchen. Ernie was doing his best to drown her in vigorous licks all over her face.

I followed her eyes, pleased I'd gotten up early enough to get the house cleaned.

"Tour?" I offered.

She nodded, putting Ernie down before he licked her skin off.

We went from room to room of my home. Okay, house. It was still lacking any personal warmth after Nina and the girls had packed it up and trucked it off with them.

Ernie followed Nicole like a, well, love sick puppy dog. Traitor. You'd think I didn't spend every night trying to sleep over his rumbling snores.

Once done with the tour, we went back to the kitchen and got started. Two hours later, the bourguignon was braising in the oven; the dough for the cheese puff appetizer was resting; the pears for dessert were cooling in their poaching liquid; and the croutons and chunks of slab bacon for the Salad Lyonnaise were prepared.

"So that's it, huh?" Nicole said, sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar across the counter from me.

"That's what?"

"That's all French cooking is?"

I laughed. "No," I said. "That's all French bistro cooking is. Simple ingredients prepared simply."

"That salad, though. Salad Lyonnaise. Croutons, bacon, frisee, and poached egg? An egg on a salad? I mean, you promised to go easy on my dad, right?"

"Wait 'til you taste it, little girl," I said. "It's like bacon, eggs, and toast for breakfast except it's in a salad."

She laughed. "Figure out a way to melt a pound of cheddar cheese on it and he'll really like it."

Nicole was cheery, which surprised me. She'd originally seemed upset about doing this, but now she was as relaxed as I'd ever seen her. I decided not to push it, regardless of the number of questions begging to be asked by me and answered by her. So we said little when she got up and we cleaned the kitchen together.

By one-thirty, there was nothing to do except wait until five when everyone showed up.

"Ideas?" I said.

She shook her head.

"Want me to run you home? Come back and get you in a few hours?"

She pondered this before answering. "No sense in that. They're probably all napping in front of the television."

"Wine? Beer?"

"Too early."

"Lunch?"

"Too late. We'd never eat this monster meal we just prepared."

I stood looking at her, waiting for her to offer some ideas of her own. She sipped her coffee, which was cold as ice by now, and waited me out.

"You're not helping here," I said.

She smiled. "Wanna just talk?"

"Sure. About what?"

"Your life," she said over her shoulder, walking into the living room and sitting on the love seat. She curled her stocking feet up to the base of her bottom, cradling her legs in her arms.

I followed, splaying out on the couch with my feet on the coffee table.

"What about my life?" I said.

"Well," she started, drawing it out while she chose her words. "I suppose I already know all the . . . the bad parts. Why don't you tell me about the good parts? The things you like to do and stuff."

"Fair enough," I said. "So long as you tell me your favorite things, too."

"Deal," she agreed.

And that's how it started. Two hours of talking about our favorite things. Colors? Blue for me, yellow for her. Music? We both liked classic rock and most modern rock. We agreed rap is evil, and we disagreed on classic country; she liked the female singers like Tammy Wynette and Loretta Lynn while I loved Waylon, Willie, Merle, Johnny, and--of course, seeing as Ernie was named for him--the incomparable Ernest Tubb. She loved Italian cuisine, my preference was Thai. However, we both loved sandwiches, the weirder the ingredients the better the sandwich, and all movies in all genres. Her favorite movie was "Singin' In the Rain," mine was the John Wayne classic "McClintock!"

All told, I was amazed how many things we seemed to have in common. And there were enough dissimilarities to keep the answers real enough to be believed. Somehow, the afternoon just slipped away with the two of us talking and reminiscing about fond memories and the like.

Things took a strange turn, though, when I asked her what she wanted to do with her life.

"Meaning?" she said.

"You know," I explained. "Career wise."

She looked troubled. "Well, I really like what I'm doing now," she started. "Particularly the cooking part of things. Can't say I'm too thrilled with waitressing, but I really like the cooking."

She smiled. "It took me by surprise, to tell the truth."

"Don't see why. You're really good at it," I admitted. "A little professional training, you could run your own place."

