Somewhere between “I do” and “Storm is dead.”
Chapter 5
Ed
The Evans family in 211 lost their water heater Tuesday morning and Ed spent the whole day mopping up their flooded kitchen and living room, then prying off wet baseboards and setting up a fan to make sure the walls were dried out before he did any repairs. Dave Evans hired a friend to install the new water heater. Ed was grateful. He’d battled water heaters in the past and been defeated. However, the Evans disaster set off a series of events that consumed Ed’s week into the weekend.
So here he was Friday evening, walking around the Romanos’ apartment on stilts, patching the ceiling where water from the Evanses’ water heater leaked through.
Needless to say, the Underwood sat quiet all week with a piece of paper tucked around the roller.
He wanted to get started, but how? He needed the professor’s wisdom.
“Alex,” he said, dismounting the stilts, a little unsteady. Being seventy-eight was starting to show. “Tell your parents I’ll come check on them this Monday. But looks like the patch work is done.”
The teen nodded once. “I hope you make the people upstairs pay for it.”
“Not my call.”
In short order, he had his tools tucked away in the super’s closet and rode the slow-as-molasses elevator up to his third-floor place.
He was tired. Looking forward to a quiet night at home.
He made his way to the fridge, where he retrieved a chicken pot pie and set the oven to preheat. Then he tossed the junk mail he’d brought up during lunch, keeping the one bill in the holder on the counter—right in front of the story society invitation.
The whole scenario puzzled and intrigued him. Who and what brought the five of them together?
Jett struck him as an upstanding young man. Ed looked him up on the internet and discovered he was the son of the adventure guy Bear Wilder, a burlier version of Marlin Perkins from the old show Wild Kingdom.
He’d also written a novel, Rites of Mars, so Ed ordered a copy.
Chuck appeared to be a decent fellow, too, if not a bit wounded. Nothing popped on the internet for him.
He liked the girls best. They were sweet and reminded him of his daughter, Holly. Stunning Coral’s broken heart was reflected in her eyes, and Lexa’s in her words and demeanor. She was guarded.
The oven preheat alert buzzed. Ed set the frozen dish on a cookie sheet, slid it into the oven, and set the timer.
He had thirty minutes or so to clean up and maybe type a line or two on his love story. He’d been thinking of what to say all day.
In his familiar old bedroom, he shed his work coveralls before stepping into the shower. After drying off, he dressed in a baggy pair of sweats and his favorite T-shirt—one his father used to own—before passing through the kitchen to his den.
At his desk, he rested his old fingers on the keys and stared at the blank sheet of paper rolled into the Underwood.
Esmerelda was the love of my life. I first saw her on Broadway with my buddies Nick and Sam. It was the summer of ’67.
He wasn’t Wordsworth or Longfellow. So? It was a start.
Opening his laptop, he checked his email and the sports scores. By the time the oven timer announced his dinner was ready, his stomach was gurgling.
He followed his normal routine, carrying his dinner to the TV tray set up next to his chair. He took a beer from the fridge, flipped off the top, then took a swig.
He rather looked forward to this coming Monday night and the story society, soliciting help and ideas for his memoir.
Wasn’t often people had a love story like his and Esmerelda’s, one of enduring devotion and affection. People nowadays divorced for no reason. He suspected Jett and Lexa had parted company too easily. Just a gut feeling.
People needed the hope of true love. He’d experienced it. Lived it. Why not tell the world? At the very least his daughter and grandkids.
Esmerelda died so long ago he worried Holly didn’t remember her or their love.
All set with his dinner, he aimed the remote and tuned in to Jeopardy just as a knock hit his door.
“I’m eating.” Steam billowed from the broken pie crust.
“Ed? It’s Mabel Cochran.”
What did she want? Darn woman was always pestering him about something.
I made a cake. Care for a slice?
I heard a noise in the pipes.
I might walk down to the movies. Care to join me?
“I’m eating, Mabel.”
“Well, do you have room for some homemade pasta?” Her voice was muffled through the solid wood door. “I made way too much.”
Pasta? Well now that was hard to resist. His taste buds rebelled at the idea of eating a frozen dinner when fresh pasta was available.
He opened the door to find his neighbor empty-handed. “I thought you brought me a plate.”
She motioned to her open door. “Won’t you join me? The table’s all set and everything’s hot from the oven.”
The aroma of tomato sauce, cheese, and bread wafted down the hall and made him weak. His belly stood at attention.
Holly invited him out to Long Island for dinner every week for a home-cooked meal, but he preferred his place. Besides, her family was busy, going here and there, between her job as a Good Morning New York executive producer in Manhattan, her husband’s tech business, and two teens in sports.
He angled forward to see into Mabel’s apartment. She’d lit candles. Who did she take him for? “Can’t you just bring me a plate?”
“Sakes alive, you’re stubborn, Ed Marshall.” Her scowl almost made him cower. “It’s just dinner. I don’t bite.”
“What am I going to do with my pot pie? I can’t just throw it out.”
She pushed past him, swept up his dinner, and set it in the fridge. “You can have it for lunch tomorrow.”
Back at the door, she waited, hands clasped at her waist. She was pretty, and shapely for a woman in her late sixties, maybe early seventies. Smart too. A former fashion magazine editor. Any man would be lucky to have her. It’s just that Ed wasn’t any man.
“Well?” she said.
“Bring me a plate and I’d be happy to help you with your overload of pasta.”
“Ed, why are you so stubborn?”
“Why are you so bossy?”
She stepped past him and into the hall. “Pardon me. I won’t bother you again.”
Oh, good grief. “Mabel, wait.” He touched her arm. “You, well, you caught me on a busy work week with the Evanses’ water heater breaking and leaking through to the Romanos’. Maybe another time?”
She exhaled, her shoulders dropping before she smiled. “Leftovers?”
“Sure. Leftovers.”
“One night next week?”
“Okay.”
“So, tell me.” She motioned toward his place again. “What are you writing? I saw the paper in the typewriter. I used to be an editor, you know. If you need help, I can—”
“I don’t need any help.” He eased the door closed. “Just so happens I like to collect old typewriters. I used to work at the New York Times press plant, you know.”
“It’s not a collection if you only have one, Ed.”