Finding Isadora(68)

The word bedroom hung between us.

I took a quick step past him and said breathlessly, “By the way, the cat you’re petting is Alice. And did you say hello to Owl?”

My parrot was perched on a coat rack, and I transferred him to my shoulder, where he promptly nibbled on my ear. My short haircut made my ears highly visible and Owl could never resist temptation. I could feel one of my earrings swing as Owl nipped his way around its hook.

Gabriel stared at the parrot—or my ear—for a moment then surged to his feet. “Let’s walk the dog,” he said brusquely.

“Right. I’ll get a sweater.” I transferred Owl back to his favorite perch and opened the wardrobe, a thrift shop purchase I’d painted off-white and stenciled with butterflies and birds. From it I took a cream-colored Irish fisherman’s knit sweater.

“Nice,” Gabriel commented. “Used to have one of those myself.”

“Thanks. It’s one of my knitting projects that actually turned out.” And if Gabriel was my man, my lover, I’d knit him one for his next birthday. But he wasn’t.

“Christ, you made that? All those cables and diamonds and stuff?”

“Just takes a lot of concentration.”

“I’d never have the patience.”

Not about to let him get away with that, I said, “Oh? And it doesn’t take patience to prepare a lawsuit like that medical malpractice one you were talking about the other day?”

He studied me a moment. “You’re too damned quick, Isadora.”

And he was too damned disturbing, always watching me with that intense expression I couldn’t—or didn’t dare—read. “Talking about patience, we’re straining Pogo’s. Let’s head out.”

Gabriel hadn’t said a word about my apartment. As I locked the door behind us, curiosity made me probe. “Guess my apartment seems pretty cluttered after yours. You seem to like a, uh, sparse look.”

He gave a quick bark of laughter. “Now there’s a diplomatic word.”

As we stepped into the elevator, he said, “I don’t pay much attention to my environment. So long as it’s functional, that’s all I need.”

“And yet you value art.”

“Got me again, counselor. And you value plants and bright colors and of course anything to do with animals.”

So he had paid attention to my décor.

“It’s nice,” he said. “Your apartment suits you. It’s attractive, and functional too. Somehow I was expecting—”

The elevator door opened and we walked into the lobby. “What?” I asked.

The corner of his mouth kinked up. “Something off the cover of one of those magazines on your coffee table.”

Ah, so he’d seen the latest set of home design magazines I’d borrowed from the library. “You see me that way?” I asked, desperately curious.

“Not until you started talking about proper furniture last night. I’d never have figured Grace and Jimmy Lee’s kid for a woman who was into designer homes.”

“I’m not,” I protested automatically, then remembered all the photographs that made me salivate. What, exactly, was my image of the perfect home? Did perfection have to do with designer rooms, or with creating my own warm, colorful living space? With financial security, or with love?

The latter question was an easy one. I wanted both: the love that had characterized the homes I’d grown up in, plus the security of knowing the roof over my head was paid for and I could never be evicted.

Outside the front door, Gabriel and I waited while Pogo made good use of a telephone pole. “The magazines give me ideas,” I said. “But I like shopping at garage sales and thrift shops. That’s how my friend Janice and I furnished our apartments, poking around and bringing home things we could refinish, paint, cover with pretty fabrics.”

“Turning someone’s garbage into your treasure. That sounds more like you than reproducing some slick photograph.”

He was right. I realized that the glorious houses I’d been drooling over were rich in furniture and appliances, but not, at least not obviously, in love. So, why did they make me salivate?

Thinking it through as I spoke, I said, “It’s more what the photos represent. Security, stability. People with kitchens and living rooms like the ones in those magazines don’t rent, they don’t move every couple of years. Each child has her or his own room, and privacy.”

“And you want to have children.” He said it as a statement, not a question.

“Yes. Two.”

He snorted. “A boy and a girl, of course.”

“No. I’m not that, uh, structured. The gender of my kids doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference.” I glanced sideways. “I suppose you don’t plan to have any more children?”

“Good god, no. Christ, Isadora, I’m forty-five.”

I’d guessed right about his age, though he looked so much younger. “Lots of men have kids at forty-five, and even older. So do some women.”

“Yeah, well, I f*cked it up the first time around, so I’m not about to try it again.”

Another reason not to have a relationship with Gabriel. As if I needed any more.

Pogo finished his business and we all took off at a fair clip. Gabriel and I were silent for the first couple of blocks, perhaps wanting to distance ourselves from the conversation about children. It was chilly out, and I was glad for my sweater. He hadn’t even rolled his shirtsleeves down. “Are you warm enough?” I asked.