She nodded. "That's not gonna happen, though."

"Why not?"

She looked at me like I was a dumb ass, which I was. "Tim, I've got a little boy to raise. Money's not growing on trees here, and I've got to make sure he's taken care of before I worry about everything I want to do."

I nodded, trying to smile like I understood.

"And now," she continued, her voice going softer, "it's about to get way worse."

"How so?"

She looked at me, her lips tightening in thought before she spoke. "Mom and Dad are putting the house up for sale. Downsizing once my brother's gone in June. Once they sell it, I'm gonna have to find a place of my own. That's gonna make things even tighter."

I pondered this for a few moments. I was really giving her as many hours as I could. Sure, I could take away some hours from Uncle Jack, and he probably would be glad to be rid of some of them, but they wouldn't be enough to make up the difference.

"Your Mom and Clara still gonna do the babysitting after the house sells?"

She nodded. "They're staying local. Neither of them wants such a big house anymore is all. They want something that won't take so much of their time to keep up."

"Well," I said, drawing out the word while deciding whether to spill my initial reaction out loud.

She raised her eyebrows at me.

"You could move in here," I finally said. "You and Alistair, that is."

If the last you're-a-dumb-ass look was obvious, this one was over the top. Then she laughed.

"I'm serious," I said. "There's plenty of room. You've seen it all. There's two bedrooms all the way across the house from my bedroom. Full bath between them. You could live here with no problem."

"Oh yeah," she scoffed, "and just what would I have to do in exchange for this? Huh?"

I knew what she meant, and it both bothered me and pissed me off.

"I'm not asking you to sleep with me, Nicole," I said. That was only partly true; I admit I was becoming intrigued by the notion of at least dating her. Still, I wouldn't ask for such a tit-for-tat, so to speak.

She seemed skeptical at my response, though.

I sighed. "Listen," I said. "Do I like you? Sure. Yeah, I like you. Do I think you're pretty? No doubt. But am I telling you to move in here so I can . . . charge you. . . ."

"Then what's in it for you?" she said. "Why?"

"It won't be totally free," I said. "I'll make you pay rent--probably the gas bill or electric bill, which is about three hundred a month total in the winter--and I'll want you to keep it all clean. Frankly, cleaner than I clean it. I'll do the outside stuff, lawnmowing and snow plowing and stuff, and you keep the inside clean. It's just me here, and this is a big place to take care of on my own. You'd be a real help."

She smiled. "Your laundry?"

I shook my head, relaxing at her sudden change in demeanor. "I don't want you anywhere near my dirty underwear, if you don't mind. A man's got to have his secrets."

She nodded. "And how do I know you're telling the truth?" she said. "About the other part."

"You don't. Then again, you're free to leave at any time, too. And if it was because of shit like that, you'd be telling everyone and I'd lose friends, business, and your Aunt Clara. You really think I'd risk all of that?"

She shrugged.

"Just think about it, okay?"

"Okay," she said. "But if I say yes, when would I move in?"

"Whenever you want," I said.

She nodded, then looked at the clock.

"Shouldn't we be checking on something?" she said, getting up and going toward the kitchen.

We spent the next hour making final preparations for the dinner guests. Final touches on the food, setting the table, decanting some Burgundy wine for the main course and Port for the dessert.

The cheese puffs--gougeres, if you're French and are getting pissed off that I used bacon in the Lyonnaise--were just finishing as the doorbell rang.

"What smells so good?" Willie asked, the delight obvious in his voice.

"It's got cheese, Daddy," Nicole told him.

"Then you know it's gonna be good," he said, walking past us into the kitchen and the smell of heaven.

TWENTY-THREE

The dinner was an unqualified success. Both Willie and Leon agreed that them French maybe knew a thing or two about beef stew and salads and such. Clara was amazed at how well Port went with spiced, poached pears with Roquefort. "Never understood that whole wine and cheese thing until this," she'd noted, her eyes wide open at the realization.

