want to lose a good thing.” “She’s cute-I’ll give her that. I thought she might stamp her foot and say ‘fiddle-dee- dee,’ but she must be made of sterner stuff than I gave her credit for.” She sipped at her beer. “If I’d only had a camera to capture your expression when you saw me.
Sorry if I shocked you, but you know I always like to make an entrance.” “You always prided yourself on surprising me, Lorna. And thanks for the book donation.” She laughed again. “You know I’m devoted to fine literature. And you still surprise me, Jordan. Staying here.” She glanced around the room. “Don’t get me wrong. Your mother’s home is quaint. Are you really happy living here?” My face felt hot.
I’m allowed to pick on Mirabeau, but I don’t like it when other folks do. “I love it here. This is where I grew up.” “Don’t get me wrong. I admire you for wanting to help your family. You always were a bit too noble for your own good. It’s just-it seems a step backward.” “Excuse me?” Lorna rose and began striding around the room. She paused at the coffee table. “First of all, darling, don’t tell me you’re reading”-she paused to peer down at the newspaper and magazines on the coffee table- “The Star’s Royal Family special edition and Southern Living?” “Those are my sister’s,” I protested. I wasn’t about to admit I flipped through tabloids for stories on my favorite royal, Fergie. I like big-boned redheads in bikinis. “Anyhow, Southern Living has some good articles on refinishing furniture.” “That you are even thinking of refinishing furniture shows how much you’ve slid, Jordan,” Lorna opined. “I recall you were always one for cultural events, darling.
What’s on the bill this season at the Mirabeau Lyric Opera, the Mirabeau Symphony, and the Mirabeau Avant-Garde Playhouse? Rossini?
Beethoven? Ionesco?” “There’s no need to be nasty,” I snapped. She sat down next to me, that enigmatic smile still on her face. “No nastiness intended. I’m sorry if I offended. I think Mirabeau is delightful. But my God, Jordan, your presence here just seems impossible.” “Why? This is where I came from, Lorna. I’d already spent most of my life here when you and I met.” “But it didn’t seem like you were small-town. Oh, yes, you had that charming drawl to your voice, but you were so at-home in Boston. You seemed so at-home… with me.” I didn’t have an answer for her. She shrugged. “God, I guess I’m lucky that I didn’t find you in overalls, out picking cotton, and singing ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas.’” She smiled at me, her warm rich smile, and patted my hand.
“Oh, well, you can take the boy out of the country but not the country out of the boy. Being at home obviously agrees with you, Tex. You just look wonderful.” “I am the exact same person I was up in Boston. And I wish you wouldn’t call me Tex. It really, really makes you sound like a Yankee.” Having scored a point against me, she grinned again. “Oh, okay. I certainly don’t want to sound like a Yankee. But you do look great.” Her gray eyes took on a wicked amusement. Leaning back against the couch, she examined my backside. “Still have a butt you could bounce a quarter off of. I suppose you’re running your ridiculous five miles per day.” She giggled. “Are you still limber? I hope you haven’t already read those books I brought you. I threw out my back on page thirty-six.” I rolled my eyes. Standard Lorna, shifting a discussion of what had been between us to merciless teasing to patting my fanny.
She’d been the most aggressive, intimidating, rousing, lusty woman I’d ever known. I wasn’t about to let her work her spell on me. “Why don’t I get some guacamole and chips to go with the beer?” I offered, escaping into the kitchen. “Can I help?” Lorna asked. “Just make yourself comfortable.” I could hear her humming to herself as she examined more of the family photos. As I mashed avocados I found my mind drifting back to our first meeting. In many ways, Lorna was the type of girl you might meet in a bar-but of course we hadn’t. I wasn’t into guzzling Chardonnay while surrounded by ferns. We’d met at an art exhibit at a posh gallery in Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood, on Newbury Street. Brooks-Jellicoe, the textbook publisher I worked for, was publishing a volume on modern American art, and one of the artists featured was Fauve. Yes, that was his name: Fauve. One name, like Madonna or Cher or Liberace. Anyhow, Fauve was quite the respected creator of slabs of rock covered with paint. I think they were supposed to represent anger or angst or Angola-I forget which. The art-books editor, Robert Goldstein, was a good friend and asked if I wanted to accompany him to this exhibit. I’ve always liked music more than art, but Robert said there’d be cute women and free food. Editors love free food (and some of us like cute women, too). The exhibit was crowded, people divided into chattering clumps animatedly debating art and music and who Fauve was sleeping with. I noticed how many folks were keeping their backs to the paintings. After I’d seen a couple, I didn’t find that such a bad idea. They were ugly and didn’t have a lick of artistic merit. Plus I didn’t want anything interfering with my digestion of all that free food I’d consumed. I saw Lorna before she saw me. She stood nearby, staring perplexedly at an expanse of craggy granite mounted on the wall. The rises in the stone were painted pink and the valleys were a mix of blues and purples. I’ll never forget what she was wearing: charcoal- colored suit pants, a tight white blouse with French cuffs, and an orange-colored blazer with a huge silver pin on it. Her look was cool, reserved, and a little provocative at the same time. Her thick dark hair was corded into a braid, thankfully with no bow on it. She stared at the picture and I stared at her, ignoring my friend Robert’s lamentations about the New England Patriots and their losing ways. I didn’t see the heavyset lug until he was practically on top of Lorna, nearly knocking her over in a bear hug. She wrenched free, whirling. “God, Bertil, you scared the crap out of me!” The man she called Bertil was big, around six foot four, with a thick burr of blond hair and a vacant look in his watery blue eyes. He placatingly placed his mitts on Lorna’s shoulders. “Sorry, Lorna. Didn’t mean to startle you.” He was either Swedish or drunk. Or both. “I see you’re using Absolut as this evening’s cologne,” Lorna observed. “Now goodbye.” “Wait, wait, Lorna, don’t go-” Bertil lurched, obviously having partaken too much of the grape. He seized Lorna’s arm and spun her back. “Do you want to lose one of your meatballs?” she snapped. I had started to move forward to help her when another hulking type, this one a dark, thick-necked fellow, intervened, pulling Lorna and the Swede apart. “Let her go, Bertil,” the dark man rumbled. “Oh, great, a male model to the rescue.
