The Ring - Chapter 10

 

 

BETHANY STEINER

SO WHAT HAPPENED next, Mutti?” Bethany texted. She was curled up on her bed in her Tübingen apartment with her laptop open to Facebook Messenger.

“The waiter brought our lobsters and they were delicious. Camille wants my lap. This dog seems to feel if my laptop is in my lap it has stolen her rightful place.”

Bethany sighed. Sighs don’t show up in texts. Her mother and aunt were always bickering. Maybe she was prejudiced, but she felt that Heather was more often at fault. Sometimes when she and her cousin Grace met for whatever, coffee, Coke, wine they would discuss it and agreed their mothers were impossible with each other.

Bethany switched from text to voice. “Better we stay out of it.”

“You’re right. I hate when my kid can be smarter than me.

“So, are you ready for your exhibition next month? I’m not sure I can get to Paris for it. I’ll try.”

“Tell you what. If you can’t, I’ll come over to Tübingen. Do I get the bed or floor?”

“Bed, I respect you’re aging.” 

MARGO LOUD STEINER

MARGO SAT OUTSIDE the café sipping espresso and watching Parisians of all ages stroll by. She needed to be back to the art gallery in an hour, but she wanted to have a quiet time before the vernissage began.

Chantal Dubois had said that she already expected at least fifty people including a half dozen interior designers. Hopefully, Margo would pick up some commissions to keep her busy through the summer.

She twisted her mother’s ring on her middle finger. It was beautiful. Funny she had never seen it nor heard the story about it going to the youngest daughter, but she believed Henry.

Maybe she should let Heather have it, or at least borrow it, but her sister had not spoken to her since the Valentine Day’s battle at the restaurant. She could make the first move, but she’d done that too many times. Let Heather grovel for a change.

Grayson had stopped by her tiny house before she’d left for Paris and tried to patch the disagreement up, but she had said to him, “Just once I want her to make the first move.”

“But she feels terrible about it.”

Margo wanted to say, “I don’t care.” Instead, she gave it her best shrug.

The waiter walked by with her second espresso. Drinking too much coffee or tea before the vernissage was probably stupid because it would make her pee too often when she should be talking to potential buyers.

She dropped Euros into his tiny white dish. Okay, she knew tips were not expected in France, but tipping was a habit she found hard to break, and not one waiter had ever refused her money.

When she was a student, Margo loved visiting the Latin Quarter with waiters trying to entice diners verbally. Granted she’d spent more time in Germany, but Paris was her second favorite spot with Boston her third. Now it was time to get to the gallery

The first person she saw was Bethany talking to Chantal, the gallery owner.

“You made it.” She called to Bethany and started to her daughter to hug her but caught her ankle on a chair leg and fell. She heard a snap and felt a shooting pain.

Chantal and Bethany helped her to her feet.

“Don’t put any weight on it.” Chantal put Margo’s right arm around hers, and placed Margo’s left arm around her own waist. Margo hopped to where Chantal lowered her to a chair. “We’ll call a cab to take you to the hospital.”

“Not until after the vernissage.”

“Mutti!”

“I didn’t come all this way not to attend: Chantal hasn’t invested in this event to give up on it. Look, it’s not a compound fracture.”

“I can’t let you do that,” Chantal said.

“Get ice for my ankle. Help me hobble to the toilet. I have to pee.” Margo knew the moment she had put weight on the foot, this was a stupid idea just as having that second espresso was a stupid idea.

Within half an hour guests started walking into the gallery, giving Chantal the traditional two-cheek kisses.

There were whispers to Chantal asking what happened to the artist sitting in a chair, her foot resting between a pillow and ice pack that Bethany had grabbed from the bar next door.

Some who spoke English asked Chantal directly.

“I turned my foot. It’s nothing.”

“Let me look.” This was spoken by a man with gray curly hair, a roman nose and sharp cheek bones.

Margo’s yip when he touched her ankle caused everyone in the gallery to look around including the waitresses carrying the trays of champagne.

Olives and other hors d’oeuvres were placed on the tables around Margo’s ceramics. All the dishes used were older Margo work.

A woman, her hair in a chignon, a sleek black dress with a multi-colored scarf around her neck in a series of ties that Margo never thought she could duplicate put a chair next to Margo’s chair.

“I’m sorry about your ankle.” Her English had the sexy type of French accent Margo had always admired. “Could we design a set of dishes together. I have no talent, but I know what I want.” I would invite you to my château but . . .” She pointed to Margo’s ankle.

The gray-haired man walked over.

He now spoke in English with the sexy French accent that so many French men have and that actors like Yves Montand and Louis Jourdan made famous when Margo was a child. “I’m taking you to the hospital for X-Rays after this.”

“Listen to him, Mutti.”

Wonderful Sunday Morning

Such simple things

Rick brings me my bowl of tea to drink in bed.

Outside it's pouring. The rain starts in Barcelona and runs up to France. Its beat on the Velux makes us speak louder to be heard. Sometimes it sounds like feet marching, other times its almost musical in an Edinburgh tattoo kind of way without the bagpipes.

He hands me a book that has Helen Simpson's short story Doors which if I were still teaching a writing course, I would use as an example. It's the way she handles details, emotions and reels out information that is so brilliant. I'm a person that is intrigued by people in books, movies and reality. Why, why, why do they do as they do. Knowing enriches me as a human never mind a lesson as a writer.

The story motivates me as a writer, a reminder of my craft's details. All this before I'm out of my comfortable bed.

The book is a relief from 100 Years of Palestine History. I'm reading about the Nakba. With each page, I feel anger at all those alleged leaders that destroyed Palestine. A flash of anger at how I was mislead through my life by what appeared in the news. Anger at me, that I accepted what was available instead of digging for the other side of the story.

Much of what is in the book I already know from Arab or Palestinian acquaintances. If I could substitute my wonderful morning to end the Palestinian suffering, I would. I would stop my own birth country's self-destruction. I would end all suffering. 

I know I can only make my little corner of life peaceful and to do that I need to work on my own inner peace, to not forget the beautiful things in the world. 

 

I center myself and look at the painting of the Japanese waterfall on the opposite wall and the wire sculpture of branches with tiny metal birds hidden in the leaves.  It helps.

For the first time since the spring, Rick switches on the electric fire adding a level of coziness. 

Sherlock, who hates rain, indicates how comfortable he is bed. Rick doubting the strength of the dog's sphincter muscles takes him out. When he comes back, he tells me how he carries him to the dog's favorite pee spot. As soon as Sherlock's feet touch the ground he runs home. He lets Rick dry him with his green towel.

Time to officially start the day. The towel warmer is on for the second time since May. The warm towel after my hot shower is pleasant against my wet skin.

Breakfast with my husband is a hodgepodge of things including fresh melon. We eat in front of the TV. A cooking show with a Polish chef has fresh fruit and what he does with it. I only wish I could taste it. The melon season is almost over. Clementines are in and soon kakis will appear. 

We discuss the stabbed pilot. We often discuss world affairs as well as our own projects.  

What will the rest of the day be like?

I need to iron. Yes iron. I love the feeling of smooth cloth against my body. I use cloth napkins that are just nicer ironed.We will watch the Sunday shows. Plans to hear a friend's music at the Cave will probably not happen because of the prediction of rain continuation. There's reading. There's Netflix. There's just the pleasure of being with my boys, those with four feet and those with two.

There's listening to the music of the rain. 

 

 

 

The Ring - Chapter 9

 

 

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.”