The Root Cellar - Part IV

A novella.

(Click here for Part III)

IV.

Just before dusk, we’re idling at Rick’s mailbox—my mouth slightly parted and eyes filled with a picture-postcard surprise. It’s a three-story stone structure perched on a rocky bluff overlooking the river. Sort of a shrunken Medieval castle keep, the whole thing draped with a few miles of purple wisteria and honeysuckle vines. Next to the house, a large wooden wheel is spinning slowly, the scooped water cascading in the moonlight.

Suddenly, a side porch light comes on and a yellow blur is galloping towards us down the gravel driveway. Before I know it, I see another dog crash head on into the yellow blur. And then I remember that I rolled Skip’s backseat window down on the drive over—I guess a little too far. 

“Jesus, Skip! No!” I yell, stepping on the gas pedal and lurching as far down the drive as I can. I bolt from the car and run towards the sound of growls and snarls, but it turns out that Lucy is making all the noise. She’s standing triumphantly over Skip next to a wood pile. He’s on his back, underneath Lucy—comically paralyzed.

“Lucy, heel!” The bellowing voice is close, right over my shoulder in fact, and of course belongs to Rick. A split-second later, Lucy is sitting obediently at her owner’s feet, panting with a remorseful look on her face. He’s holding a stirring spoon that seems to be dripping with gravy and wearing an apron captioned with Mr. Good Lookin’ is Cookin.’

Skip jumps up, sniffs the wood pile, hikes his leg and drenches one of the logs, no doubt out of retribution. Then he takes a few wary steps toward Lucy and starts investigating her with his nose. But she doesn’t budge or bat an eye.

“Sorry,” Rick says.

“Now that is impressive,” I say, smiling nervously, trying to catch my breath.

“Thanks,” he says, looking down at his apron. “I bought it on Amazon.”

It feels good to chuckle while mentally checking the box: sense of humor. 

Rick points to a grove of stately pines in the yard, like he’s tossing an invisible ball underhanded. “Lucy, play!”  

Lucy droops her head submissively, touches her nose to Skip’s and then—in what appears to be a dare—explodes into a gallop away from us while looking over her shoulder for Skip. He takes the bait, gives chase, wagging his tail. Soon both dogs leap together in cartoon-ish ball of frolicking fur and start chasing each other around the trees.

“How are you?” Rick asks, taking a step closer to me at which point I notice that he smells really good—like onions and garlic. 

As good as he smells (like I could eat him alive), I raise the nonverbal deflector shields—smile nervously, cross arms, look at ground, shift weight to heels. Wondering just how close he intends to get to me. Wanting him to, not wanting him to. Holy fuck. How confusing. 

“Good. I’m good. Thanks for the invite.”

“Come on in.” When we get to the side door entrance, Rick bellows again. “Lucy! Skip! Come!” Seconds later the two dogs crash through our legs and race up a short staircase. “Follow the herd,” Rick says, stepping to the side and pointing to the top of the staircase with the spoon.

When I get to the top I’m not surprised by what I see: man-cave traditional. But it’s not tacky. No pink and green neon Jose Cuervo signs, thank God. One big kitchen/den combo dominated by a marble-topped island and overstuffed leather sofa facing a softly crackling fire in a stone fireplace. Here and there, simple furniture—clean, maple pieces. Desk. Chair. A rocker. A big bookshelf on one wall. Hand-crafted Amish? French doors off to one side of a fireplace—both wide open. None of it exactly my style, but I decide to check the warm and inviting boxes anyway, especially after detecting the unmistakable aroma of homemade bread. As I’m noticing the wall art suspended from exposed rough-hewn logs—mostly framed ads for flour or corn meal from days gone by—I hear the sound of Lucy and Skip lapping at a water bowl, then Rick’s voice.

“It was a grist mill. My grandfather’s.”

Well, I’ll be darned. He lives in a grist mill once owned by his grandfather. Yet another syrupy Hallmark Channel moment. I’m leaning against another staircase that must go up another flight— third level maybe.  

