Free Bygones by Lavyrle Spencer

meandered through the rooms, then stopped in the living room-dining room.
    “Would you he entertaining in this room?”
    “Maybe.”
    “How many might you want to seat at one time? A dozen? Six?”
    “Six, I suppose.”
    “Would that entertaining be formal or informal?”
    “Informal, probably.”
    She made some notes and then moved into the kitchen.
    On the island sat the pitiful collection of food that created his bachelor’s pantry. She looked away, because it brought a sharp desire to play housewife, and neither of them needed that.
    “Will this be a working kitchen?” she asked, her back to Michael as she waited for an answer.
    It took some time before he replied, “No.”
    She gathered her composure and turned. “Now I guess all that’s left to ask about is the budget. Have you thought about a range you want me to work within?”
    “Just do it the way you’d do it for yourself. You were always good at it, and I trust you.”
    “All of it?”
    “Well”-his eyes met hers-“I hate empty rooms,” he said.
    She had the illogical impulse to go to him, take him in her arms, pat his back, and say, “It’ll be all right, Michael. I’ll fill it with things so it isn’t so lonely,” though she knew perfectly well a home full of things could riot substitute for a home full of people.
    She looked down at her clipboard. She needed to take some measurements, and they spent the next twenty minutes getting room and window dimensions.
    Then they returned to the foyer.
    “What happens next?” he asked as he retrieved her coat.
    “I’ll transfer these dimensions onto graph paper, room by room. Then I’ll come up with a furniture plan, window treatments, fabric and wallpaper samples. When it’s done, I’ll call you, and we’ll get together at my store for the presentation.”
    “So when will I hear from you?”
    “I’ll get on it right away and get back to you within a week, since you’re living in rather spartan conditions.” She flashed him a professional smile and extended her hand. “Thank you, Michael.”
    He took it, squeezing hard. “You’re forgetting your forty-dollar trip charge.”
    “Oh, yes. Why don’t I bill you   for it?”
    “Absolutely not.”
    He went into the room with the drafting table, and she followed him. He was making out the check.
    The photo was still there, compelling. She studied it over his shoulder and said quietly, “They were adorable when they were that age, weren’t they?”
    He looked at the picture awhile, then tore out the check before turning to Bess. “Yes, they were.”
    “Michael, I . . .” Struggling far words, she met his eyes. “I visited my mother on Sunday, and we had a talk.” She paused, but he said nothing. “I told her how difficult it’s been seeing you again, and she said that the reason is because you’re making me take a second look at myself and my fault in the divorce.”
    Still he waited, while she willed the words forth.
    “I think I owe you an apology, Michael, for turning the kids against you.”
    Something changed in his eyes-a quick transport of repressed anger, perhaps. Though he moved not a muscle, he seemed more rigid, while his hazel eyes remained steady upon hers.   She looked down. “I swore I wouldn’t do this-mix business with anything personal - but it’s been bothering me, and today, when I saw their picture here, I realized that . . . well, that you loved them, too, and how it must have hurt you, losing them.”
    Ire thought about it for passing seconds before speaking in a low tone. “I hated you for it, you know.”
    “Yes, I know,” she said quietly.
    “Why did you do it?”
    “Because I felt hurt, and wronged.”
    “But that was another matter entirely-what was between us.”
    “I know that now.”
    They stared at each other until the silence in the room seemed to be compressing them.
    “Mother said something else. She said that when I went back to college, you fell to the bottom of my priority list