Willie, Leon, Nicole, and I were sitting around the coffee table, drinking beer, chatting, and watching college basketball from the corners of our eyes while Gertie and Clara--who insisted they had to contribute something--were putting the leftovers into tupperware containers and loading the dishwasher. When the phone rang, Clara called out that she'd get it, and I let her.

"Tim," she said, appearing in the living room with a frown on her face, holding the phone toward me.

I gave her a look.

"Nina," she said.

Jesus Christ! I thought. A perfectly enjoyable evening shot to shit.

I stood and nodded toward the bedroom. "I'll get it in there."

Clara nodded, and I excused myself with promises to return in a minute.

"Yes, Nina," I said into the phone.

"Tim?"

"Yes, Nina, it's me."

"Are you," she started, fumbling, "do you. . . . Is this a good time?"

"No," I said. "I've got guests over."

"Oh."

Then she was quiet.

After a few moments, I lost my patience to wait her out.

"You called," I reminded her. "Did you want something?"

She took another moment before answering.

"Tim," she said. "I was wondering if . . . . Can we get together and, well, maybe talk about things?"

"Like what?" I said. "We're divorced. There's really not a whole lot to talk about, you know?"

"Things have changed," she said. I could hear her sniffling her tears, trying to maintain her composure. "I know now that I've made a huge mistake. I was wrong. Wrong to do that to you. Wrong to try going back to Steve."

I waited her out, too angry to respond. Now she sees it? Seven fucking months after springing it on me and four or five months after we're divorced?

"The girls," she continued over my silence. "They really want to see you, Tim. They miss you."

I gave a derisive snort at that one. "Yeah. Sure. They miss walking all over me and treating me like shit."

"It wasn't like that, Tim," she pleaded. "They were just confused and hurt. By the divorce and all. And they maybe took it out on you too much. But they loved you. They still love you. And they want to see you."

"It's over, Nina," I said, trying to keep my voice low. "You made sure of it, okay? This was your choice, and you made it."

She was crying now, hiccupping as she tried to speak.

"I just want to meet with you. Talk with you, Tim. Is that too much to ask? Just once? I mean, after that night . . . . I wanted to tell you I was sorry. But you didn't even come home, Tim. We've never talked about it except that night."

I closed my eyes listening to her. She was hurting. A lot. She now saw what everyone--including Uncle Jack, who you'd think was just an insensitive, gruff old codger--saw from the day she'd left me. A part of me wanted to climb through the telephone line and hold her, hug her, and tell her everything would be all right, she'd get through it. Another part wanted to climb through the line and choke her dumb ass to death for leaving me for this dream of hers.

"I've got guests right now," I said.

"Please," she begged.

"I'll think about it," I said. "That's all I'll promise, okay? I'll think about it."

She sniffled a few times. "Okay, Tim."

"Good night, Nina."

"Good night, Tim," she said. "Hope I didn't spoil your night."

"Don't worry about it," I said, because she had.

I went back to the living room where most everyone did their best to pretend nothing had happened. Gertie was now next to Nicole on the love seat, and they were talking in low whispers. Willie and Leon were watching the basketball game drinking their beers.

Clara was the only one to look me in the eye when I returned.

"What did she want?"

I shook my head. "Nothing."

"Tim," she said.

"Really, Clara, I don't want to talk about it now, okay?"

"She wants to get back together, doesn't she?"

Clara's mother hen feathers were out.

"Yeah," I admitted. "She wants to meet."

Clara nodded. "And?"

"And what?" I said. "You think I'd want to go back with her?"

Clara's face told me she thought this possible. "You're just so . . . you know."

"Gullible?" I offered. "Dumber than a stump? Jesus, Clara, no way, okay?"

She smiled. "Okay."

So for the next hour, we all sat around chatting about this and that, here and there, and all sorts of stuff I don't hardly remember. All I remember is when they got up to leave.

After everyone had said their thanks and either shook my hand or hugged me, Nicole stayed back for a moment.

"That thing we talked about earlier?" she said, a pensive look on her face.

I only nodded.

"You think maybe I could bring Alistair over sometime? To meet you? Maybe see if the two of you are comfortable around each other?"

