Chapter 4 Roses for Juliet

Chapter 4

Steve pulled into his driveway and rolled up his window. Light traces of the girl's perfume were still in the car. He killed the engine and got out quickly, shutting the car door and blocking out the smell. He thought about getting the necklace from the trunk, but decided to wait until the scent had dissipated a bit.

The necklace would be fine in the trunk over night. Steve took a deep breath. He no longer noticed the choking air-pollution he had found so suffocating in his first months in the city. Now it was just what air smelled like. He could smell the freshly cut grass of his neighbor's lawn and the flowering bushes in the yard. He smiled and his stomach began to settle. These were fresh, normal, neighborhood scents. He took another deep breath and caught a faint hint of the pot roast someone had decided to make for dinner.

"You look well pleased with yourself tonight, " a voice said off to his left. Steve turned.

"Good evening Mrs. Callahan, " he said to the woman standing by her bright red hibiscus bushes dividing the two properties. No doubt the pot roast smell came from her place. Mrs. Callahan liked the kitchen window open when she cooked, believing it vented the heat. "I didn't see you there. How are you this evening?"

"Oh I'm doing just fine, " she answered with a smile. The wrinkles by the corners of her eyes and the sides of her mouth deepened with the expression. Mrs. Callahan was an easy seventy-five years old and didn't care who knew it. Steve once overheard her telling the Avon lady who came by once a month that she had earned everyone of her wrinkles fair and square and had no desire to let some idiot cream take them away from her.

Unlike the smile he gave Nick, his smile for Mrs. Callahan was full and genuine, reaching all the way into his eyes. Steve liked the independent older woman.

"Isn't your son coming in tonight?" Steve asked, leaning against the closed car door. Mrs. Callahan's face lit up at the question.

"Why yes he is. And he's bringing the kids. My Jacob is staying only for dinner, he has to go back to the divorce lawyer's office to settle things and then get the last of his things out of the house, so he can't stay." She pursed her lips in distaste for a second and Steve recalled what a battle Jacob's divorce had been. Mrs. Callahan shook the thought away with a smile for her grandchildren. "But the kids are going to spend the weekend. Don't worry, we'll keep the noise down." She winked at him.

"Not a problem. I didn't actually have to bring any work home this weekend. So barring emergencies, I'm good. Make all the noise you want, " Steve replied. A car pulled into Mrs. Callahan's driveway and the doors flew open spilling all three of Jacob's brood into the yard.

"Grandma, " they called as they raced across the yard to engulf the small woman.

"You have a nice night, " Steve said with a smile and a wave as he pushed away from the car and started towards the house.

"You too, and don't forget about Sunday afternoon, " Mrs. Callahan called as she led her family back towards her house.

"I'll be there, " Steve called. He smiled to himself. The quick talk with his neighbor had settled him down and washed away the sour taste the day had left in his mouth. Most of his co-workers shook their heads in disbelief when they heard where he lived. After all, he made quite a bit of money; he could afford something almost as large and isolated as the monolithic structure Nick called home. They puzzled over his choice of location in a small craftsman style bungalow in an older neighborhood.

Personally Steve liked the contact with his neighbors. He liked knowing who they were and what they did and how their lives were going. It oddly made him feel more secure than a huge stretch of isolating lawn and a high-tech security system. Although he did like his privacy, the small fenced-in backyard was all he really needed.

Steve retrieved his mail from the box beside the door and unlocked his front door, disarming the basic security system as he entered. The older house was solid with built- in cabinetry, wooden floors and actual plaster walls instead of drywall. He dropped his keys into the turned oak bowl placed on a small table by the door. He emptied his pockets of change and dropped his wallet into the bowl as well.

The living room was warm and inviting. The walls were painted in earth tones to complement the natural wood and the furniture, while attractive, was designed more for comfort than appearance. To Steve, home was a retreat. All his entertaining of clients and business associates was accomplished at restaurants, hotels and other such places.

This place was designed just for him. He had picked out every piece of furniture, every painting and every throw rug. No decorator had set foot in his home, a fact Steve was more and more proud of every time he attended a function at an associates house where the taste had all been bought and fit the owner like an off the rack suit.

Steve climbed the stairs and entered his bedroom. Shades of blue and green dominated here. Above his low bed was an abstract painting done in green and gold that for some reason always shot the word autumn into his brain.

