The Mulberry Tree

Bailey had been tempted by his offer, and thought about confiding in him about some things. Her secrets were beginning to feel heavy to her. Instead, she’d turned away and said she wanted to take a shower before she started cooking, but when she’d finished and gone back to the kitchen, Matt was upstairs doing something on his computer, so the moment was lost.

As she’d often done in the past, instead of pouring her heart out, she went to the kitchen. She quickly boiled some broccoli, removed it from the pot, then cooked pasta shells in the same water so the pasta would absorb some of the vitamins lost in the cooking of the broccoli—and also to give the pasta added flavor. This was a trick she’d learned from a woman she’d met in Calabria. While the pasta cooked, she sautéed garlic, anchovies, pine nuts, and crushed red pepper. When everything was done, she piled it high onto a big platter, sprinkled pecorino cheese on top, added a salad, some grilled peppers in three colors, and carried all of it outside to serve picnic-style.

During dinner, they’d talked about what the house had once been like, and what changes could be made.

After dinner, Matt had sat there looking at her expectantly. Bailey put her fingertips to her temples. “I’m reading your thoughts,” she said. “Yes, yes, they’re coming through clearly. You’re thinking . . . do I have this right? . . . dessert. ‘Where is dessert?’ ” She opened her eyes. “So how’d I do?”

“Perfect,” he said, smiling, but the look of expectation had not left his face.

“Dessert is in the kitchen. It’s in bags and boxes labeled ‘cinnamon’ and ‘nutmeg’ and ‘brown sugar.’ ”

Matt gave her a very serious look. “May I lick the bowl?”

Bailey laughed as she stood up. “You get cleanup detail while I make you the best oatmeal cake you ever tasted.”

“Oatmeal?” Matt said suspiciously. “This isn’t good for me, is it?”

“Not when it’s topped with homemade ice cream, it isn’t,” she said as she opened the back door.

“Homemade?” Matt whispered as he began gathering dirty dishes.

Forty minutes later, Matt had a big bowl full of warm-from-the-oven, spicy oatmeal cake topped with smooth, heavy-with-cream, jasmine-scented ice cream. With the first three bites, he’d pretended that he was about to faint from ecstasy, and, laughing, Bailey had grabbed his arm to keep him from falling.

In the deepening twilight, they’d strolled along the stone paths and talked about what could be done to the garden.

In a way, the evening had been quite impersonal, but at the same time, it had been very personal. Their shared laughter and the intimacy of talking about what “we” plan to do and what “we” need was somehow more private than if they’d spent the evening talking about lovemaking. Or, Bailey thought, if they’d spent hours making those idiot double entendres that moviemakers and bad writers seemed to find so sexy.

When Bailey finally said she was going to bed, there was a moment of awkwardness, but Matt had yawned and said that he too was done in. He’s making things easier for me, Bailey thought as, a few minutes later, she got into her nightgown and climbed into bed.

But sleep hadn’t come to her. Instead, her mind had filled with the thoughts of the first time she and Jimmie had gone to southern Italy, the first time they’d seen the ancient, walled city of Badolato. And the more she thought of Jimmie, the more restless she became. After a couple of hours of tossing about, she got up, pulled on her clothes, tiptoed into the kitchen, removed a flashlight from a drawer, and went outside.

Later, when the sky was growing light from the approaching dawn, she wasn’t surprised to look up and see Matt standing over her, wearing just a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, his feet bare. He was looking down at her with worry on his face. She was on her hands and knees, weeding the strawberry patch, only half of the “weeds” in her pile were young strawberry plants. When she looked up at Matt, she wasn’t surprised to realize that her face was covered with tears.

He didn’t say a word, just dropped to his knees and pulled her into his arms.

She clung to him as his arms tightened about her, and the tears increased. She hadn’t cried since she’d come to Calburn. She’d thought of Jimmie constantly—everything reminded her of him—but she’d held her tears in.

“I miss him,” she said, her face buried in Matt’s strong shoulder. “I miss him every minute of every day. I miss the closeness, and the sex. I miss talking to him. Oh, God! We used to talk so much. He ran problems past me, about business, about whether he should buy something or not. And I . . . I lived for him. He was my whole life.”

“I know,” Matt said, holding her, rocking her. “I know.”

“I married him when I was seventeen, and he was all I ever knew. He saved me. I was so unhappy, so unloved, but he took me away. If I hadn’t met him, I don’t know what would have happened to me.”

Matt didn’t make any comment but just held her tightly, stroking her hair and rocking her.

“Why did he die? I don’t understand why. I needed him so much. Why did he have to go away and leave me so very alone?”

“Ssssh,” Matt said, soothing her. “You’re not alone. You’re with me. I’m here.”

Bailey couldn’t seem to stop crying. “He was the most wonderful man, so full of life. Jimmie could do anything. He could accomplish anything.” Her hands seemed to make claws as she clutched at Matt. His shoulder was wet, but she kept crying.

Turning, he sat down on the ground and pulled her onto his lap, cradling her to him as she cried.

“I more than miss him,” she whispered. “Without Jimmie I don’t seem to know what to do with myself. Jimmie never had an indecisive moment in his life, but I . . . I . . . ” She trailed off and for a moment Matt held her in silence.

“Ssssh, baby,” he said. “Quiet now.”

The sun was beginning to come up, and Bailey was starting to feel better. Yes, she thought, sniffing, it was as though something inside her had been released. It was as though something heavy had been taken from her.