“I like what you’ve done with the place. The mill, I mean. Makes sense.” 

“How so?”

“Um, well. Tastefully cozy while maintaining its sense of self?”

“As opposed to…”

I reply with a smile, realizing he answered his own question. Rick glances over his shoulder from the stove, returns the smile. For the first time I realize what it is I find attractive about him: he’s not cover-boy handsome, but somehow he exudes a handsome countenance in the way he moves through the air and how he listens and only speaks after a heartbeat of thoughtful rumination. He’s big, but not imposing. In fact, there’s something disarming about him. Calming even. Like a walking, talking hot bath (who just happens to smell like onions and garlic). 

“Help yourself to the deck. I’ll be right out.” 

When I walk through the French doors, I notice a small café table off to the right set for two, a candle flickering between the plates and glasses. To the left, the giant wheel is thumping in slow revolutions, water gently spilling from paddle to paddle—close enough that I can feel the cool spray of it. Music streams from speakers I’ve yet to locate with my eyes, but my ears have located some sort of jazzy bluegrass that sounds even older than the waterwheel itself. I look down over the railing and across the river—not a shabby view. Especially as the moon is rising higher, illuminating the rushing black water below and the high rock bluffs on the other side. It really is a lovely atmosphere, but a tad—premeditated. So much so that I’m instantly feeling vulnerable. Not a good look for me. 

Suddenly, I’m flanked by two large dog heads, both snouts poked through the slats, sniffing the night air. Their tails are slapping the back of my thighs in time with the music. 

“Just a few more minutes,” Rick says, close enough that I feel the percussive puffs of his breath on the back of my neck. 

“Beautiful job,” I say, with all sincerity. 

“Thanks. Took awhile.” He steps to the table, fills the wine glasses and brings them back to the railing. 

I decide it’s a good time to launch my first probe of the night. “So you were born and raised around here then?”

“I was?”

“Your grandfather’s grist mill?”

“You’re extrapolating.” 

Okay, he likes to spar. I can hang with that.

“I’m an extrapolator from way back,” I say, hugging myself. Not out of congratulations, but because a breezy gust off the waterwheel just went down the neck of my sweater.

“You’re right. Ardmore County born and raised.” 

“So,” I say, then declaring—not asking—the question without the slightest hesitation. “You knew my family then.”

As Rick takes a sip of his wine, I notice a subtle thing: his eyes start to dance away but then think better of it. “What makes you so sure?” 

“Well, you’re old enough. Ardmore County born and raised, right?”

“Truth is, we didn’t get over to that side of the river much.”

Just as I’m sloshing the wine around in my glass—and sloshing Rick’s answer around in my mind—a timer goes off in the kitchen.

“Hope you like yeast rolls,” he says, dashing away with Lucy and Skip right on his heels. 

* * *

Rick seemed a bit more forthcoming as we were finishing dinner, during which time we swapped Cliff Notes. My idea. He didn’t say no, but I put up my radar to detect any signs of squirming. 

I went first to demonstrate—break the ice.

“Let’s see. Adopted at age 4 by upper-class, mild-mannered couple from Belle Meade—Harold and Jean. Attended all the right private schools growing up—including Vanderbilt—graduated with degree in architecture. Tried the big-firm world, hated it, then became independent consultant to Nashville’s elite whenever they wanted to expand or renovate. Earned a decent pile of dough, dropped much of it on therapy. Had a couple of close calls with the American matrimonial dream, decided to eventually marry a German Shorthaired Pointer instead of a human being.”

Rick wrinkles his brow slightly, then again more than slightly. Probably at the therapy part (they all did that). After sipping his wine and wiping his mouth with the napkin, he clears his throat.  

“Can we ask questions?” (they all said that). 

“Tit for tat, though—later,” I say, maintaining a tight grip on the control-freak reins.

