The Garden

I knew I should say no, that I could make a couple of trips, but I had to admit I wanted the company. "That would be nice of you," I said, my heart pounding a bit faster, knowing I could spend more time with her. "Thanks." I loaded her up with some stuff and I took the rest.

As we walked to my house, we chatted about this and that. Nothing significant, just idle chatter to pass the time. It was nice. I sneaked a peek at her ass when I had the chance; it filled out those jeans very nicely. I felt a bit guilty about it, but it didn't stop me. When we got to the garage, I took what she was carrying and carefully put it away, everything in its place.

"I really appreciate your helping me," she said. "Thanks." With that, she reached over to me, brought my head down and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

Oh, I liked that kiss. I mean, it was only on the cheek, it wasn't like it was a full-blown, tongue dancing KISS, but it was nice. And I felt guilty. I pulled back and looked down.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asked.

"No, no," I said, "not at all. It's just that, well, I'm still getting used to being single."

She nodded. "I understand," she said. "I guess I just wanted thank you for being helpful and...everything."

I smiled and said, "You're welcome. Anytime."

She looked around and said, "Well, I guess I have to get going. No rest for the wicked, you know."

I laughed. "That's been my experience, as well. See you at the garden next week?" I asked.

"You can count on it," she said with a smile.

Next Saturday, I got to the garden early, hoping she would be there. She was. I smiled at her and said hi.

"Hi yourself," she said. "Planting day?"

"Planting day," I said. "Ready for some digging?"

"Yep," she said, "I have the car loaded up."

We moved the plants she had from her car to next to her plot. She had tomatoes, a staple of any garden, and some snap peas, some garlic cloves, a couple of pots of basil and parsley, and some carrots and onions.

"This shouldn't take too long," I said. "We just have to dig some holes, drop some fertilizer, plop down the plants, and push the soil around them. A little water, and we're done."

She and I worked together for about an hour, getting everything into the ground. It looked good when we were done. She smiled at the result.

"I hate to ask this, but I have a problem I was hoping you could look at," she said. "My bathroom faucet leaks. I put in a new washer, but it still won't shut off. Can you help?"

"Sure," I said. "Probably all we need to do is to resurface the seat. If you can drive me over to my house, I can get what I need and we can head over to your place to see what we can do."

"Great! Thank you so much," she smiled.

We climbed into her car and drove the few blocks to my house. We went into the garage and I opened the drawer that had the plumbing stuff. "We'll need the seat grinder, some washers to replace what's there, and my tool chest. That should do it."

She laughed. "You really do have a hardware store in here."

"And damn proud of it," I smiled.

We then headed over to her place. It was a standard house for the area. This whole neighborhood was built after WWII. A lot of soldiers moved into the area and started their families here, eager to forget what had happened in Europe or the Pacific Theater. The houses weren't big by today's standards, but they were big enough to get on with life. Helen's house was pretty much the same as all the rest on the outside, but the interior was nicely decorated. It was clear a woman lived here.

"It's the bathroom faucet," she said, leading me down the hall. When we got there, I could see the steady drip. She pointed to the drop just about to fall and said, "See, it's still going." She put her hand on my arm to steady herself, or so I told myself.

"Okay," I said, "we'll rip this thing apart and get it to work right. Stand back; there's no telling what will happen next." She smiled with me, but moved back to give me room to work.

I shut off the water to the cold line first. "We don't want water spraying everywhere," I said. Then I took off the handle and removed the valve stem. I looked down at the valve seat.

"See?" I said. "If you look closely, you can see that the seat, that little ring of metal down there, is pitted. It probably got damaged by some grit in the water. The pits will prevent the rubber washer from making a proper seal." She leaned over to look, once again putting her hand on my arm to steady herself. I caught a whiff of perfume as she did so and I felt the heat of her body. I couldn't help responding to it. "What we'll do," I said, after clearing my throat, "is use this grinder to make the seat smooth and flat again. Then we'll put in a new washer and everything should be fine." In my best Texas drawl, I said, "Don't you worry about a thing, miss, I'll take care of it." She laughed, probably at my drawl.

