What Family Means. Geri Krotow

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СКАЧАТЬ bag on the old cane chair from Will’s father’s old office.

      The office where I met Will, all those years ago.

      I looked around for our dog.

      “Rose!”

      The golden retriever was up in my room, no doubt, her ears pricked to my arrival but not wanting to leave her warm bed. Will loved that dog so much. Rose was spoiled more than the kids had ever been.

      “C’mon, Rose! We’ve got to check on Vi.”

      Rose came out and padded down the stairs. Her tail wagged at the mention of Vi. That dog was crazy about Vi, something that stumped me, as Vi was never very affectionate to her.

      “Let’s go.”

      We walked out the back kitchen door and I left Rose outside in the yard as I knocked, then entered Vi’s cottage. She never locked the door.

      “Vi?” The kitchen light over the sink was on. I saw the back of Vi’s silver head on the other side of her cream sofa.

      “Oh, hey.” She raised a thin hand as I circled the room and gave her a careful look.

      “How are you doing? Did the meds help?”

      “Yes. I’m sorry I bothered you when you were out having fun with the girls. How was your coffee with Angie?” Vi always made it sound as though my life was one big party.

      “You didn’t bother me. Angie sends her love. How about some tea? Have you eaten lunch?” Judging by the lack of dishes in her sink, Vi hadn’t moved from the couch since I’d checked in on her before I went to the Koffee Klache.

      “Yes, I made myself a sandwich.”

      “Are you sure?” I nosed around the kitchen a bit. No sign of even a crumb. Ahh, there was the evidence—a butter knife with a mustard smear.

      “Yes, I’m fine—resting now.”

      I turned on the water and washed the knife for her. The cottage had a dishwasher but Vi wouldn’t use it—said it was “too much” for just her.

      I made us both tea and took the cups into the sitting room.

      “You can put your show back on, Vi.”

      “No, no, that’s okay.” Liar. I knew she watched her soaps every day, and she knew I knew. I grabbed the remote and clicked on the television.

      “Here, have some tea.”

      “Thanks.” Vi was quiet as she sipped the tea and watched her program.

      I sighed inwardly. I had so much to get ready for the art show, including the weaving that needed to be finished. But I couldn’t ask Vi to come over and stay at our place if I was only going to disappear into my studio.

      And she needed company, whether she asked for it or not.

      I needed to be in Will’s arms. Three days until he was back from Los Angeles. I’d have a pot roast on the table. And our king-size bed would be waiting for him….

      How lucky was I that I still had a great sex life with the same man who’d taught me how to make love in Paris, almost forty years ago?

      September 1972

       Paris, France

      THE THREE-HUNDRED-YEAR-OLD building triggered countless visions in Will’s mind. He saw the building architecturally—the ribs exposed, before the marble and plaster added their depth. His mind’s eye pictured each layer, one after another, until the interior looked as it did today.

      The sound of his leather soles on the wide stairway comforted him. Will lived and breathed architecture.

      He walked down the ornate hallway to a familiar classroom. Once a ballroom, it had been converted with utilitarian chairs and desks. The first architectural design class he’d taken this summer had been in this room. The days were long, sweaty and intellectually exhilarating.

      Today was the start of his art in architecture class. He hoped the professor was more of a left-brain type so they’d study building structure more than actual artwork like paintings and sculpture. Either way, this was a required class for his graduate studies abroad, so he’d do whatever he had to do.

      He wasn’t really into the Paris art scene; he had his sights set on becoming America’s foremost architect.

      He slid into a seat toward the back. He was early and only two other students had shown up so far. He opened a notebook and flipped through it. He’d loved his class this summer, and his French had improved with each passing week. This class had the potential to be great, as well.

      Or boring as hell.

      As he perused his notebook, an unopened envelope fell out.

      From Sarah.

      He sighed. Hell-bent as he was on becoming a great architect, his mother and Sarah were equally hell-bent on his marrying Sarah.

      Both from Western New York, they’d met on campus at Howard University. Sarah had moved back to Buffalo from Washington, D.C., after graduation. She worked as a legal researcher in downtown Buffalo.

      The one time he’d taken her out, over spring break, she’d made it clear that she’d follow Will anywhere, even if it was “back here to little ol’ Buffalo.”

      She’d had the same privileged upbringing he had. Money had buffered them from some of the effects of racism his poorer black friends had suffered.

      They were a great match on paper. But he didn’t love Sarah. Not the way he thought he should.

      Hell, what did he know?

      He’d had his nose in books for the past five years. And he suspected that his mother was determined to win the marriage war, since his parents had lost their battle to send him to med school.

      Long legs in fishnet stockings caught his eye.

      A woman with a short plaid skirt and black knee-high boots moved quickly to the seat in front of him. Her figure was accentuated by her red mohair sweater, over which fell a riot of bright carrot-colored curls. His fingers knew how her curls would feel, how they’d spring back from his tug.

      He’d known a woman with hair like this once. A girl. But she was in Buffalo, part of his past, and he’d never see her again.

      Couldn’t.

      The scent of the woman’s perfume made his blood run hot. So much so that he didn’t realize the professor had arrived and started taking attendance.

      “Roman?”

      “Ici.”

      “Russert?”

      “Ici.”

      “Schaefer?”

      “Oui, ici, madame.”

      That СКАЧАТЬ