I smiled. "Sure. Good idea. Just let me know when, okay?"

She hesitated for a moment.

"What?" I said.

"Tomorrow morning maybe?"

"Breakfast?" I suggested.

"He likes French Toast," she said, the barest trace of a smile curling her lips.

"French Toast it is," I said. "Be here by eight thirty."

"Until eight thirty then," she promised.

TWENTY-FOUR

I won't bore you with the next morning. Suffice it to say that little Alistair took a shining to both Ernie and my French Toast, and he seemed okay with me. Nicole seemed to relax about the whole thing, and she told me she'd like to bring him by a few more times to make sure everything was good with Alistair.

"I can't run the risk of putting him into a situation like the last one," she explained before leaving. Given that the last prick had beaten her--the last time in front of Alistair--I didn't blame her one bit.

In the twelve days leading up to Christmas, Nicole and Alistair dropped by and started spending more time around the house, the time spent there increasing with each trip. Alistair got used to Ernie, Ernie got used to Alistair, and Nicole seemed to be getting comfortable with the whole idea of moving in.

It was interesting watching Nicole with Alistair, too. She was far different with her child than Nina had been with the girls. For example, the very first morning, she corrected Alistair several times on how to hold his fork and to chew with his mouth shut while eating his breakfast.

"You don't think he's a bit young for that?" I asked.

"You're never too young to learn manners," was her simple response. "Even if he can't really do it now, it's important that he learn what to be shooting for, dontcha think?"

When Alistair ignored my questions or Nicole's comments, she took his chin in hand, stared at him, and repeated herself or what I had said until he answered.

Finally, when she caught me talking down to him--not quite baby talk, but close--she corrected me.

"Please don't do that," she said, almost embarrassed, but firm nonetheless.

"Do what?"

"Talk to him like an adult," she instructed. "Like you'd talk to me. The best way for him to learn to speak properly and act properly is to be spoken to and treated properly. He'll imitate your speech to him and keep talking like that far longer than he should."

I only nodded.

Jesus, a mother who didn't baby her child, who actually demanded he behave and made no excuses. Granted, she wasn't beating him or overtly punishing him. Still, he was still not yet three years old. All told, a dramatic change from Nina's spoiling of Emily and Nadine.

Seeing Nicole and Alistair a few weeknights here and there made those two weeks fly by. Before I knew it, Christmas was upon us.

The Bar and Grill, along with every other restaurant and tavern in Grant City, closes at five on Christmas Eve. As a result, the afternoon was packed with factory workers and everyone else off for a few days eager to cram in some drinking before spending the holiday with family. Nicole and I had been run ragged in the kitchen, and once the doors closed we sat at the bar with a drink before tackling the cleaning.

"What're you doing tomorrow?" she asked.

"Relaxing."

"You're not going anywhere? Having anyone over?"

I shook my head, then took a sip of my beer. "Orphan."

"Well," she started, but I interrupted before she could continue.

"No, Nicole. Christmas is for family, not interlopers."

"You're not an interloper," she said, her voice soft. I started to say something, but she continued. "We got you a present. Me and Alistair. Not much, but I'd like to give it to you."

She turned and looked at me, holding me with her gaze. "You've been real good to us. All of us. I don't like the thought of you at home--alone--on Christmas."

Great. I'd gotten nothing for them. Way to make me feel like an asshole. She seemed to read this on my face.

"You've already done enough for us, Tim. Really. And probably a lot more, too."

That really didn't make me feel a whole lot better.

"Dinner?" she pressed. "One?"

I held her eyes and saw she wasn't going to leave it alone.

I nodded. "One it is. I'll bring something."

"Appetizer," she said. "Something good."

I chuckled. "I'll try."

Ending it there, we went back to get the cleaning done so we could get out of there, her back to her family and me to whatever store was open so I could get some gifts.

TWENTY-FIVE

At ten the next morning, I was home wrapping the gifts I'd purchased at the last minute when my doorbell rang.

I looked over my shoulder and saw Nina huddled there, shivering in the cold on my front porch.