He slipped off his shoes and sort of kicked them into the bottom of the closet. Steve leaned on the side of the closet door and peeled his socks off one by one, dropping them in the hamper. His work clothes followed and he was soon dressed in a faded pair of blue jeans and a soft gray t-shirt that had been washed so many times that whatever decals placed on the front had been ghosted into obscure outlines. Barefoot, he padded down to the kitchen. For the first time all day, Steve was actually hungry.

"But what do I want to eat, " he mumbled to himself as he tugged open the refrigerator door and leaned in. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that all he had given it today was coffee. Steve pulled a package of goat cheese, some slices of prosciutto, and a small bag of figs from the fridge and set them on the counter.

Humming to himself Steve clipped a sprig of rosemary from the potted plant on the kitchen windowsill. He placed it beside the cheese and retrieved a small glass baking dish, spoon and jar of honey from various cabinets. He crumbled the cheese and the rosemary in the baking dish.

"Not too much, just enough for a sandwich, " He said to himself as he worked. He placed the baking dish in the oven, twisting the dial.

"Just enough to melt, " he commented. From on top of the fridge he pulled down a bag containing a round loaf of kalamata olive bread. The olives stood out starkly black against the lighter tan of the bread.

"Gonna have to stop by the bakery soon, " he said, noticing his weekly loaf of bread was more than half depleted. As he unwrapped it, the sharp tangy smell of the bread met his nose and he drank the scent in deeply.

Anticipation of the meal was every bit as important as the actual food. Steve could never understand people who hired chefs to cook all of their meals at home for them. Sure, having a professionally cooked meal was one of the pleasures of dining out, but Steve always felt half the meal lay in the preparation.

Here, he could feel the various textures and smell the differing scents as he worked. He could prepare the food in the exact combinations for his specific taste that day, watching each and every step. He sliced two pieces of bread from the round loaf and put them in his toaster. Since the artisan bread he favored never fit properly in a normal toaster he had picked up a special one that you dropped the bread into the top and each individual slice could be accommodated without crimping, coming out perfectly toasted at the bottom of the machine. While the bread was toasting and the cheese melting, Steve took a sharp knife and sliced a couple of the figs into neat strips. The bread and cheese were done at the same time and Steve smiled to himself.

"It's all in the timing, " he said pulling the cheese from the oven and placing the toast on a plate. Steve spooned the hot melted cheese onto one slice of the toast, sniffing appreciatively at the scent. He then covered the cheese with three slices of the prosciutto, added a layer of figs, drizzled a little honey over the top and covered it with the second slice of toast. He quickly cleaned up from his meal, placing the bowl and utensils in the sink and the extra food back in the fridge.

"I think the syrah would do tonight, " he said. From the wine rack he pulled a bottle of Lynelle Eleventh Cuvee he had picked up at a tour of the Sierra Vista Vineyards a few months prior. The wine he brought back with him had become a staple in his kitchen, its spice and fruit flavors mixing well with most of the food he prepared. The woman he had taken with him on the trip had not fared so well. She had become almost as ghosted in his memory as the decal on his t-shirt.

Dusk was starting to send long fingers of shadow across his backyard, hiding the details of his flowers, herbs and vegetables so that one could not be easily distinguished from the other. Trees ringed the perimeter of his backyard, giving him the feeling of being isolated from the world in his own private retreat.

Steve decided to eat his dinner on the back porch and placed his plate and glass on the small table by his favorite outdoor chair. He then returned to the house, selected a cd from the rack and slid it into the player. He turned the volume up loud enough to be heard on the back porch but not loud enough to disturb his neighbors. He picked up the bottle of wine and returned to the porch, leaving the double doors to his kitchen open, and settled into his chair as the voice of Etta James drifted towards him, warm and dark on the evening breeze.

"I want a Sunday kind of love, " the song crooned. Steve smiled ruefully as he ate his sandwich.

"Harder to find than you'd think." He said, thinking over his last few girlfriends. "Too much rushing around for Sundays anymore." He finished his sandwich and leaned back in his chair sipping his wine.

The women he met were all a part of the section of his world that intersected with Nick's. Food was meant to be prepared by professionals. You were meant to be seen eating it, not actually appreciating it. Yards were what you paid people to take care of and occasionally filled with large amounts of people.

Steve shook his head and took a deep breath. The rich scent of growing things complemented the earthy wine just as well as the sandwich did. Steve poured himself a second glass and felt the tension of the day begin to unknot itself from his shoulders, neck and gut.