MARGO LOUD STEINER
THE RADIO WAS playing love songs. If the word Valentine was in the title so much the better. Margo had forgotten it was Valentine’s Day and now that she knew it didn’t make a diddly damn bit of difference one way or another.
Margo, despite her romantic ceramic designs, was the least romantic person she knew.
It wasn’t that she was bitter about her marriage. She was the one who wanted the divorce, more because she didn’t want to be a wife. Hans-Peter was a good man and his devotion to his historical studies was an unspoken gift of time for her own work. She supposed she could have continued with the marriage, but she saw freedom to come and go as she pleased a greater gift.
If it weren’t for Bethany as the person Bethany was from the very first, she might not have wanted to be a mother, but her daughter had filled her with a love she didn’t think possible. Although her daughter’s personality was very different from her own she not only loved her child, now a woman, a budding scientist, but admired her sense of herself.
She couldn’t explain it, just accepted it.
She had put the finishing brush strokes on a cup. All her Valentine ceramics had been shipped in September, but now she was working on dish sets that reeked of autumn as she put it. With the red and yellow leaves almost geometric, a romantic feeling existed, even when she did modern designs.
Her phone rang.
“Henry here.”
“Hello there, what can I do for you?”
I know you’re not romantic.”
“True.”
“Neither am I. But it’s Valentine’s Day. I don’t feel like being alone. How would you like to go out to a nice dinner?”
Margo looked at her work bench. She was playing catch up with her new kiln, which although she hadn’t wanted to buy one was so much better than the old one.
She could use some time off.
“I need about a half hour before I’m ready.”
MARGO AND HENRY walked into the La Forchette, the best French restaurant in the area. Who would guess that this small town would have a restaurant with two Michelin stars.
Margo had eaten there only once and that was with her agent who paid. Each mouthful from the artichoke starter through to the cod garnished with carrots like she had never tasted them before was a delight. She loved the soft green walls and the dusty pink chairs which were comfortable unlike many places she’d eaten.
Couples were holding hands. The women wore dresses, although Margo guessed normally they wore jeans or sweatpants unless they worked in an office. The men were in suits and ties, although a couple of men sported turtlenecks rather than shirts and ties.
She knew two of the couples. They nodded as she walked by. ”Probably we will be the subject of gossip tomorrow.”
“I’m old enough to be your father, but if they think an old codger like me can catch a young bird like you. . .” Henry grinned.
The maître’d showed them their table and pulled the chair out for Margo.
She sat with a merci. It was rare for her to use her French, and it would be nice to practice for the show she had scheduled in Paris followed in early October by working with two French designers in Céret, France at a musée that featured Picasso’s ceramics.
Henry was seated. Before they could look at their menus, Margo had a thought. “I hope this doesn’t make you miss your . . .” She wasn’t sure whether to say your late wife or my mother.
“I’ll always miss my wife, and she’d be furious at me if I didn’t enjoy what I could without forgetting her. And I miss your mother too.” He paused. “I want to enjoy my time as an honor to them.”
Margo’s father and Henry’s wife both died of cancer within days of one another. Medora and Henry had found themselves at the same ward, same hospital cafeteria for several months. Between endless coffees on breaks from sitting by beds and being neighbors from the times their children were little it was natural they would hang out together.
“Tongues are clucking,” Medora had told her daughters. Heather disapproved, but Margo thought it wonderful that her mother had someone to talk with and to take care of the little things around the house. Her father’s death had not brought her any closer to Medora.
Margo gave Henry’s arm a squeeze as they waited for the waiter to take their order. It felt funny being out of her own jeans and sweatshirt. She thought this was the first time in maybe two years she’d worn a dress, one that she liked anyway. Even when she had an exhibition, she tended to wear slacks, a turtleneck and some kind of long shirt.
No earrings. She discovered the holes in her ears had closed, but she had a fake gold necklace. She wore her mother’s ring.
She hadn’t worn it for a good four weeks. She hadn’t worn it since the day she’d had a flat and had tried to change her left front tire – unsuccessfully. There were no bars on her phone, and she waited in the cold until a couple of teenage boys stopped and drove her to a gas station to buy a new tire. They were actually nice enough to put it on her car but not so nice they refused the $25 she offered each of them, even if they had refused the first two times.
Henry liked the art world. She wondered what he and her mother talked about, but she expected he was so multi-faceted that he could discuss anything from ditch-digging to opera. She had never known him not to know something, even a little something, about anything that came up.
His wife had been a journalist and a writer. She was surprised how he got along with her mother, not that her mother was stupid. She was just a hometown girl with limited interests.
Margo decided on the baked stuffed lobster, but Henry suggested she order the Hommard l’Henri. “Not because the chef and I have the same name even if he spells it with an i, but that man is an artist with food. I’ve even come here alone.”
“Don’t you feel self-conscious? “she asked.
“I try and look mysterious,” he said.
Before she could laugh, she looked up to see Heather and Grayson walk in and head for their table.
“What are you doing here?” Heather asked.
“. . . Er, having dinner.”
Heather’s tone said more than the words to Margo. Her expression added to the fire shooting from her eyes as she grabbed Margo’s hand and touched the ring.
“What are you doing with this? It should be mine.”
Heather!” Grayson took his wife’s hand away from his sister-in-law’s.
“I looked everywhere for it.”
“You didn’t even know about it until you found that photo of your mother wearing it. You showed it to me and told me you’d never seen it before,” Grayson said.
“Stay out of this, Grayson; it’s between Margo and me.” Her voice was loud enough that people closest to them stopped talking and started listening.
At this Henry stood up. “Medora gave me the mission of giving it to Margo. She said it should go to the youngest daughter. A family tradition.”
“Not true.” Heather’s voice went up another pitch.
“Heather, behave.” Margo
“It’s my ring.” Heather
“Shut up, Heather.” Grayson’s tone was soft.
“Don’t tell me to shut up.” Heather
Grayson put his hand on his wife’s arm.
“And take your hand off my arm.” Heather
“We need to leave.” Grayson
“Not without my ring.” Heather
“It’s not your ring. Your mother gave it to Margo.” Henry
“Heather, let’s go.” Grayson propelled his wife toward the coatroom. Those sitting at the tables sat quietly. Listening but not being able to hear clearly. One woman got up and headed for the ladies room, which was next to the coatroom where Heather and her husband waited for their coats.
Outside it was spitting snow and Grayson did not seem to care if Heather was warm enough or not.
Inside, Henry put his hand over Margo’s. “Do you want to go?”
“And miss the lobster? Only if you’re embarrassed.”
“We might have fun watching how people react to our show.”
“Watch.” Margo stood up. “Show’s over. Enjoy your meals.”
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