Dirk almost smiles, then sees my bags. He deliberates. Does he have bad knees?
Success. He turns towards me. I am all for women’s lib – I am fully liberated now that Bart is in my past, but my groceries are simply too heavy to deal with now I no longer have a drive-in garage leading straight to the kitchen and pantry. I can’t dwell on what I’ve lost, nor the fact that the Minx will now be enjoying all these luxuries and more. I sigh, push the past way, way back behind me, and focus on the moment.
Thank goodness. Dirk lifts my heart as deftly as he lifts my shopping bags. He even sends me up the stairs ahead of him, like a gentleman, and perhaps I sway a little more than necessary.
At my door, I turn, and he bumps my shoulder as he sets my bags down.
“My apologies,” he says. Adorably polite.
“My fault,” I say. “And what a thing to do to you when you’ve been so kind. Would you like to come in now, for a coffee? I’d really like to pay you back for being so chivalrous about the gown.” I gesture at my closed front door. My apartment is clean and tidy and welcoming, and so am I, but Dirk backs away as if I’m a wild animal. What is wrong with the man?
“Or just drop in for a drink this evening,” I say. “Six o’clock.”
“I have another commitment.”
“Then have a coffee now.”
“I should continue my walk.” He is so formal – stiff with politeness. Is he shy? Or does he think this is some kind of trap?
“Coffee’s not compulsory, Dirk. I’m having one. You might like one, too. I appreciate your help with my heavy bags. You could sit for a moment, and then walk.”
He hesitates. I turn and throw open my door, and sure enough, he follows me inside with both bags. He sets them on the narrow kitchen bench.
“Milk? Sugar? I’m sorry I haven’t made any brownies yet. Do you like them?”
“I don’t need brownies, Lucy.”
“So I’m guessing you like your coffee black?”
He stares at me and nods.
“It’s not a marriage proposal, Dirk.”
I pull down two blue and brown mugs, hand-turned, from the potter in my old neighborhood, slightly off round.
“I brought these with me to remind me how impossible perfection can be to achieve. I love it that they’re not quite right. What did you bring with you from your old life?”
“Not much. Mostly clothes. My children arranged it all.”
“Lucky you.” There’s silence. Do I tell this man my daughter’s still not speaking to me? Something about him instills trust.
“I’m afraid my daughter avoids me,” I say. “According to Phoebe, I ‘broke’ my marriage and ‘lost’ her childhood home.” He raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t rush in, doesn’t judge.
“She may be half right,” I say. “But that doesn’t bring it all back, does it?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “This has nothing to do with you. It’s just that I loved my old house and neighborhood. Maybe too much.” He nods, as if seriously considering my words. I sigh. I’m glad I told him. Until this minute, only Donna has known my woes. He hasn’t walked away, hasn’t condemned me, hasn’t tried to tell me everything will be okay. I flash him a grateful smile and change the subject. I open a packet of exotic Italian cookies dipped in chocolate, pour them into a bowl, and load all of it onto a tray.
“Here,” I say, as I pick up the tray. “Let’s take these into the living room. I think you have a similar bay window? I adore this architecture. So gracious. So solid. I chose this place ahead of one with an elevator, just for the pleasure of admiring this room every day.”
“My daughter, Dee, is an exercise scientist,” he says. “She chose this place precisely because it doesn’t have an elevator. In her view, it will prolong my life to have to use the stairs every day.”
“Well, that’s good news for me, too.”
My living room is so charming it lifts my heart. I’m not keen on the pale blue walls, but renters can’t change such things. I’d choose a rich white, but soon I’ll make some lamps to lift it. I’m thinking of warm crimsons and pinks. Supplies are still in boxes in the spare bedroom.
“So, Dirk,” I say as I hand him his black coffee. “What do you want more of in life?”