“Sure, alright. Here’s me, then. Only child, obsessed with baseball, got a scholarship to Purdue, blew out my knee, graduated with a degree in construction management, got a job, married Martha, became a father—one girl, Amelia. Years later, watched my 47-year-old wife die of breast cancer just about the time I became a partner at my firm in Chicago. Retired early, floated around for awhile. Came back to Ardmore County a few years ago and threw myself into renovating the mill. Pretty much flying solo since.” 

I want to congratulate him for everything but the blown-out knee and watching his wife die of cancer, but don’t know how to, in one breath anyway. Rick senses my befuddlement, fills the gap. 

“Relationships are hard,” he says. “I’ve always had better luck with geometry.”

Surprisingly (or maybe not), I know exactly what he means. “A ninety-degree angle will always be a ninety-degree angle?”

“Nicely extrapolated.” 

“I’m sorry, Rick.”

“Thanks.” He picks up his butter knife and starts scraping crumbs off the tablecloth and into his napkin. “I’m sorry, too. You lost everything before you even knew what you had.”

We lock eyes. His are unblinkingly kind, mine suddenly under water—swimming for their lives—as I’m jolted by Rick’s unexpected observation. As if he’d just walked into the darkest, ugliest room in my house and flipped on an obscenely bright fluorescent light. 

* * *

About an hour later, after small talking over orange sherbet, we’re now silently sprawled on the sofa, our sock-footed toes propped on the coffee table and pointing towards a blazing log in the fireplace. Lucy and Skip are on the floor—wet nose to wet nose— more interested in each other than the tennis balls lying between their feet. I feel catatonic with the exception of a slight buzz of expectation stirring in my mind about the possibilities the evening may still serve up. The only question is, after his scrumptious dinner and a couple of glasses of anesthesia (a pretty great Cabernet), will I sleep through it all?

Suddenly, Ricks reaches over and grazes my thigh with the back of his hand—just a little tap but one that causes my heart to flutter—then pulls it away quickly. “Say, why don’t you stay tonight. Since the deer are in rut.”

Not knowing quite how to assimilate these two statements, I look over at Rick and bust out laughing since in my woozy imagination his head has sprouted a gigantic rack of antlers. 

“Come again?” 

“Lots of ‘em out this late at night, crossing the road.”

“So you’re worried about me driving then.”

“Stay longer, if you want. I’m headed out of town tomorrow for a few days.”

Whoa—lots of fast-moving (premeditated) offers here. I take a sip of my wine, then more than a sip. Much more sipping than replying. 

“I was just thinking it might be more comfortable than your camper. Lucy’s staying with Eli. So you two would have the whole place to yourselves.”

“Where you headed?” I ask, delaying, still processing, wondering where I would sleep after the glasses are empty and the fire dies and wondering if we do sleep together and it goes south, then I’d be stuck in a promise to stay in his house? And then stuck with a guy building my own house for God knows how long?

“Fishing trip. Just over to the Smokies.”

I start chewing my nails, which I haven’t done for years. 

“I have a spare toothbrush…and a spare bedroom.”

Finally! Some information I can work with. But what kind of information? Half truth/half lie? Hyperbole? Misdirection play? My naturally suspicious mind goes with the latter, thinking: Spare bedroom my ass. Things have a way of developing in the wee, shadowy hours between two red-blooded, human beings. Or—if those human beings are so inebriated they pass out with their clothes on—maybe not. Katherine dear, which scenario would you prefer? Shut up, Katherine! Steady. Calm down, keep it together. You like him, don’t you? Just go with the moment for once and stop playing chess with it, for fuck’s sake! Okay, okay, okay, okay…

“Is the toothbrush new or used?” I finally blurt out, a little snicker growling in the back of my throat.

“Fresh from the showroom. Zero miles.”

I stick out my right hand to shake on it. Rick swallows it with own—a big, surprisingly warm working-man mitt. I don’t immediately let go of it since it feels, well, quite homey.   

“Okay. It’s a deal then.” 

#

(Click here for PART V)