Jeff Abbott: Only Good Yankee

I’m safe as long as you don’t get hit in the face,” Lorna said. She stepped back from both men. “Why don’t you both just leave me alone?

Go spend the evening learning how to spell.” He ignored her, determined to be a paladin. “This guy bothering you, Lorna?” He puffed up his chest, pushing it within an inch of the infuriated Swede.

“Maybe I should make sure he behaves like a gentleman.” “You be a gentleman yourself, Trevor,” Lorna demanded. “I don’t need a bodyguard.” “Yeah, Trevor, she doesn’t need you.” Bertil gave Trevor’s chest a little jab with his finger. “Listen here, butthead, I don’t-”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please! Control yourself!” The star of the exhibit, Fauve himself, intervened. He was a tall, thin willow of a man, wearing a ridiculous-looking copy of the small-lapeled gray suit the Beatles favored back in the Sixties. A curve of hair hung artistically in his face, showing his great sensitivity and a gentle nature. Fauve put a protective arm around Lorna, his hand perilously close to her right buttock, and flexed his fingers, as though ready to squeeze. “Gentlemen, really, no need to fight. Ms. Wiercinski is my special guest this evening, so I do hope that you won’t resort to fisticuffs over her.” “Go sculpt, Fauve,” Lorna blurted, pushing his hand away. I didn’t see it at the time, but I can imagine the glint that appeared in her eye. “They weren’t fighting over me. They were discussing which of them hates your rock piles more.” “What!” Bertil exclaimed, his jaw dropping. (I later learned Bertil was a corporate art buyer whose boss was a close friend and admirer of Fauve’s.) “Lorna!” Trevor’s face turned pale. (I later found out that Trevor was an aspiring painter who was panting to get under Fauve’s wing.) She whirled, leaving her would-be protectors squabbling. In her haste to flee them, she barreled right into me. Her eyes locked with mine, but she lowered her gaze and pushed past me. “Excuse me.” I followed her, the din of Trevor and Bertil’s protestations fading with Fauve’s outraged cries over their deplorable lack of taste. I caught up with her as she left the gallery, venturing into the cold March air of Boston. “So much for culture!” she yelled at the night sky. “Ma’am?” I called to her. “Are you okay?” She paused and regarded me with her gray eyes. “Look, buddy, I don’t need any more guardians tonight.” “I don’t believe you do.” I smiled. “You handled the Three Artistic Stooges in rare style.” She took a step toward me. “I take it you’re not from Boston. Style usually has just one syllable.” Being teased about my accent always rankled me, but from her it didn’t seem too bad. “No, not originally. I’m from Texas.” “So why didn’t you leap to my defense? Aren’t cowboys supposed to be chivalrous?” “Only to womenfolk that need our help. You obviously didn’t, ma’am.” I turned ma’am into two syllables-and she laughed. I tried not to waver on my feet, a sure sign of nervousness. This girl made me feel timid, but I rallied my courage for those unforgettable gray eyes. “I’m fed up with spray-painted rocks. Wanna get some coffee or maybe a drink?” She considered me for a moment, measuring me on the internal ruler that women must in these dangerous times. “I don’t usually go out with men I don’t know.” I offered my hand. “Jordan Poteet.” I never ever went by Jordy up north-I thought it sounded too hick. She didn’t laugh but she looked amused. “What a perfectly fantastic name. Definitely American. Unlike Bertil, Trevor, or Fauve.” She took my hand and shook it, holding it a moment longer than necessary, as if taking my pulse.

“I’m Lorna Wiercinski. Mispronounce it twice and die. It’s not as American as your name, but hey, this is Boston, the great unmelted pot.” She pointed down the block. “There’s a pub on the corner. I know the owner, so if you give me trouble, he’ll kick the shit out of you.

We could have an Irish coffee.” Odd invitation, but I didn’t mind. I offered her my arm. Judging by her expression, it might have been leprous. “God help me. Just how much of a Southern gentleman are you?”

She laughed, finally placing her hand on my forearm. “Not nearly enough for my own good,” I answered. It was the strangest date of my life. We each drank three Irish coffees, sinfully rich with cream and whiskey, then after two hours of laughing and talking she asked me back to her apartment. It was an upscale condo not far from the gallery. I’d wondered if we’d end up in bed, but she wanted to play poker. With me and her neighbor, Mrs. Perkins. She’d suggested it. I’d agreed-a little too stunned to argue. And she’d gone down the hall to fetch Mrs. Perkins. “She’ll be right over,” Lorna said, pouring us each a whiskey. “As soon as she gets her money and puts in her teeth.”

“I hope she doesn’t get them confused. Hate to have her ante up her molars.” She laughed. “I’ll see your bicuspids and raise you an incisor.” As it turned out, the poker game was fun, and although I kept wondering what Lorna’s bed felt like, I didn’t get to sample it.

Mrs. Perkins claimed she was on a fixed income (considering the neighborhood, her fixed income was most likely a trust fund), so I had to let her win her money back and we played into the wee hours. When the amiable Mrs. Perkins won the stunning total of twenty dollars, she toddled off and Lorna called me a cab. “Would you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” I prayed this funny, smart girl would say yes. “Yes, I would,” she answered, almost shyly. “You see, you passed tests number one and two. First, you didn’t presume you’d sleep here, and second, Mrs. Perkins liked you. She let you win at first so the game’d go on longer. Yes, I think dinner is a real possibility.” Our good-night kiss was brief but sweet, one of those you hold in your memory like a treasure. And so it began-three years’ worth of wonderful remembrances. We discussed marriage once or twice, but Lorna was gun-shy, her own mother having been divorced three times. Said mother was somewhere in Toronto with a much younger man who didn’t believe in matrimony. I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay in Boston and Lorna seemed firmly planted in her native soil. So the topic was dropped and we just enjoyed each other. My return to Texas to care for my mother was a bucket of ice water in Lorna’s face. I asked her to accompany me. She said no-she couldn’t do that. And I left. So much for us. It hurt, but I hadn’t looked back. Lost in my memory, I hardly noticed her hand close over mine as I finished stirring the avocado and spices. Lorna’s voice was low: “You haven’t called-or written-in months.” I bit my upper lip. “I don’t think you’re here because I haven’t stayed in touch. Which I’m sorry for. I guess I just thought it would be better if we broke cleanly.” I took the dip and a big bowl of tostadas into the living room. Lorna followed me. “So you’re not coming back to Boston? Ever? Babe, what happens when your mother dies?

Do you plan to stay here forever?” Leave it to Lorna to ask all the tough questions in the first five minutes. “I don’t know. I’ll worry about that when it happens.” “Spare me, Jordan. That’s never been how your mind works.” Her voice was serious now, and her tongue kept darting out to moisten her lips. Nervous. “I didn’t want to ask you such a difficult question, but I think I deserve to know.” “It’s more complicated than just Mama’s illness, Lorna. A lot has happened since I came back.” She sat down and scooped up guacamole on the corner of a chip. “So talk. Tell me.” So I recounted it all, starting with Beta Harcher’s murder and my discovery that my daddy wasn’t my daddy after all-and trying to have a relationship with my actual father. I’ll give Lorna credit. She stayed quiet throughout the story. When I was done, she took my hand. “My God, baby, I can’t believe it I’m so, so sorry.