Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [83]
“I am better. I’m fine, really.” My voice is only slightly less formal than his. “I’m seeing a therapist now. I’ve just come from her, in fact,” I tell him. And then, unable to resist a gratuitous dig, I add softly, “See, I’m not too proud for that.” Richard winces.
“Actually, she isn’t really a therapist,” I continue, my voice louder and just a bit smug. “She’s a life coach, which, if you ever get sick of decorating people’s houses, you might look into. As a life coach you get to hound people for a living, nag at them until they do what you want, until they do what you think is good for them. You’d be perfect at it.” This, of course, isn’t really true (at least the part about Dr. D-P hounding me to do what she wanted), but I can’t resist teasing Richard. It’s always been the best and quickest way to clear the air between us.
He finally smiles. “Good for you,” he says quietly, and I can tell he really means it.
Richard makes us some chamomile tea in the little kitchenette beside his workroom. I sit on one of the high stools beside his drafting table and tell him about my plan to take over the Pittsburgh dining world.
“This life coach sounds worth her weight in gold. Maybe I should go and see her.”
“What on earth would she do for you?” I ask him, surprised. “Your life has always been exactly as you like it. At least since I’ve known you,” I add, tacitly acknowledging the time in his life long before I knew him, when Richard probably could have used a life coach. It’s something we almost never talk about. “Besides, you are definitely not coachable,” I tell him, taking a sip of tea.
“And you are?” He shoots me an amused look. “Anyway, let’s not talk about it. I’m having a perfectly nice time right now and don’t want to get depressed. And conversations concerning matters of the heart have a habit of doing just that.”
Richard doesn’t usually talk about his romantic entanglements, or if he does, he scrupulously avoids specifics. I don’t know if he thinks it unseemly to tell me about his boyfriends; he can, at times, be rather prudish. I could understand his reluctance when I was younger, but now that we’re both adults, I wonder at his reticence regarding discussing “matters of the heart,” as he had called them.
“So, are you seeing someone?” I ask. Judging from the way he shakes his head and looks quickly away, I know that he is, or has been. Richard refills our cups and pulls out a stash of Carr’s wheatmeal biscuits from the cupboard by the sink. He hands me the package to open and then, ducking out into the shop for a minute, grabs a delicate Limoges dish.
“Here,” he says, handing me the plate. “Use this.”
I arrange the cookies on the plate, glad to have something to do.
Richard changes the subject. “I like Fiona,” he says, breaking a biscuit in half and dipping it delicately in his tea.
“That’s nice,” I say, adding another lump of sugar to my cup. Richard hands me a spoon.
“Mira—”
“Look, it isn’t that I don’t like her, it’s just that she’s not . . .”
“She’s not what? Not smart enough? So what? Smart is overrated.”
“It isn’t just that. They don’t have any of the same interests. It was painful watching them try to play Scrabble.”
“Well, good for her. At least she’s trying to learn.” Richard shrugs, as if this too is no big deal. I stare at him, incredulous. Richard’s always maintained that he could never fall for anyone who hadn’t read (and loved) Gravity’s Rainbow, couldn’t tell Lapsang souchong from Darjeeling, and didn’t worship the Pittsburgh Steelers. Which might just explain why his love life is suffering.
“She’s just so—I don’t know—different.”
Richard takes a bite of his biscuit and chews noisily. “You mean from your mother?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Richard frowns. He doesn’t believe in speaking ill of the dead, even though he knows I’m half kidding.
“Let’s face it, she was difficult,” I tell him.
“She was temperamental. Like lots of creative people.”
“Not all creative