*
She calmed down a little once she got the introduction out of the way and returned to her office. On the bright side, there was a full house in the Lecture Room; her advance work had paid off. And the toilet thing was manageable. All she had to do was call the plumber and get the problem fixed.
It’s okay, she told herself. It’s under control.
Her usual contractor—the ironically named Reliable Plumbing—didn’t return her call, and Veloso Brothers said they couldn’t get anyone there until ten at the earliest. Eve didn’t want to wait, so she tried Rafferty & Son. She made the call with some trepidation, fully aware of the thinness of the ice she was standing on, asking a favor of a man whose late father she’d banished from the Senior Center not so long ago. Luckily, George Rafferty wasn’t a grudge-holder. He was cordial on the phone, and said he’d be right over.
“Thank you,” she told him. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Eve barely recognized him when he appeared at the main entrance fifteen minutes later, toolbox in hand. He’d shaved off the reddish-gray beard that had been his most prominent feature for as long as she could remember. He looked younger without it, not nearly as imposing.
“You’re lucky you caught me,” he said. “I usually go to yoga on Wednesday night, but I got hungry and ordered a pizza instead.”
Eve was impressed. He didn’t seem like a yoga guy.
“Bikram?” she asked.
“Royal Serenity.” He rolled his shoulders and massaged his trapezius with his free hand. “Doctor recommended it for my back.”
“Does it work?”
“Sometimes. Gets me out of the house.”
Eve nodded, murmuring sympathetically. She remembered that George’s wife had died in the fall, just a month after his father. She’d meant to send him a note, but hadn’t gotten around to it.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “About Lorraine.”
“That was hard,” he said, shifting the heavy toolbox from one hand to the other. “Really tough on my daughter.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s back at school. It’s gonna take her a while.” He gave a vague shrug, and then put on his game face. “So what do you got for me?”
Eve led him down the hall to the shit show. Rafael had made it more or less presentable—the walls had been scrubbed, the floor carpeted with paper towels—and had even posted a warning note on the door, complete with skull and crossbones: Broken Toilet!!! Do NOT Use!!! You WILL Regret! George peered inside and nodded with an air of professional melancholy.
“All right,” he said. “Lemme get to it.”
*
Eve slipped into the auditorium and caught the tail end of the lecture. Russett was explaining the difference between Grade A and Grade B maple syrup, which was a matter of color and sweetness and the time of year in which the sap was gathered. Paradoxically, many syrup connoisseurs preferred the cheaper and darker Grade B to the more refined Grade A.
“It’s a heated controversy,” Russett explained. “But whichever kind you buy, you can’t really go wrong. In my humble opinion, real maple syrup always gets a grade of D . . .” He paused, letting the audience wait for the punch line. “For Delicious.” He grinned and held up his hand. “Thank you very much. You’ve been a wonderful audience.”
The post-lecture receptions never lasted long. Most of the seniors just grabbed a cookie or two on their way out the door; only a handful stuck around to chat with the speaker. By eight thirty the room was empty, and Russett was on his way back to New Hampshire.
Eve tidied up a bit—she decided to leave the folding chairs for the morning—and went to check on the plumbing situation.
“All set,” George told her, drying his hands on a paper towel. “You’re good to go.”
“What was the problem?”
“Adult diaper.” He tossed the crumpled towels in the trash can and wiped his hands on his pants. “Someone must have shoved it down, really wedged it in good. Maybe with a coat hanger or a stick or something. I don’t know. It’s way too big to flush.”
“They get confused sometimes,” Eve said. “Or maybe just embarrassed.”
“Poor bastards.” George shook his head. “That’s gonna be us one day.”
*
Eve locked up and walked across the parking lot to her minivan. The sight of it annoyed her—the bulging, shapeless body, the cavernous interior, all those seats that never got used.
I need a new car, she thought. A tiny one.
She sat in the driver’s seat for a minute or two and tried to compose herself, wondering why her nerves were so jangled. The lecture had been a success, the toilet was fixed, and it wasn’t even nine o’clock.
Everything’s fine, she told herself. Right on schedule.
It was just hard to switch gears, to make the superhero transition from her responsible, professional self to the beautiful older woman in the foreign movie, the one with the lacy red underwear beneath her sensible outfit.
What she really needed was a drink. Just a quick one to clear her head, to get herself into a more relaxed and open frame of mind. She thought about stopping at the Lamplighter for a martini, but a detour seemed like a bad idea.
Just go, she told herself. He’s been waiting all week.
Maybe his parents had some alcohol on hand. It was probably good quality, too, given the neighborhood they lived in and the car the father drove. She could pour herself a tall glass of vodka over ice, Absolut or Grey Goose. They could sit at the kitchen table and talk for a while before heading upstairs.
Nice, she thought. Raid their liquor cabinet before you sleep with their son . . .
It was a bad idea to think about the parents. Mr. and Mrs. Spitzer, enjoying themselves in St. Barts, not a clue about what was happening in their lovely home.
This had nothing to do with them.
It was between her and Julian, and it was their last chance.
She turned the key. The engine hesitated for a moment—it was long overdue for a tune-up—and then sputtered erratically to life. She shifted into reverse and started moving.
*
She circled his house twice—the first time she got spooked by a passing dog walker, the second by nothing at all—before finally working up the nerve to pull into the driveway. She sat there for a while with her foot on the brake, staring straight ahead, gathering her courage.
An overhead light was on inside the garage, which made her a little uneasy. She was pretty sure it had been dark in there on Sunday night when she’d dropped off the cooler. But then it struck her that Julian was being polite, welcoming her into his home, rolling out the red carpet.
The garage in Eve’s house was a disaster area, a jumble of broken and rusted and outgrown objects, the relics of Brendan’s childhood and her life with Ted. The Spitzers’ garage was enviably clean and well organized by comparison—bare cement floor, assorted tools hanging from a peg board, wall-mounted bicycles, shop vac and lawnmower, water heater with shining copper pipes.
Julian’s skateboard, wheels-up on a workbench.