Chapter 3: Solvent

Solvency, George Foster thought, was much more comfortable than the alternative. Sylvia was a dear, and she hadn’t expressed any worries about his grandfather’s trust coming through. But the trust had taken a while, and then the bank sat on the money until the check cleared. He had worried, and he didn’t enjoy sponging off the girl he loved. Now, he had bills in his wallet and his checks would be good.

His first stop was at a supermarket. He could cook only a few meals, fewer still that he’d want to share with as good a cook as Sylvia. Warming up canned franks and beans would keep the body alive, but it was likely to kill romance. Even worse would be serving canned spaghetti to someone who cooked such marvelous spaghetti herself.

His grilled chicken breasts, however, would please her. And, coming home from teaching on a Friday, she’d enjoy any meal she didn’t have to cook. He bought the ingredients, including lemon juice and oregano. He’d have done better to check whether she had those. He knew she didn’t stock butter. He got a few tomatoes and cukes and a head of lettuce. A package of green beans and a quart of sherbet completed his purchases. He’d provide the entire meal except for beverages and bread.

She did have oregano, but he couldn’t find lemon juice in the ‘fridge. He prepared the marinade and left the chicken soaking in it while he took his coat to a cleaner’s. “You do leather?” he asked.

“They do.” But the man looked dubious. “The bill is likely to be more than this coat is worth, though.”

“More than it cost, anyway,” he told him. The cost had been in escudos. Santiago merchants were glad -- indeed eager -- to take dollars; the people in the village preferred barter to even their own currency. “But it keeps me warm. Do you want me to pay in advance?” The man didn’t.

Back home, he busied himself with meal preparation. When Sylvia came back, he washed his hands and removed his glasses before kissing her. When he broke the kiss, he kept hugging her against his chest.

“Lovely,” she said, “but I have to take off my shoes and start dinner.”

“Dinner is almost ready. Sit here, and I’ll take care of your shoes. No. Lie down.”

She lay on the bed. He took off her shoes while she put her glasses on the nightstand. He rubbed her feet through the pantyhose. She sighed. He lay down beside her to kiss. Her mouth welcomed his tongue. “I love this,” he finally said, “but dinner isn’t going to cook itself.”

He got the chicken out of the marinade and under the broiler. He washed and cut up the tomatoes, peeled and sliced the cukes, tore up the lettuce. When the timer rang, he turned off the broiler and turned on the burner under the pan. He added a little water and dumped the beans in when that water boiled. He set the timer for five minutes. When it rang again, he turned off the stove. “Dinner is served,” he said in his best fake- British accent.

“Mmm,” she said when she’d washed and sat down, “I think I’ll keep him.”

“You have been keeping me,” he pointed out. “I can pay rent now, though. We’ll settle up after dinner.”

They did. “And how much did your groceries cost?” she asked. “I’ll subtract that.”

“My treat. I decided. I didn’t consult you, and I won’t make you put it in your food budget. I don’t plan to do this often enough to make a dent.”

“Still, it was sweet of you.”

“Then let me be completely sweet.” He washed the dishes by himself.

It was dismal out -- cool with dripping rain alternating with downpours. Neither suggested that they go out. She did some chores, and he got three solid hours in on his field notes. When she went into the bathroom, he took the last page out of the typewriter. He had his piles of paper back in order when she came out and slipped rapidly into bed. He’d convinced her to sleep naked, but she was still shy about going around naked when he was dressed.

His own preparations done, he joined her. “Mmm,” he said after the kiss. “Bed morning, tomorrow?” His hand smoothed down her taut belly to her mound.

“Tomorrow, great. Not tonight, okay?” She removed his hand.

“Okay. Cuddle.”

She turned her back and moved over against him. “I’m sorry, George, and you were so nice tonight, too. It’s just that the week was...”

“Hey,” he said. “You don’t need to explain. Tomorrow is fine. Morning love is better. Even better, I mean.” For that matter, having a naked Sylvia in his arms all night was more than he had dreamed of for the last year. He tucked her afghan around them both and kept his hands off her breasts by an act of will.

When he woke in the morning, before Sylvia for once, the afghan had slipped off. His back was chilly, though she had kept his front nice and warm. He tucked her in again before going to shower and shave. Shaving with hot running water was a luxury he was quite happy about getting used to once again.

He was having breakfast seated at the table in jeans when Sylvia woke up. He popped two slices in the toaster when he heard the shower stop. She came out of the bathroom in her robe.

“Toast?” he asked.

“Mmm, butter.”

“The chicken required it. So, we have a lot left.”

“Is that check going to last out the month at this rate?”

“The quarter. The last two checks are somewhere in some country’s mail system. They canceled them and put the whole amount in this one. Anyway, it’s not going to be ‘at this rate.’ I have some special expenses right now, but I’m not going to turn into a wastrel. I came back with one change of clothes, as you well know. I need some more, grateful as I am for your loan. The underwear will pay for itself in fewer trips to the laundromat. I need a robe.” He had dressed to eat, though he hoped to get her back to bed when her hunger was satisfied. “I was thinking of a blanket. On the other hand, that afghan forces you to sleep close.”