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Suzannes Diary for Nicholas
In fact, I was halfway through my burger when I saw him. Picasso, my housepainter.
I'd had very little contact with him since he left me those beautiful wildflowers in the mason jar. Occasionally, I'd hear him fixing something on the roof as I was leaving for work, or catch him painting the house, but we seldom spoke more than a few words.
I got up to pay the check. I could have walked out without saying hello because his back was turned toward me, but that seemed rude, ungracious, and snobby on my part.
I stopped at his table and asked him how he was. He was surprised to see me and asked if I'd join him for a cup of coffee, dessert, anything. It was his treat.
I gave him a lame excuse, saying I had to get home to Gus, but he was already clearing a spot for me and I just sort of sat down in his booth by the window. I liked his voice--I hadn't noticed it before. I liked his eyes, too.
“What are you reading?” I asked, feeling awkward, maybe a little scared, wanting to keep the conversation going.
“Two things . . . Melville”--he held up Moby-Dick--“and Trout Fishing in America. Just in case I don't catch the big one, I have a backup.”
I laughed. Picasso was pretty smart, and funny. “Moby-Dick, hmmm, is that your summer reading or a guilt hangover because you never finished it in school?”
“Both,” he admitted. “It's one of those things that you have on your to-do list in life. The book just sits there looking at you, saying, ‘I'm not going away till you read me.' This is the summer I'm getting all the classics out of the way so I can finally concentrate on cheap summer thrillers.”
We talked for more than an hour that night, and the time just flew. Suddenly I noticed how dark it was outside.
I looked back at him. “I have to go. I start work early in the morning.”
“Me, too,” he said, and smiled. “My current boss is an absolute slave driver.”
I laughed. “So I've heard.”
I stood up at the table and for some goony reason, I shook his hand.
“Picasso,” I said, “I don't even know your real name.”
“It's Matthew,” he said. “Matthew Harrison.”
Your father.
The next time I saw Matt Harrison, he was floating high above the world, up on my roof. He was hammering shingles like a madman, definitely a good, very conscientious worker. It was a few days after we had talked at Harry's Hamburger.
“Hey, Picasso!” I yelled, this time feeling more relaxed and even happy to see him. “You want a cold drink or something?”
“Almost done here. I'll be down in a minute. I'd love something cold.”
Five minutes later he entered the cottage, as brown as a burnished copper coin.
“How's it going up there where the seagulls play?” I asked.
He laughed. “Good and hot! Believe it or not, I'm almost done with your roof.”
Damn. Just as I was starting to like having him around.
“How's it going down here?” Matt asked me, sliding into my porch rocker in his cutoff jeans and open denim shirt. The rocker went back and bumped the trellis.
“Pretty good,” I said. “No tragic headlines in the trenches today, which is always nice to report. Actually, I love my practice.”
Suddenly, behind Matt, the trellis broke away from its hinges and began to tumble toward us. We both leaped up simultaneously. We managed to press the white wooden frame back into place, our heads covered with rose petals and clematis.
I began laughing as I looked over at my handyman. He looked like a bridesmaid gone wrong. He immediately responded by saying, “Oh, and you don't look like Carmen Miranda yourself?”
Matt got a hammer and nails and resecured the trellis. My only job was to hold it steady.
I felt his strong, very solid leg brush against mine, then I could feel his chest press against my back as he hovered over me, banging in the last nail.
I shivered. Had he done that on purpose? What was going on here?
Our eyes met and there was a flash of something bordering on