We ended our coffee klatch, but not before we set a specific time, six o’clock that evening, for me to review MC’s emails with her, and another date later in the week, when we’d visit old Mrs. Cataldo in the senior center together.
“Science teachers, unite!” MC said, and I grinned.
My cell phone rang as I was buckling up in front of Tomasso’s. I’d planned to stop at Rose and Frank’s, to return a stack of platters that had been sent home with me, piled with gourmet leftovers, over the past month or so. Not to go empty-handed, I’d picked up a fall bouquet at a little stand right outside the coffee shop. I knew Rose would be able to call the flowers by name; I just called them yellow and orange.
“Hi,” Matt said. “Where are you?”
“Just finished having coffee at Tomasso’s with MC. I’m on my way to Rose’s.”
“Can you meet me at home?”
My chest clutched up. “What is it?”
“I can be there in ten minutes. You?”
“Don’t do this, Matt. I’m not one of your suspects. You can’t skirt my questions like that.”
“You’re right. Sorry. My test results are back, and I’d like to see you, okay?”
I pressed my forehead to the steering wheel of my Caddie, grateful I wasn’t on the road. My muscles went to a soft paste, like the filling of my cannoli, my skin as flaky and unsubstantial as its crust. “The doctor called you on a Sunday? It must be bad news.”
“He’s a good guy, that’s all. He was at the clinic today, and he knew we’d be waiting. Please just meet me at home.”
The flowers on the passenger seat seemed to wilt before my eyes. I started the car and drove toward Fernwood Avenue, slowly and carefully, as if my life depended on it.
CHAPTER TEN
MC felt as tight as a helium bond. She needed exercise, but hated running in the rain, which had been continuous for the whole weekend. She dragged her worn navy and neon green mat onto the living room floor, and sat on it, legs crossed. Breathe. She leaned forward and placed her arms, elbow to wrist, flat on the mat in front of her, her butt rising in the air in the process. She rocked back and took a deep breath.
She lay on her back and went through the routine. The straight leg raise. A hamstring stretch. A whole-body stretch. Raise, count, breathe in, breathe out, bend, count, breathe in, breathe out.
When she was finished, she lay on the mat and closed her eyes. No babbling brooks; she was never any good at picturing nature in the abstract, but she’d built a stock of images that helped her relax. The Atlantic rushing toward her at Revere Beach. Lake Tahoe, California, where Aunt G had taken her over Christmas vacation one year. She smiled as she remembered the exhilarating skiing lessons Aunt G treated her to, while Aunt G herself read science books in the lodge.
And all her trips to oil refineries as a professional engineer—San Francisco Bay, the Gulf Coast. Who would have guessed thousands of gallons of crude a day were coming out of such exotic locales? The Caribbean. Hawaii.
Oops. Hawaii. Relaxation over. That’s where she’d gotten to know Jake Powers. After a few months as casual acquaintances and colleagues around the plant, they’d been sent to Oahu together on a job. The Hawaiian facility had reported problems with the cracking unit, where the larger molecules were broken down into smaller ones, and Jake was the expert on that part of the process.
“I love making little ones out of big ones,” he’d said, cracking his knuckles for emphasis.
She’d been so taken with him. Short, dark, and fit, like her father, and a smooth dancer. And the way he handled his horses, gently, but you knew who was in charge. One time he’d ridden right up to her after a practice oxer jump—he’d taught her the name of the jump with width as well as height—and he made Spartan Q, his jumper horse, bow to her. Cool. Later he told her the horse’s three snorts were really her initials, MCG, which he’d taught Spartan Q. Very cool.
Yes, Jake was a real charmer. But a drinker, she eventually admitted. That first night in Oahu, they’d been sipping something pink at a bar, after a twelve-hour shift at the plant, lots of flirting on both sides. Coy glances, fingering each other’s bright fuchsia leis, brushing body parts here and there as they twisted on their stools.
Another night they’d been with about twenty people their own age, many of them native Hawaiian plant workers out for a good time after a hard day’s work. Jake had picked up a plastic bowl of salty snack food. She could see it clearly, feel the excitement.
“Hey, everybody! Want a lesson in how to convert molecules? Let’s pretend these are the heavy hydrocarbons we start out with at the plant.” Jake had swayed and grabbed the counter for balance. Then he smashed the bowl with his fist. Nuts, pretzels, cheese sticks, bits of plastic dish flew everywhere, across the counter, on the floor, on the flowery tee she’d bought in the hotel store. “Now they’re converted,” he’d said, drawing hysterical laughter from the crowd. “We just made gasoline!” Jake loved that he’d made a joke that only the in-crowd at the oil company would get.