Page 72 of The Singing Trees
Chapter 26
A SIDETRIP FORLOVE
Accepting a much more meager salary than her pay at Pride’s, Annalisa started working for Walt that very day. The commute (all the way down the stairs and around the corner) was about as good as it gets, and she found plenty to do.
For a week straight, she cleaned every square inch of the shop, filling a dumpster with useless parts and ridding the place of dust. She still hadn’t created any new pieces but had plenty to sell, so she cleared more space for art and set up a nice leather couch facing the main wall.
Though she didn’t have much experience with finance, he taught her in the following weeks how to run the books. He was a patient and good teacher, and when she’d get frustrated, he’d urge her to keep pushing through. As she got better, she discovered he’d missed collections from multiple customers, and she started tracking down payments via phone.
She used what she’d learned at Pride’s to start an advertising campaign in thePortland Press Herald, urging people interested in the finer things of life such as art and timepieces to come visit. The ads worked, and even in the dead of winter, Walt enjoyed more foot traffic than he’d seen in years. The excitement seemed to be just what he’d needed, and he started to come alive. In truth, they both did, and Annalisa found her muse again.
Whereas getting in front of the easel had been such a labor since Sharon had let her down, the act of painting began to tug at her again, as if there was nothing she’d rather do. Was this newfound creative surge a result of what she was doing for Walt? If so, she wanted more. The idea reminded her of those times when she’d tried to convince Nonna that she couldn’t truly paint unless she got out into the world. Well, maybe it wasn’t just about living, but about loving too.
After a lot of convincing, she dragged him to the Bargain Bin to replace his dreadful sweaters, and she had tremendous fun cleaning him up. She’d even talked him into letting her clean his apartment, which was a shocking experience, seeing the life he’d been living only one story below her.
When Annalisa entered his place the first week of February, her heart broke. She pondered what he’d said about love and how losing his wife must have been a death sentence. That was what the apartment felt like, a place for him to wait until he could join her. She thought she’d recognized a spark of youth in Walt after she’d helped him with his appearance and the shop, but that spark had not burned bright enough to lead toward a clean apartment.
A musty odor struck her nose. His furniture was as tattered as the one sweater he used to wear. The walls were mostly bare, save one painting she’d given him recently. Making herself at home, she opened up the fridge to find exactly six items: a jar of peanut butter, a gallon of milk, a plate of leftovers, two apples, and a stick of butter.
“Walt Burzinski, do you even eat?”
“Yes, I eat,” he replied from behind her.
She turned to him, wagging a finger. “You can’t live like this.”
Walt stood with his fists on his waist. “I’ve made it quite some time without any assistance at all.”
She matched his stance. “No more. I’m not having it. You’re too good a man not to take care of yourself.”
He let his hands fall to his sides. “You’ll see when you get older, young lady.”
“Then I hope someone is there to snap me out of it like I am to you.”
Several minutes later, as she gawked at an old mattress that rested on the floor in his bedroom—no frame at all—thinking this man needed and deserved love more than anyone in the world, she said, “Would you like to have dinner with Nonna and me Friday night? She’s coming down for the weekend.”
He brushed the idea off. “Oh, no, that’s too much.”
“No, really. Please. You’ll be doing me a favor. She’s much better behaved when we have company.” She pulled open the window blinds to let the light come in, and as the sun shot across the floors, she felt that same light filling her heart.
“I haven’t eaten this well in a long time,” Walt admitted, sitting around the wobbly table that served to separate the living area from the kitchen with Annalisa and Nonna. Bowls of Annalisa’s Italian wedding soup steamed up in front of them. A baguette and a large chunk of Parmigiano-Reggiano rested on a cutting board next to an open bottle of Chianti.
This might have been only the third or fourth time Walt and Nonna had shared conversation since Annalisa had moved to Portland, and Annalisa thought the two would make an adorable pair if they both weren’t so grumpy and stubborn.
“Elena,” Walt said, having taken to Nonna’s real name, “when did you come over from Italy? Was it straight to Payton Mills?”
Nonna looked offended by the question. Annalisa could see she was fiddling with her hands under the table. With her bottom lip juttingout, Nonna said, “I was about Annalisa’s age. Came over with my father from Naples.”
Walt straightened his glasses. “I see.”
Nonna paused, and the air filled with tension. Annalisa was about to say something when Nonna let out, “My mother was dead.”
That’s how you reel him in,Annalisa thought to herself, taking a long sip of her red wine.
Walt made a brief humming noise, as if that was his way of saying he was sorry for intruding on her personal space.
Annalisa wanted to tell Walt he needed to up his game, and she wanted to tell Nonna that if she ever wanted to find love again, she’d better warm up a little.
Finally, Walt leaned toward Nonna. “I’m sure you weren’t even born yet when I came over in nineteen oh four from Bialystok.”
