If You Only Knew(11)
“Hey, Leo!” calls a feminine voice, and we both look down the street. A woman about my age—younger, let’s be honest—is dragging a small child with one hand, holding a pie in the other. “Happy weekend, you!”
“Same to you,” he calls. “Hi, Simon.”
“Your son?” I ask.
His eyes flicker back to mine. “My student. I teach piano.”
“Oh. Nice. I love piano music.” I mean, I guess I do. I’ve never thought about it much. I like Coldplay, and Chris Martin plays piano, so that counts, right?
“Classical piano?” His voice implies that an unstable woman such as myself has never heard classical piano. He’s almost right; aside from what I hear at weddings, I tend to veer toward things written in this century.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” I lie. “I love classical piano. Beethoven, and uh...those other guys.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Name two pieces.”
“Um...‘Piano Man’ by Billy Joel.”
“Oh, God.”
“And ‘Tiny Dancer’ by Elton John.”
He grins suddenly, and his face, which is already too nice of a face, transforms into gorgeous.
“Simon’s been practicing so much this week!” says the mom, and speaking of eye-f*cking, she’s not very subtle. I gather Leo the Super is single. A quick glance to his left hand shows no ring.
So he’s single. Hello! I feel a prickle of interest. After all, I do want to get married and have kids...
“God,” he mutters. “I’m a person, okay? Not a piece of meat.” He opens the gate of his courtyard and holds it for the mom, ruffling Simon’s hair.
The mother thrusts the pie—and practically her boobs—into his hands. “Strawberry rhubarb,” she announces. “I thought you could use some feeding.” A husky, f*ck-me laugh ensues. Her kid, who’s about six, rubs his nose on his arm, then wipes the arm on his mother’s very short skirt. I hope she’s cold.
“This is very nice of you, Suzanne,” Leo says. “Come on, Simon, let’s hear you play, buddy.” He puts his hand on the kid’s shoulder and steers him in through the gate. I only realize I’m still watching when Suzanne gives me a pointed look, then follows Leo into his apartment.
* * *
By 4:30 p.m., my furniture is in place, hauled in by the brawny movers who arrived five minutes after I unlocked my front door. Rachel was supposed to come by this afternoon, and I texted her a little while ago but she hasn’t answered. She’s not one of those people glued to her phone. Probably got lost in baking or stenciling or something. Adam was going to take the girls to the children’s museum so she could help me, but maybe something came up.
Still, it’s not like her to blow me off. Not at all.
I start unpacking one of the boxes labeled Kitchen. Cooking has never really been a great love of my life. Eating, sure. But Owen was the better chef. Once we divorced and I moved to the Village, my tiny apartment was two doors down from an Italian restaurant. Problem solved. But maybe I’ll cook more now. It could happen.
My kitchen windows overlook the little courtyard. All day, Leo’s had a steady stream of students, ranging in age from four or five to middle-aged. All the adult students seem to be women, and there is not one father in sight. Many women carry foil-wrapped goodies. The sound of easy piano pieces floats up to me, as well as some popular songs; I recognize “Clocks” by Coldplay—see? I wasn’t that far off—as well as a few Disney songs. I also recognize a lot of flirting going on between Leo and the females.
Owen never flirted. He was—is—earnest and kind, which smothered any flirting ability he had.
I take out a weirdly shaped whisk and wonder what it’s for. I’m going to miss Phil’s Wok and Porto Bello, that’s for sure. I had six restaurants on speed dial in the Village. But Cambry has a few cute places and, of course, Rachel will feed me whenever I want. She lives to feed people. I love eating with her and Adam and the girls, in that big sunny kitchen where Rach always seems to have cut flowers in a vase on the table, where the girls say grace before they start eating.
The biggest plus to moving back here—I’ll get to see them whenever I want. Every day, even.
The thought brings a warm rise of happiness. My sister is and always has been my best friend, and I adore her husband, who’s handsome and charming and just dull enough. And my nieces are the lights of my life. Nothing feels better than their little arms around my legs when I come through their door, or their tiny, soft hands in mine, or their heavy heads on my shoulder when they’ve fallen asleep on my lap. When they were first born, I spent two precious weeks living with Rachel and Adam, changing the tiny diapers, swapping girls with Rachel depending on which one was hungry, changing the laundry and folding the little preemie outfits.
Even if I never get to be a mommy, at least I’m a beloved aunt.
I unpack a pretty wooden bowl I got in Australia when I was doing an internship down under. The red-and-orange polka-dot chicken I bought at Target; not exactly an irreplaceable artifact, but so cheerful and happy. Another pair of misplaced panties. A picture of Rachel and me, which I place in the living room in the built-in bookcase.
I really love this place. I can make curtains for the big windows, lace panels that would look perfect and still let in light. A big old Oriental carpet for in front of the gas fireplace. My red velvet couch and leather club chair look as if they were made for this living room. I think I’ll buy a butler’s table and get a few orchid plants. Rach will tell me how to keep them alive.