I’m safe as long as you don’t get hit in the face,” Lorna said. She stepped back from both men. “Why don’t you both just leave me alone?
Go spend the evening learning how to spell.” He ignored her, determined to be a paladin. “This guy bothering you, Lorna?” He puffed up his chest, pushing it within an inch of the infuriated Swede.
“Maybe I should make sure he behaves like a gentleman.” “You be a gentleman yourself, Trevor,” Lorna demanded. “I don’t need a bodyguard.” “Yeah, Trevor, she doesn’t need you.” Bertil gave Trevor’s chest a little jab with his finger. “Listen here, butthead, I don’t-”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please! Control yourself!” The star of the exhibit, Fauve himself, intervened. He was a tall, thin willow of a man, wearing a ridiculous-looking copy of the small-lapeled gray suit the Beatles favored back in the Sixties. A curve of hair hung artistically in his face, showing his great sensitivity and a gentle nature. Fauve put a protective arm around Lorna, his hand perilously close to her right buttock, and flexed his fingers, as though ready to squeeze. “Gentlemen, really, no need to fight. Ms. Wiercinski is my special guest this evening, so I do hope that you won’t resort to fisticuffs over her.” “Go sculpt, Fauve,” Lorna blurted, pushing his hand away. I didn’t see it at the time, but I can imagine the glint that appeared in her eye. “They weren’t fighting over me. They were discussing which of them hates your rock piles more.” “What!” Bertil exclaimed, his jaw dropping. (I later learned Bertil was a corporate art buyer whose boss was a close friend and admirer of Fauve’s.) “Lorna!” Trevor’s face turned pale. (I later found out that Trevor was an aspiring painter who was panting to get under Fauve’s wing.) She whirled, leaving her would-be protectors squabbling. In her haste to flee them, she barreled right into me. Her eyes locked with mine, but she lowered her gaze and pushed past me. “Excuse me.” I followed her, the din of Trevor and Bertil’s protestations fading with Fauve’s outraged cries over their deplorable lack of taste. I caught up with her as she left the gallery, venturing into the cold March air of Boston. “So much for culture!” she yelled at the night sky. “Ma’am?” I called to her. “Are you okay?” She paused and regarded me with her gray eyes. “Look, buddy, I don’t need any more guardians tonight.” “I don’t believe you do.” I smiled. “You handled the Three Artistic Stooges in rare style.” She took a step toward me. “I take it you’re not from Boston. Style usually has just one syllable.” Being teased about my accent always rankled me, but from her it didn’t seem too bad. “No, not originally. I’m from Texas.” “So why didn’t you leap to my defense? Aren’t cowboys supposed to be chivalrous?” “Only to womenfolk that need our help. You obviously didn’t, ma’am.” I turned ma’am into two syllables-and she laughed. I tried not to waver on my feet, a sure sign of nervousness. This girl made me feel timid, but I rallied my courage for those unforgettable gray eyes. “I’m fed up with spray-painted rocks. Wanna get some coffee or maybe a drink?” She considered me for a moment, measuring me on the internal ruler that women must in these dangerous times. “I don’t usually go out with men I don’t know.” I offered my hand. “Jordan Poteet.” I never ever went by Jordy up north-I thought it sounded too hick. She didn’t laugh but she looked amused. “What a perfectly fantastic name. Definitely American. Unlike Bertil, Trevor, or Fauve.” She took my hand and shook it, holding it a moment longer than necessary, as if taking my pulse.