I ground the seat smooth, fumbled around with the washers until I found the right size, then put everything back. "This faucet uses a one quarter washer," I said, "but there are several different sizes of one quarter." She frowned. "Yeah, I know," I said, "there is a standard, but there are several of them. Kind of flies in the face of the concept of a standard. Anyway, what you need here is a one quarter R. Just so you know." I winked at her. I doubted she would ever need that piece of information.

With everything put back and tightened, I turned the water back on and waited. We watched expectantly for the water to ooze out, but it didn't. "Whew!" I said. "Another job adequately done."

"Thank you," she said. "My bedroom is just over there and the dripping was driving me crazy." She paused. "I think I owe you something for this. How about I make you lunch? I don't have any good vegetables, but I think I can make something edible." She had a hopeful look on her face.

I should have said no. What would Annie think, me having lunch with another woman? I should have said no, but Helen wanted me to say yes. And, I have to admit, I wanted to say yes myself. So I did.

"Great!" Helen said. "It's nothing special, but I have some pesto you might like, and a champagne that goes really well with it."

"I have to admit," I said, "I wouldn't mind having a plateful of starch, after all the work we did."

Helen busied herself in the kitchen while I looked around the house. It was an older house, but it was reasonably well-maintained. The furniture looked fairly new and there were pictures on the piano. I looked at them, but found only pictures of herself and people I assumed were her parents. "So you play the piano?" I asked.

"A little," she said from the kitchen. "I never got good enough to play for anyone, if you were going to ask that next."

"No," I smiled, "I wouldn't ask a thing like that." Then I tapped a few keys. "It needs a bit of tuning," I said. "I could bring my tools over and maybe tweak it up a bit, if you'd like."

"What, you do that too?" she said.

"Well," I said, "I'm interested in a number of things and music is one of them." I idly played a few chords, then played a little melody.

She listened until I was done and said, "That's pretty. What is it?"

"Oh, just something I have been working on," I said. "It seems like I'm constantly having tunes running through my head and every now and then I put one down on keyboard."

"On keyboard?" she asked.

"Yeah," I laughed. "I don't actually write anything down, so I don't put it down on paper. All I do is play it. Of course, once I'm finished with something or, more likely, go on to something else, the original tune gets lost."

"That's too bad," she said. "It's a shame to lose what you've done."

I smiled. "Plenty more where that came from."

She shook her head. "I'm stunned at the things you do."

"I'm just interested in a lot of different things, that's all," I said.

"Well, are you interested in eating? If so, soup's on," she said.

We sat at her dining table. She had made a simple dish of linguine and pesto. The pesto smelled really good. "Did you buy this or make it from scratch?" I asked.

"I make it," she said proudly. "It's simple enough to make, but most people buy it. I don't know why. The only problem I have is it turns brown after a while."

"Ah," I said. "Easy enough to fix. If you blanch the basil first, the heat will kill the enzymes that make the leaves turn brown. It'll stay green a long time. Although I have to believe that pesto this good won't stay uneaten for very long anyway."

She looked at me like I had a turtle on my head. "My God, John, just how much do you know, anyway?" she asked. "I have a feeling I haven't begun to see all the things you can do. You fix plumbing, weld, play the piano, compose music, and apparently cook. Do you take out the trash, too?"

I smiled, "Only under duress. As I said, I have interest in many things. Besides, when it gets down to it, it's all about the food anyway, right?"

"Right," she said, still shaking her head.

Lunch was very nice. The champagne balanced the pesto nicely and I told her so. She cleared the plates and rinsed them off while I relaxed a bit. It felt good to be in someone else's house for a change. It almost felt like a real life.

"So what's your story?" I asked when she sat down again.

"Story?"

"Yeah," I said. "How did you get to where you are now? I'd like to know."

"Hmm," she said. "Well, I was born." I rolled my eyes. "Then I went to school, then college. I got an MBA there and met my future husband. I got married and things were good for a while. Then my husband lost his job, probably because he was caught with one of the secretaries there. In fact, I'm sure of it. Things went south pretty quickly after that." She looked down at her hands, rubbing them. "He took to drinking to try to feel better. I forgave him for his infidelities, but I couldn't forgive the abuse. After getting bruised up, I filed for divorce. I got the house, such as it is, mostly because I paid for it, and a car, but the important thing I really got was out. And that was enough." There was a look of determination in her eyes, but also a look of sadness. "It hasn't quite worked out the way I wanted. Perhaps it's all for the best, though."

