It was a blustery December day. Leta had spent the morning shopping with her newly
married daughter Vivian, and was now sipping soup and reading the newspaper at
Woolworth’s. As it was later in the
afternoon, the number of diners had diminished until there were only five,
including herself and the gentleman who was sitting on the stool beside her. In
fact, she was reading one of the sections of his discarded newspaper.
The
man had been sitting there since before she arrived, and was slowly eating a
piece of pie. Meanwhile, she had sat down, ordered and finished soup and toast,
and drunk three cups of coffee. The afternoon was not turning out as she would
have liked. It wasn’t so much that she planned to talk with anyone at the
counter, although she usually did, but that she enjoyed having conversations
while she was out. If she wanted to sit alone, she could have returned to her three small rooms
in the house she rented in the country. But it was Saturday, and she did not
want to sit at home. She also had no easy way to get there, for she was waiting
for her brother to collect her in the automobile. She still had an hour before
she was to meet him.
Having
finished her soup and the section of newspaper she was reading, she turned to
gentleman beside her. Over the course of
30 minutes, he had only nibbled on the piece of pie he had since before her
arrival.
“How
is the pie?” she asked.
‘Hmm?”
he said, her question breaking his chain of thought.
“Is
it any good? The pie?” she repeated, gesturing to his partially eaten piece.
Now he was paying attention. “I’m thinking of having a piece.”
“Oh,
it’s pretty good,” he answered.
“You’ve
hardly eaten any,” Leta noted.
“Yes,
well,” he stuttered a little, “I don’t like to eat while I’m reading the
paper.”
With
that, he put his paper down and took a large bite of the pie, and smiled at
her while he chewed.
“My
favorite is butterscotch,” he said as he was finishing his bite. “But this
apple will do in a pinch.”
“Butterscotch?”
Leta questioned. “I never heard of butterscotch pie?”
“With
meringue,” he added. “My mom used to make it. I haven’t had it in years.”
“That’s
too bad,” Leta sympathized.
“I
have the recipe, but I’m a terrible cook.”
“Your
wife doesn’t make it for you?”
“I
suppose she would if I had one, but I don’t. I’ve never been married,” he
shared.
“Never?” Leta repeated. She
could hardly believe what she heard.
“Never,” the man said.
“How did that happen?” she pushed. In her experience, either a
man was married but separated or divorced, or he was lying about it.
“Just never met the right woman, I suppose,” he answered
nonchalantly.
“Did you ever want to get married?”
“Sure, I guess. It was just never—what would you say—pressing for
me. How about you, Miss, have you been married?”
“Three times,” she answered with weariness.
“Three times!?!” he exclaimed, putting his glass of water
down. “How did that happen?”
“Buy me a piece of apple pie, and I’ll tell you,” she said
jokingly.
“Deal.”
For the next half an hour, Leta and the gentleman talked.
Although she had been married four times, it was her tendency lately to speak
of her third and fourth husbands, Ora Freeman and Leech Hoose, as one. She had
been with Leech such a short time that she barely counted him at all. He
ordered a second piece of pie and coffee for himself along with her piece, so
they had a little food to go along with it.
Finally, Leta looked at the large clock on the wall. She had
barely ten minutes to meet her brother and quite a walk to get there. Aaron
hated to be kept waiting. She signaled for her bill and turned to her
companion.
“It looks like you’re about to leave me,” he sighed.
“Yes,” she answered with a sigh. I am meeting someone.
“Oh, I see.”
Leta felt a slight thrill and immediately clarified: “Just my
brother. He’s driving me home.”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” he said with a slight lift in his
voice.
He helped Leta put on her coat.
“It’s been very pleasant chatting with you…”
“…Leta,” she finished. “Leta Mohr.”
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