“I’m Lorna Wiercinski. Mispronounce it twice and die. It’s not as American as your name, but hey, this is Boston, the great unmelted pot.” She pointed down the block. “There’s a pub on the corner. I know the owner, so if you give me trouble, he’ll kick the shit out of you.
We could have an Irish coffee.” Odd invitation, but I didn’t mind. I offered her my arm. Judging by her expression, it might have been leprous. “God help me. Just how much of a Southern gentleman are you?”
She laughed, finally placing her hand on my forearm. “Not nearly enough for my own good,” I answered. It was the strangest date of my life. We each drank three Irish coffees, sinfully rich with cream and whiskey, then after two hours of laughing and talking she asked me back to her apartment. It was an upscale condo not far from the gallery. I’d wondered if we’d end up in bed, but she wanted to play poker. With me and her neighbor, Mrs. Perkins. She’d suggested it. I’d agreed-a little too stunned to argue. And she’d gone down the hall to fetch Mrs. Perkins. “She’ll be right over,” Lorna said, pouring us each a whiskey. “As soon as she gets her money and puts in her teeth.”
“I hope she doesn’t get them confused. Hate to have her ante up her molars.” She laughed. “I’ll see your bicuspids and raise you an incisor.” As it turned out, the poker game was fun, and although I kept wondering what Lorna’s bed felt like, I didn’t get to sample it.
Mrs. Perkins claimed she was on a fixed income (considering the neighborhood, her fixed income was most likely a trust fund), so I had to let her win her money back and we played into the wee hours. When the amiable Mrs. Perkins won the stunning total of twenty dollars, she toddled off and Lorna called me a cab. “Would you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” I prayed this funny, smart girl would say yes. “Yes, I would,” she answered, almost shyly. “You see, you passed tests number one and two. First, you didn’t presume you’d sleep here, and second, Mrs. Perkins liked you. She let you win at first so the game’d go on longer. Yes, I think dinner is a real possibility.” Our good-night kiss was brief but sweet, one of those you hold in your memory like a treasure. And so it began-three years’ worth of wonderful remembrances. We discussed marriage once or twice, but Lorna was gun- shy, her own mother having been divorced three times. Said mother was somewhere in Toronto with a much younger man who didn’t believe in matrimony. I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay in Boston and Lorna seemed firmly planted in her native soil. So the topic was dropped and we just enjoyed each other. My return to Texas to care for my mother was a bucket of ice water in Lorna’s face. I asked her to accompany me. She said no-she couldn’t do that. And I left. So much for us. It hurt, but I hadn’t looked back. Lost in my memory, I hardly noticed her hand close over mine as I finished stirring the avocado and spices. Lorna’s voice was low: “You haven’t called-or written- in months.” I bit my upper lip. “I don’t think you’re here because I haven’t stayed in touch. Which I’m sorry for. I guess I just thought it would be better if we broke cleanly.” I took the dip and a big bowl of tostadas into the living room. Lorna followed me. “So you’re not coming back to Boston? Ever? Babe, what happens when your mother dies?
Do you plan to stay here forever?” Leave it to Lorna to ask all the tough questions in the first five minutes. “I don’t know. I’ll worry about that when it happens.” “Spare me, Jordan. That’s never been how your mind works.” Her voice was serious now, and her tongue kept darting out to moisten her lips. Nervous. “I didn’t want to ask you such a difficult question, but I think I deserve to know.” “It’s more complicated than just Mama’s illness, Lorna. A lot has happened since I came back.” She sat down and scooped up guacamole on the corner of a chip. “So talk. Tell me.” So I recounted it all, starting with Beta Harcher’s murder and my discovery that my daddy wasn’t my daddy after all-and trying to have a relationship with my actual father. I’ll give Lorna credit. She stayed quiet throughout the story. When I was done, she took my hand. “My God, baby, I can’t believe it I’m so, so sorry.
Are you okay?” I nodded. “I’m surviving. But I don’t plan on leaving town right when… Mama dies. That may not be for a long time anyhow, Lorna. And I have Bob Don to consider-and Candace, too.” “As soon as I laid eyes on her, I could see you marrying that Scarlett clone and playing the gentleman planter on her money.” “So you know about Candace’s money?” A chip halted halfway to my mouth. “Is this part of your land-acquisition deal with Intraglobal, finding out who’s got what where?” She looked startled, then shook her head, dark curls jiggling around her face. “I’m not surprised you know about the land deal. I suppose word gets around in such a small town.” She opened her briefcase and began to shuffle papers. “Perhaps it’s best we simply put our former relationship on hold for the moment. It really doesn’t matter. I’m not here to lure you back to New England. The truth is I’m here to offer you a reasonable purchase price for your land.” Her shift in gears was so abrupt I was taken aback. Not like Lorna. She’d already observed how I’d changed; perhaps she had changed as well.
