I knew my parents wouldn’t care, and I guessed I didn’t. “All right.” As soon as I uttered the words, I regretted them. What was I thinking?
He stepped into the kitchen and came back carrying my jacket. Ten minutes later we were turning onto my parents’ street. This neighborhood, where I grew up, usually beckoned me in like a warm hearth. But not today. I almost kept driving as a wave of uncertainty made me ease up on the gas. I didn’t have to go through with this, I told myself. Henry wasn’t holding me hostage. And it wasn’t against the law for a woman to change her mind.
But my parents’ suppers were informal affairs, I reasoned as I stopped in front of their two-story home. And Mom had often suggested I bring a friend.
My mother wore a surprised smile when she opened the front door. I’d described Tim to her, so perhaps she was trying to understand her daughter’s dubious portrayal. Henry, relaxed and confident, reached out his hand to shake hers and said, “I’m Henry Marsh.”
With a quizzical look on her face, Mom said, “And I’m Dorothy Marsden.”
“Henry’s my art teacher,” I said. “I should have called first. I hope it’s okay that I brought him.”
“Certainly, the more the merrier. Please, come in.” Dad descended the stairs, and Mom said, “I’d like you to meet my husband, Vern.” Dad shook Henry’s hand, then invited him into the living room where a football game was concluding.
I set the table while Mom rinsed and dried the lettuce. The aroma of freshly baked biscuits and buttery mashed potatoes, which usually made my stomach groan with hunger, smelled flat. All appetite gone, I felt my forehead with the back of my hand. Maybe I was coming down with something.
“This is a nice treat,” Mom said. She carried the salad, tossed in a wooden bowl, to the table. “Henry seems pleasant. Make sure you set enough places.”
“As I said, he’s my art teacher, nothing more. I stopped by his house to get the jacket I left at his party last night.” I could see Mom’s eyes widen. “It wasn’t a date. He invited the whole class.” She gave me one of her I-can-see-through-you expressions, but I kept rambling. “He said he didn’t have any food in his house, and I felt sorry for him.”
“Of course, dear.”
During dinner my parents, oblivious to my embarrassment, shared several childhood anecdotes. I picked at my food while the others enjoyed seconds. My stomach had shrunk to the size of a walnut. If I spent much more time with Henry, I’d lose those extra pounds.
Mom drizzled gravy over Henry’s potatoes. “Marguerite was such a talented child,” she said. “We couldn’t keep a crayon or paintbrush out of her hands. See that?” She pointed to my still life of peonies in an aqua-colored glass vase, which hung above the sideboard. “She did that her last year in college.”
A queasy feeling passed through me as I watched Henry rise to inspect the acrylic painting more closely. When he sat down again, he agreed it was well done. “Very nice composition, and I like your use of colors. It reminds me of an early Manet.”
What a generous compliment, I thought, or was it? I tried to remember the paintings Manet produced in the beginning of his career, but I could only recall his later works as an Impressionist. Was Henry trying to tell me I could have matured into a proficient artist if I’d kept working at it? Or was this praise to buoy up two parents?
Forty-five minutes later, my parents and Henry finished their blackberry pie a la mode, which I didn’t even try. In the last two hours, he’d learned most of my history, at least what my parents knew, including the fact I sold real estate.
“Delicious dinner, Mom,” I said, when the conversation lulled. I stood and pushed back my chair. “You want me to help you clean up before we leave?” I emphasized the word leave.
“Are you sure you don’t want more coffee?” Mom asked. “I could brew another pot in a jiffy.”
“Not tonight, Mother.”
Henry patted his mouth with his napkin. “Thank you, Mrs. Marsden, for a meal I will long remember.”
“You’re welcome, and please call me Dorothy.”
I carried a load of dishes to the kitchen sink while Henry got to his feet, then strolled to the front door with my parents.
“Glad to have met you, Henry,” Dad said, giving his hand a shake.
“Come back anytime,” Mom said.
I squeezed past them. “Thanks, Mom, see you, Dad,” I called over my shoulder as I darted to my car.
On the drive back to Henry’s place, I wanted to ask him if he really liked my painting. Not that I could paint another one like it now. A person can never go back in time. A child athlete wouldn’t be able to score the winning goal at a soccer game or a dancer perform a pirouette after years of inactivity.
Instead, we chatted about my parents. Gracious and genuine was how he described them. “I hope I’ll get to see them again sometime,” he said.
Highly unlikely, I thought as I shoved my foot on the gas pedal. Yet the dinner was not a complete bust. It had been reassuring to see my parents getting along so well, just like old times. I supposed Mom’s anger had been alleviated by a dozen yellow roses, Dad’s usual offering after a tiff.
I pulled up to Henry’s house. “Good night,” I said.
He sat silently for a moment, then turned to me and slowly moved closer. As I watched his features blur, I realized he was going to kiss me. And I was going to let him. Tim’s face suddenly flashed through my mind like a wagging finger chastising me. Was I being unfaithful to him? He and I hadn’t agreed to date each other exclusively, but was this wrong? Before I could answer myself, Henry’s lips brushed mine. Then I felt my mouth melt