"I sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to pry into details that were unpleasant. I was just curious about you. Sorry."

"It's okay," she said. "It was a while ago, so it doesn't sting quite so much anymore. For a long time, I thought there was something wrong with me, otherwise he wouldn't have done the things he did. I figured out the truth eventually."

"You should have come to me. I could have told you there's nothing wrong with you," I smiled.

"I didn't know you then," she said. "I wish I had."

There was silence for a while. "So what's your story?" she asked.

"Pretty short," I said. "I got married and my wife died." I felt my eyes water a bit. I tried to relax my throat, but it insisted on tightening.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"It's okay," I said. "I'm dealing with it. I'll be okay."

I looked around and said, "I think I had better be going. I'm sure you have things to do and I have some things to attend to myself."

"Still working on that cure for cancer?" she asked, a smile on her face. She could tell it was a mistake the moment she said it. A wave of pain washed over my face. "Oh, I am so sorry," she said. "I only meant you do so many things I thought I would make a joke about it. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." She put her face in her hands.

"You couldn't have known," I said, the tears starting to flow. "It's okay. I have to go. Thanks for lunch."

I left with my gut having been kicked in. Helen didn't mean anything by it, I know, but I could have done without the reference. I could do without the memory, too, but that's not going to happen. Not in this lifetime.

When I got home, I thought about today, and about Helen. She's pretty, no question about it. I enjoyed the time I spent with her. And I have to admit I liked taking care of someone again. But Annie was my life. I didn't have enough time with Annie and I didn't want to forget about what we had. And Helen was making me remember and forget at the same time.

The following Saturday, Helen was at the garden before I was. She was busy taking care of her plants, so she didn't see me at first. When she did, I saw her hesitate before giving me a wave hello. I felt horrible. She didn't do anything wrong; the problem was with me. I walked over to her plot.

"Hi, Helen," I said. "Listen, I want to apologize for last time." I looked down at the ground, purposely avoiding her eyes. "I'm a bit sensitive about some things. You had no way of knowing what certain phrases do to me. Just so you know, Annie died from cancer. It still stings a bit." I looked up, hoping for forgiveness.

Helen smiled a sad smile and shook her head. "Look," she said, "bad things happen to good people all the time. Sometimes good people say the wrong thing at the wrong time. And sometimes good people react badly to the wrong thing. I think we're even, don't you?"

"I'm good if you are," I responded. "I'd still like to make it up to you, though. Could I make you dinner? Please?"

"You sure you'll have time between your concert and fusion experiment?" she laughed.

I took this in good humor. "Yeah," I laughed, "I think so, but I'll have to tell the Nobel committee they'll just have to wait." She smiled. We were on good footing again. "Come by my place at six, okay?"

"I'll be there with bells on," she said.

I couldn't wait for the evening to come. I wasn't making anything special, just a simple shrimp pasta dish and some sorbet for dessert. I don't put much stock in big dinners, but I like the food to be good. Maybe a touch of champagne would be good. It couldn't hurt.

When the doorbell rang, I jumped a bit. I couldn't figure out why I was so nervous. It was just a dinner with a friend, I thought. A chance to show off my culinary skills. Hmm, did one show off to friends? I wasn't sure just how I saw all of this. She's pretty, no question there. She's kind, forgiving, clever, and needs a bit of attention. She could be a friend or more than a friend. I didn't know what I wanted and I didn't know what she wanted. Maybe that was why I was nervous.

I opened the door and saw Helen standing there, dressed in a summer dress that was just a bit fancy. I realized then that I hadn't seen just how good her figure was. Those work clothes hid a few things. I could tell she had nice legs, a narrow waist, and breasts that a man would kill for. Not quite what I would notice in a friend, is it?

"Come on in," I said cheerfully. "You're just in time for a glass of champagne."

"Ooo!" she said, her lips turning up at the corners. "I can always use a glass of champagne."

When she stepped into the house, she did a quick look around. "It may not look like much," I said, "but the faucets don't leak."