Fine, we’d talk business. Surely that would be less stressful than the earlier topic: us. “I know. Intraglobal Development wants to build condominiums, right?” “An entire resort condominium community, Jordan,” Lorna amended for me. “Designed for residents who desire a higher standard of living-” “That should narrow down the candidates,”
I interjected, but she pressed on. “-and those from Austin and Houston who seek a comfortable weekend getaway on the shores of the Colorado.”
She began to spread out maps; architectural drawings that included a golf course, pool, tennis courts, and clubhouse; construction schedules; and environmental-impact statements. She told me in more detail than I cared to hear exactly what the development plans were.
It still seemed ludicrous and impossible: Lorna Wiercinski, who had shared my bed and my heart and my sense of humor for three years, was here. I listened to her overrehearsed presentation, nodding over her figures, blinking at her studies for the potential market (the target demographic audience in the cities was excellent, in her estimation), smiling at her own excitement about the project, and wondering what kind of money they’d offer. I hadn’t yet decided on a course of action. In any case, I’d hear both sides before parting with the title to my riverside acres. I’d promised that much to Miss Twyla. “So that’s basically it-a condominium resort community that will both provide a solid growth pattern for Bonaparte County and not interfere with the river’s ecosystem.” “Lorna, I’m amazed. You actually parroted your company spiel instead of slapping your offer for my land on the table and telling me I had five seconds to make up my mind. Does your boss have you on morphine?” She smiled a smile several wattages below normal and shrugged. “I know; it’s so much more restrained than the real me. I’ve got to do it that way. Greg says I’m too blunt otherwise. Scare people off.” “This would be Greg Callahan?” “Yes. I take it you’ve heard about him.” I opted not to share Nina Hernandez’s less-than-charitable characterization of Lorna’s colleague. “Yeah, his name’s getting around town.” Lorna huffed. “I warned him to stay away from the local women.” “Excuse me?” “Greg’s a bit of a ladies’ man. He doesn‘t have your studly height, but he has a hell of a lot more charm.” Her voice lowered slightly to a tone I was ever so familiar with and I wondered just how much charm this Greg had. “Charm’s a passing commodity, unlike height,” I said with a smile. She examined me with mock gravity. “It seems to have passed you right by, if I may say so.” “You stopped long enough to look.” “Looking’s free,” she replied, scooping up more guacamole. “You can’t find something worth having without doing a little window-shopping.” “So how much is my land worth to you?” We’d slipped into the gentle flirting we’d done so well and so often back in Boston. We used to stay up late, munching popcorn and watching videotapes of the Thin Man movies-and exchanging verbal salvos as if we were Nick and Nora. I could hear Clo rumbling around upstairs, obviously preparing to join us. And the chicken enchiladas smelled nearly ready. “I can’t make the offer. That has to come from Greg. Maybe he can meet with you tonight.” “Let’s eat first, then discuss this further.” I called upstairs to Clo, then went into the kitchen. “You’ll stay for dinner, of course,” I said. I went into the kitchen and opened the oven door. Lorna leaned over my shoulder, sniffing at the casserole dish. “Maybe I will stay.” Lorna peered at the bubbling mix of cheese, jalapenos, and tortillas that smelled like a corner of heaven. “It just depends on what the hell’s on the menu.”
Watching Lorna eat her first bona fide Mexican meal while juggling conversation with Clo was a great entertainment value. “Mrs.
Butterfield, Jordan tells me you do a wonderful job with his mother.”
“Try to.” “So, are you a lifetime resident of Mirabeau?” Lorna asked as she filled her plate with two thick, cheesy chicken enchiladas.
“Yes.” Clo had obviously taken her monosyllabic pill while upstairs.
She watched Lorna guardedly and began to eat. Lorna gave me her don’t-we-have-a-live-wire-here look and I smiled. It bothered me, though, that I could still interpret Lorna’s glances so easily. Under the circumstances, it made me damn uncomfortable to have such easy nonverbal communication flashing about. How readily could she read my face? I suddenly felt as naked as a newborn. “So tell me, Mrs.
Butterfield…” Lorna attempted again. “You must get a tremendous amount of satisfaction out of nursing.” “I see why you like him.” Clo jerked her head toward me. “You talk just as much as he does.” With that, she popped
