“What? Your mom is going to put us up in the same room?”
“I don’t see why not. I’ve told her we’re living together.”
“I’ll bet that went over big.”
“Irene, we’re both in our late thirties. We’re not a couple of college kids trying to sneak into each other’s dorm rooms. If she hassles us, we’ll get a hotel room.”
I sighed. “I don’t know, Frank. Age might not have anything to do with it. I don’t want your mom to think I’m corrupting you.”
That brought out a big enough laugh to make us ride along those little lane-dividing bumps for a minute.
I was enjoying the photos, and had stopped thinking about the coffee. There was the usual plethora of grandchildren’s images one might find in any proud grandmother’s home. There were a few of Frank and Cassie. And on the closest end of the mantel, there was a wedding photo of Frank’s parents.
She was beautiful. She was fine looking now, but what a knockout she was at — how old? She looked to be in her twenties. And next to her was the spitting image of Frank Harriman. Or rather, the man Frank was the spitting image of. I studied it a little more. No, there were subtle differences. His father was a little broader in build. His eyebrows were different, and maybe, slightly, his chin. Hair color a little lighter than Frank’s? Hard to tell from a black-and-white portrait.
“Irene! Oh Jesus, I’m sorry.” Frank was looking at me, awash with guilt and taking the cup and saucer from me.
His mother drew in a sharp breath. “No need to use the Lord’s name in vain, Franklin.”
Franklin? Franklin ignored her and started to hand the cup back to me. “No, it’s cold. I’ll get you a fresh cup.” He got up and strode off into the kitchen, leaving me with his mother before I could protest.
“I’m sorry, Irene. It was thoughtless of me.”
I mouthed a gracious response while wondering if I was being overly sensitive again, this time about something I thought I heard in her tone. Lack of sincerity? Couldn’t be. Could it?
Frank returned with the coffee, bringing a cup without the saucer.
They soon went back to Bakersfield prattle and I went back to studying photos while enjoying the coffee. I found my eyes drawn again and again to a handsome photo of Frank and his dad. Both men were in uniform, the father’s arm around the son, his pride in Frank fairly bursting from the photo.
“About twelve years ago?” Frank was saying to me.
“Pardon?”
“We met here about twelve years ago?”
“Yes. About then. Just after college.”
“How could you ever leave Bakersfield?” his mother asked me.
“Las Piernas is my hometown, and I guess I’ve grown attached to it.”
“Frank used to feel that way about Bakersfield.”
“Something smells great,” he said, changing the subject. “When are Mike and Cassie due to arrive?”
“Are you hungry? I’ll fix you something.”
He was watching me polish off the last of my coffee, and took the cup from me so that my hand would be free. He made room for it on an end table by shoving half a dozen gewgaws aside with a nonchalance that said he’d had practice at it.
“No, Mom. I’m not hungry. I just wondered when they would be here.”
“Oh, about noon. Listen, would you be a dear and pick up a few things at the store for me?”
“Sure. What do you need?”
“I made a list.” She went into the kitchen, and we held hands again. We were getting to be like a couple of teenagers, sneaking affection when Mom wasn’t looking. She was in there for a while, and I realized she was on the phone with someone.
“Are you okay?” Frank asked.
“You already asked me that.”
“Are you still okay?”
“Fine.”
“Sorry to be so boring with all the talk of people you don’t know. I’ll be sure to bring up other topics of conversation when we get back from the store.”
“I’m enjoying the photographs, actually.”
He looked over at them. It was apparent that he had seen them so many times that they were now just part of the furnishings. He smiled.
“That’s one of my favorites.” He pointed to the one of him and his dad.
“Mine too. You look a lot like your dad.”
“I wish you could have met him.”
His mom came back in with the list, and we forgot to let go of our hands.