She gave me a smirk. "Neither do mine," she said.

"Sit anywhere you can find that's safe. Your libation will be coming up shortly," I said. She wandered around the room a bit.

"I don't have the place decorated as nicely as you do," I called out while I poured the champagne.

"It looks nice enough," she said politely. She stared at a picture on the wall and said, "This is nice."

"Thanks," I said. "That's supposed to be Lynda Carter, but I changed some of her because I didn't like the way her mouth looked."

She turned to look at me, with a puzzled expression, and said, "What do you mean, you changed her?"

"Artist's prerogative," I said. "When it comes to drawing, I can do whatever I want. Don't let Lynda know, though; she'd kick my butt."

Helen's eyebrows raised as she stared at me. "You drew this?" she asked.

"Of course," I said. "It's the best I've ever done and probably the only thing worth hanging."

She just shook her head.

She noticed the music stand and the cello sitting next to the piano. "You play the cello, too?" she asked, the surprise obvious in her voice.

"Well," I started, "I mostly make sounds with it. Sometimes it comes out as music, but that's rare." She smiled like she didn't believe me and I let her doubt.

"Honestly," she said, "just exactly what do you not know how to do?"

"I've never been skydiving or scuba diving, and I've never surfed with a board," I said.

"That's it?" she said.

"That's it," I responded.

"I believe you," she said, still shaking her head.

I brought her a glass of champagne. "Technically, this isn't champagne because it's from California, but I like it just the same. I prefer big champagnes with a good amount of yeast. I hope you like it. If you don't, I'll drink it for you and tell you how good it was."

She laughed and said, "I'm sure I'll love it. It's hard to go wrong with champagne. So what's for dinner?"

"I decided to make a shrimp dish. It's called Pasta with Garlic Shallot Sauce. Because of the garlic, both of us have to eat it or refrain from talking the rest of the evening," I said.

"I love garlic and shrimp, so I'm already sold," she said.

I had her sit down at the table while I loaded some pasta into shallow bowls and spooned on some sauce. Once I had everything out, I told her to dig in. She twirled some pasta onto her fork.

"Ah," I said, "an expert. Grandmother Vincenzo would love you. Most people don't know how to wrap pasta around a fork like that. They use a spoon or they cut it up. You'd rate very highly with my grandmother, if she were still alive. I'm sure she's approving from heaven."

She put the pasta into her mouth and rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling. "Oh, my," she said, savoring the ball of pasta she once had on her fork, "this is really good. Even the noodles are great."

"Thanks," I said, "I just made them today."

She smiled. "Of course you did."

"The sauce is one of the first recipes I concocted myself. It took some trial and error to get it right, but I'm happy with the result," I said.

She smiled and shook her head. "Okay, it's official," she said, "there's nothing you can't do."

"I take that to mean you like it?" I asked. She nodded enthusiastically while she took another bite.

Dinner was relatively quiet as we both munched on what was pretty good food, if I do say so myself. The champagne worked well with the pasta and we both enjoyed the shrimp. I didn't mind eating in silence, since I knew there would be more conversation later.

"All done?" I asked, as I started to take the bowl away.

"Well," she smiled, "there's still some sauce on the bowl, but it's probably rude to lick it off, isn't it?"

"I would take it as a compliment, but you might get some on your chin," I said.

"Okay," she smiled, "but if you turn your back, this bowl might be a little less dirty than it is now." I smiled and bowed to the compliment.

"I have some strawberry sorbet for dessert, if you're up for it," I said.

"I am," she said, "but I think I would like to finish my champagne first. Mixing champagne and sorbet might result in an explosion and I'd feel obligated to clean your walls for you. I'm not really dressed for it."

"I quite understand," I replied. "We can wait a bit."

She sipped her champagne, then looked at me with a question on her face. "You made the sorbet from scratch, didn't you?"

"Of course," I said. "I used the strawberries I got from the garden last year. They freeze well. It's pretty simple, really. Some strawberry purée through a chinois, some water, a little lemon juice, some invert sugar and table sugar, into the ice cream maker, and you're done. Oh, and a little pectin for texture."

"Did you make the ice cream maker?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"No," I said with mock resignation, "I bought one."

"I'm stunned," she laughed.