The Bookseller(48)
“I think Kevin just noticed me,” Frieda says. “And you, too. He’s getting up.” She lowers her voice. “Take a deep breath, sister. He’s on his way over.”
She looks up at him and smiles, and that gives me an excuse to turn my head. I feign surprise, but I’m sure he’s not fooled.
“Hey. I thought it was you two.” Kevin leans over our table. He is as long and gangly as he was back in the day, with those sloping shoulders of his. Still built like an adolescent boy. I realize that I have become used to Lars’s broad back and shoulders, his stockiness, which complements my own. Kevin and I were never a very good match physically. He was too tall when we danced; the top of my head barely made it to his collarbone, and I felt like I was straining my neck looking up at him. He always tried to get me to wear the highest heels possible, to get us closer in size. That only made things worse; my feet would be killing me by the end of the evening. He also thought I was too chubby, although he did appreciate my bountiful breasts. Despite these noteworthy assets, he was constantly urging me to go on a diet.
Unlike Lars, Kevin has managed to hang on to his hair all these years. He always had a lot of it, dark and wavy, and he still does. His eyes are the same warm brown they always were, but they look glassy. I can tell he’s had too much to drink.
Frieda motions toward the empty chair between us, then stubs out her smoke in the ashtray by her side. “Have a seat, Kev.”
He pulls out the chair and sits. I give Frieda a questioning look. She glances down at her hands, which are folded neatly in front of her; she ever-so-slightly motions with her right pinkie toward her left ring finger. I sneak a peek at Kevin’s left hand and see that it is ringless.
Aha. Did she see that from all the way across the room? Or did she just guess it, since he’s here all by himself this late at night? Married men—happily married men, at any rate—are not sitting alone in a bar at this time of night. They are at home with their wives, their children, and probably in most cases the proverbial family dog.
“Long time,” Kevin says. He has brought his drink, and he empties it and motions to the waitress to bring him another. “You girls fancy a round on me?”
Now this is a surprise. He was always a cheapskate. Not that he didn’t pay for our dates, of course, but I always felt like he took me to the most inexpensive places he could get away with, and spent as little on me as he could. Even for my birthday and Christmas, his presents were things like a tiny bottle of perfume or a cut-rate scarf or hat. He always said he was saving for our future. Well, that didn’t turn out to be all that accurate, did it?
Frieda nods at the offer of a drink. The waitress brings Kevin another Scotch and the bottle to fill our wineglasses. “On my tab,” Kevin says pointedly. The waitress smiles stiffly at Frieda and me, and withdraws from the table.
“How is life treating you girls?” Kevin relaxes back in his seat, and for a moment I think he’s going to fall over backward. Good heavens, how many has he had? You’d think, on a weeknight, out in public—and him a doctor now, too; I can’t forget that. You’d think a doctor with a drinking habit would be more discreet.
“We’ve been quite well,” Frieda replies. “We have a bookstore on South Pearl Street.”
Kevin nods. He pulls a pack of Pall Malls from his jacket pocket and lights one. Frieda immediately joins him by selecting a Salem from her pack on the table. He holds out his lighter to her, and she leans forward to accept the flame he offers. I watch them both silently, trying to relax my heated face and my furrowed brows.
“I’ve heard about your bookstore,” Kevin says, clicking his lighter closed. “Been meaning to stop in for ages.”
A likely story. I glare at him and take a sip of wine. I cannot explain why I feel such animosity toward him. It was a long time ago. And look at him now. Would I really want to be married to this man?
No. Of course not. I want to be married to the man who doesn’t exist.
I force myself to soften, give Kevin a smile. “And you? How have you been?”
He looks at me for a long time, as if trying to decide how to answer. “Oh,” he says finally. “I guess I get along all right. Got a good practice, internal medicine, working out of Saint Joe’s Hospital.” He shrugs. “And I’m on my own now. Maybe you’ve heard that.”
I shake my head. “No. I hadn’t heard.”
“Well.” He stirs his drink with his finger. He always did that, I remember. “Some things are just not meant to be.” He smiles grimly. “Got a couple of good kids out of it, though. Want to see pictures?”
I don’t, really, but Frieda replies kindly, “Of course we do.” Kevin pulls out his wallet and flips it open. Two smiling little girls peer out at us from school photographs; the smaller one is missing her two front teeth. “This one’s Becky; she’s ten,” Kevin says, pointing to the elder. “And Nancy here is eight.”
“Lovely.” Frieda comes in for a quick look, then leans back and takes a long drag on her Salem, watching my eyes carefully.
“Yes, lovely,” I echo. “I’m sure you’re very proud of them, Kevin.”
He nods. “Well, what little I see of them—their mother keeps them under lock and key—yeah, they seem to be doing all right.” He shrugs, stubbing out his cigarette. “They have a stepfather; he’s a decent guy, actually. Better for them than me, really.”