Her Winning Ways by J.M. Bronston (19)

 

It was a quiet street, with a row of comfortable-looking clapboard houses, each set back from the street, each behind its own low iron railing. At the corner, a small grocery store. Across the street, a school, the kids leaving in little clusters, their after-school chatter a hum of buzzing anticipation at the approach of the summer holiday.

Bart pulled up in front of a house about midway down the street.

“Here we are. This is it. Where I grew up. And that—” he pointed across the street “—is the school I went to. Till middle school, a couple of blocks from here.”

“Is this your home now?” She recognized it from the picture on his desk.

“You mean ‘do I live with my mother?’” He laughed. “No, Annie. I have a place in town. Near the stables. But I lived in this house all my life till I joined the force.”

“It looks like a nice house. And I see someone’s got a green thumb.”

She pointed at the shrubbery planted inside the iron railing and along the little walk that led up to the front steps of the house. Lilac bushes were flowering along the narrow driveway by the side of the house that led to a garage at the back, and there were roses growing along the front of the porch.

“That’s my mom’s doing. She’s good at keeping things green.” He took off his helmet and helped Annie off the bike. “Maybe she’s home now. Would you like to meet her?”

“Meet your mother?”

That was a surprise. And yet he had said it so casually, so naturally, she had to read no meaning into the suggestion.

“Well, sure. I’d love to. But she’s not expecting us, is she?”

“Oh, that’s all right. She won’t mind. Come on.” He held out a hand. “I’ll take the helmet, so you can fix your hair.”

She handed it to him, surprised—and pleased—to see that he understood about helmet hair. A quick fluff with her fingertips and she was ready.

“I really like your hair,” Bart said. He reached out a hand and stroked a stray strand back from her face.

No one had ever said nice things about her hair before and she mentally thanked Louis for the color, Damien for the cut—and New York for its humidity.

They went up four steps to the front porch on which, at the far end, were a couple of slat-backed wooden rockers and between them a small wicker-topped table. There was a mailbox nailed up next to the front door, and a couple of big tubs at either end of the porch filled with more flowering plants, and the cinnamon-and-yeast smell of something good in the oven coming from the interior of the house. While Bart stopped to get his key ring from his pocket—and to riffle through the mail he took from the mailbox—Annie had a moment to imagine sitting in those rockers, greeting neighbors, keeping an eye on the kids at the school, enjoying an afternoon breather. This homey setting was a long way from the rush of the Manhattan streets and she filed it away in her collection of memories to take back home with her. She was glad Bart had given her a chance to see it.

He opened the door and called, “Hey, Mom. You home? We’ve got company.”

“In the kitchen,” came a voice from inside the house.

It was cool inside the house, and the lighting was dim, but the entryway led to a large living room, where big windows at the far end opened to a sun-filled garden at the back of the house. To the right of the living room, through a wide, arched opening, there was a dining room, and beyond that, a swinging door to the kitchen, and there was Bart’s mother, coming out to greet them.

She was a tall woman, broad-shouldered and straight-backed, with long, reddish-brown hair beginning to go gray, pulled back casually into a sort of a bun. Annie saw where Bart got his eyes from, for hers were just as bright and blue and twinkling, and there was the same small, mischievous smile animating her face.

“Well, dear,” she said, “this is a surprise.” She had an apron on over her T-shirt and jeans and she was wiping her hands on the front of the apron. “I’m in the middle of trying out a new recipe.”

“This is Annie Cornell, Mom. She’s visiting here in New York and I’m just showing her the city. I thought she ought to see Brooklyn, too.”

“Nice to meet you, Annie.” She held up her hands apologetically. “I’m all wet and floury, so I won’t shake your hand. But come on in. We can sit here in the living room and Bart can tell me all about what he’s been up to.” She turned to Annie and, as though just for her ears, said, “I never know what new adventure he’s getting himself into. We’re an old police family, and I should be accustomed to it by now.”

Mrs. Hardin tucked herself cross-legged into the corner of the big comfy sofa, patted the cushion next to her, and said “Sit here, next to me. And Bart,” turning to her son, who took the big blue wing chair opposite them, “don’t tell me you’ve been driving this girl all around the city on that bike of yours. That can’t possibly be fun for her, getting all windblown and gritty. Why don’t you use your car? It’s such a nice car, so much more comfortable, and it’s just sitting there in the garage out back. You practically never use it. If I didn’t borrow it sometimes, it would just be gathering dust.”

“A car is just a hassle in the city, Mom. You know that. Costs a fortune to park and traffic’s always jammed up. And you don’t need to worry about Annie. Anyone from Laramie is used to a little wind in her face. Anyway, she’s got limos carrying her all around town, so she’s getting plenty of pampering.” To Annie, he said, “Go on. Tell my mom about the contest and how you’re on TV and getting all that fancy treatment, the clothes, the makeover, all of that stuff.”

Before Annie could say anything, Mrs. Hardin stopped her, looking at her closely.

“But haven’t I seen you somewhere?” She leaned back, tilted her head slightly and sort of squinted. “Maybe on TV?”

“There was some coverage of the contest. Maybe you saw that?”

“No. It was something else.” She concentrated for a moment. “Oh. I know. Aren’t you the girl who got mixed up in that protest down in front of the UN? I saw Bart scooping someone up out of that crowd. That was you, wasn’t it?”

Bart answered for her. “Yes, that was Annie. She lost her bag, it got turned into the station and I took pity on this little lost lamb, alone—well, almost alone—in this big, bad city and I’m showing it to her in a safe and sound way. And I don’t think she minds riding on a motorcycle. She seems pretty hardy to me. And wait till you hear this, Mom. Annie’s home is in Wyoming. Near Laramie. On a ranch. Not so far from Granddad’s place. How’s that for a coincidence? And she and Lindy are already old friends. He let her ride him a little. And she even taught him a trick.”

“Well,” said Annie, “I guess that’s pretty much my whole life story. He just left out that I’m a librarian at the university and I won a contest and that’s why I’m here. With my sister.”

“Hmm.” Mrs. Hardin looked closely at Annie for a moment. Then she looked at Bart, carefully, as though thinking him over, looking for something new in his face, some change in his bearing.

Then she said, “Bart, dear, I’m going to make us some coffee. And I need you to run down to the corner and get us a cake. Or some doughnuts.”

“But you’ve got a cake going in the oven. Can’t we have that?”

She gave him a look. That look. Her son was being dense.

“The cake in the oven is for a bake sale at the church.” With her lips a little pursed. A little irritated. “I already promised them a babka. Go to the corner and get us a cake.”

“Okay, okay.” At the door he called to them, “I’ll be right back.” And the house was quiet.

“Come, Annie. You can help me in the kitchen.”

 

“Cups and things are in that cabinet.” She pointed to the paned-glass doors above the countertop. “I’ll start the coffee going. There’s a tray on the other counter. Use that.” The room was warm and filled with the scent of the cake baking in the oven. “It should be ready now,” she said, as she took a cake tester from a drawer, opened the oven door and reached in to check the cake.

“Perfect,” she announced.

A cake rack was ready and she put on a couple of oven mitts to carry it to the rack.

“I always say, ‘When it smells good enough to eat, it’s done.’”

Annie had the cups, saucers, and spoons ready on the tray and carried it to the kitchen table. Mrs. Hardin brought out a creamer and sugar bowl. She pulled out a couple of chairs from the table.

“Now,” she said, “let’s sit here while the coffee brews and you can tell me more about yourself.”

“Not really much more to tell. Bart pretty well summed it up. I won a contest. I’m being treated like a princess. This is my first trip to New York, and I’m having a great time here. Bart is showing me the city. And he wanted me to see the neighborhood where he grew up.”

Mrs. Hardin smiled kindly at Annie. “And you’ve been here only a few days?”

“Yes, just since Sunday.”

Annie knew she was being sized up.

“It’s such a coincidence—your coming from Wyoming. My family, the Malones, have been in that part of the world for generations.”

“Is your property near Laramie?”

“We’re farther north, toward the Montana border. We used to spend our summers on the ranch. But not so much nowadays. Everyone’s so busy here, and Bart can’t take those long vacation months away anymore, now that he’s on the force.”

“He told me his dad was also a policeman. A lieutenant, I think he said.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Hardin seemed to straighten up a bit more. “Yes, Bart’s dad and his granddad Hardin before him. And a couple of uncles, too.” She stood up. “Let’s take these things into the living room”—she picked up the tray of cups and saucers—“and I’ll show you a picture of Bart’s dad.”

Annie followed her through the swinging doors.

Mrs. Hardin put the tray down on the coffee table and took a framed photo from its place next to the sofa.

“This is Des Hardin. Lieutenant Desmond Hardin. I suppose Bart told you. He was killed in the line.” She betrayed no sign of the pain those words must have cost her.

“Only that—and that his horse, Lindy, had been his dad’s horse before him. I sensed that he didn’t want to tell me more.”

“I understand. And in that case, I’ll say nothing more. He’ll talk about it when he’s ready.” She paused for a moment, her eyes on the photo, and then returned it to its place on the end table. She sat on the sofa and, as before, patted the cushion next to her. Annie sat down and Mrs. Hardin gave her a big smile.

“And now tell me more about you.”

Annie smiled broadly. She understood what Bart’s mother wanted to know.

“I’m twenty-six. Never been married. No boyfriend. There were a couple along the way, but nothing serious. I live on the ranch with my sister and her husband and their two boys. I help run the ranch. I’ve a master’s in library science, and I’m a specialist in the veterinary library at the university. I was a cheerleader in college. I have no chronic illnesses and like all Wyomingites, I’m accustomed to straight talk.”

Mrs. Hardin was beaming.

“Oh, Annie Cornell, I really like you. And,” she added with a little smile, “I think my son likes you, too.”

Annie returned the smile.

“But he seems to think I need protection. Does he always treat women as though they’re hothouse flowers, like they’ll be easily crushed if he doesn’t come riding to the rescue?”

“Oh, they’re all like that, the Hardin men. They outgrow it as they get older and wiser. Time and experience are the cure.”

The front door banged open.

“I’m back,” Bart called. “I bought a cheesecake.”

“In here, Bart,” his mother called back. “In the living room.”

He joined them, bearing a red-and-white-striped box.

“Best cheesecake in the world,” he said.

“But it’s not Lily Lindy’s cheesecake, is it?”

“No. That’s long gone now.”

 

Two hours later, they were back on the bike, crossing the bridge into Manhattan. He’d given her a quick tour of Brooklyn, from its busy downtown to its oceanfront communities, its scenic harbor views, its cultural and ethnic enclaves. He’d kept up a running account of Brooklyn’s history—and Annie tried to take it all in. But with her arms around him, and her cheek resting against his shoulder, her interest in the educational aspects of the ride was minimal. Back in Manhattan, the streets, the traffic, the crowds, all spun away from her as the bike twisted in and out, past City Hall and north along Centre Street, through Chinatown, then Little Italy, Soho, the Village and more and more, too much for her to take it all in, the swirl of shops and luxury residences, elegant brownstones, decaying warehouses, imposing official buildings, crumbling ancient tenements and multimillion-dollar lofts, all jammed up against each other in a rich but overwhelming tangle of impressions. Bart was shouting back to her, explaining it all as he pointed to this and that and the other interesting site, while she, with eyes half closed and an agreeable half smile, continued to rest her cheek against him and to murmur her acknowledgment of the tour he was providing.

They stopped, at last, in front of her hotel. He took the helmet from her.

“You want to get fixed up before we go to dinner?”

“Dinner?”

“Well, sure. I made plans. I’ve got us a reservation at Charlie Wu’s.”

“Chinese food?”

“The best. And not far from here. We can walk. So your hair won’t get messed up.”

“Do I need to get all gussied up?”

“You look great. But Charlie’s place is a little bit fancy, so if you want to change, wash up a little after riding all over the city today—”

“And that’s why you wore a jacket?”

He grinned.

“Yes, ma’am. With a tie in my pocket.”

“Okay. I’ll run up, wash my face, maybe make a quick change.”

He put a hand on her arm.

“Maybe I could come up, too.” There was that nice, gentle smile again. “You could help me get my tie on straight.”

Annie was only a little surprised. They exchanged a long look. She remembered that Liz was out for the evening, with Max and his wife. And she made a decision.

Quietly she said, “Not yet.”

And she turned and went into the hotel, while Bart remained outside, watching her go.