Fiction

Time for a Change

Ken Sieben

On the morning of September 11, 2001, when Joyce Benbow Hawkins looked out her office window across the water, she saw black smoke billowing from lower Manhattan out over Long Island. She rushed downstairs to the bar to turn on the television and learned that the north tower of the World Trade Center had just been hit by a plane. An accident like that was almost bound to happen someday, was her initial reaction. When the south tower was struck eighteen minutes later, Joyce realized the nation was under attack. She also realized that her life had been a series of bad choices.

At 7:30 every morning for the past eleven years Joyce has climbed down the stairs from her three-room apartment to the kitchen of her bayfront restaurant to turn on the lights and coffee urn. The coffee is for the staff; her acid stomach put a stop to a ten-cups-a-day habit years ago. After an inspection of the kitchen to see what was overlooked in the previous night’s cleanup, she checks out the bar, lobby, inner (smoking), central, and porch (non-smoking) dining rooms and rest rooms, makes lists of priorities, then climbs back upstairs. On September 11, though, she sat mesmerized in front of the television until the phone rang at 9:45.

It was her mother in Florida. They had spoken the night before because Joyce always calls both her mother and her son on Mondays. Their conversations were always civil, never profound. This morning was different. “What does it look like?” her mother asked.

“A lot of black smoke. You can’t really see what happened the way you can on television. It’s awful.”

“Who would do such a terrible thing? There must be thousands of people dead by now.”

“I’m worried about Will’s son. He works in the south tower. I’m not sure which floor, but it’s more than half way up.”

“Who’s that?”

“Will Morris, the man who wanted to marry me a few years back. I told you about him. His son, Scott, works there. I wave to him every morning when he gets on the ferry—including today. One time he told me that he waves back as soon as he gets to his office. This probably sounds silly, but every morning at ten to nine I look toward the towers and wave. This morning I saw the smoke. That’s when I turned on the television and learned that the first plane had just hit the north tower.”

“Eddie turned the news on at nine. We thought it was just a terrible accident but when the south tower was hit a few minutes later, I thought it was Pearl Harbor all over again.”

“I wasn’t around then, though I remember you and Dad talking about it a lot.”

“Your father enlisted in the Navy the day after. Of course, I didn’t know him then.”

“Well, today I knew this country would never be the same after they hit the Pentagon.”

“I heard there were other hijackings this morning.”

“That means whatever’s happening isn’t over yet. I can’t help thinking we might all be dead soon. Then I realize what a mess I made of my own life. You were right eighteen years ago. I should have sold the restaurant then and made a better life for Jim. Instead, I haven’t seen him in thirteen years.”

“Joyce, you stay in touch with him and he seems happy with his family and his job.”

“He’s been married to Kathy for six years and little Thomas is almost two, and I’ve never even met them. He puts in a thirty-five hour week, half of it working at home.

All I ever should have wanted for myself was a loving family. I had it for the first eight years. But after Dad died I just got so busy managing this place that I didn’t have time for James or Jim.”

“Joyce, we couldn’t have made it without you. James was good in the bar and I did my best in the kitchen. But you had your father’s sense of organization. You were Harry all over again—even smarter.”

“After James died, it got worse. I made bad choices.”

“But you thought they were good choices at the time. You didn’t do anything to blame yourself for.”

“Thanks, Mom, but when I saw what happened today I realized my priorities have always been wrong. You made a choice and found happiness with Eddie.”

“He’s been very good to me. Don’t get me wrong, your father never mistreated me or cheated. He just put The Admiral Benbow first, and after he died, I watched you do the same thing.” Then, after a pause during which Joyce waited for advice, they both gasped. “Oh, my God! Did you see that?” her mother asked.

“The south tower just collapsed. Mom, I can’t talk anymore. I’ll call you back later, okay?”

Joyce wanted desperately to talk to her son, but it was not yet seven o’clock in San Jose. She decided to wait another hour. Jim called just after 10:30. “The clock radio came on at 7:30 with the news flash about the hijacked plane crashing in Pennsylvania. As soon as I heard what else had happened, I had to make sure you were all right. We were worried.”

“Well, son, I’m not all right. The tragic, senseless deaths of so many innocent people made me realize how much I failed as a mother and a daughter and then as a mother-in-law and now as a grandmother.” And as a lover, she adds to her self-accusations. “Right now I can see hundreds of people standing on the beach staring at the smoke pouring out of the city seventeen miles away. They’re probably praying for their loved ones to return. That’s what’s most important in life, and I threw away my chances. I should have sold the restaurant years ago.”

“But you loved the place. I remember that Christmas I came home. I was amazed at how you found time to check every plate before it left the kitchen and talk to every guest while they ate.”

“But I haven’t seen you since then, Jim, and not until today did I finally understand why you were so angry. I’m sorry, but I just didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about you, and I never looked at things from your point of view. My excuse was the restaurant took all my energy, which was true, but I was still wrong.”

“Listen,” Jim continued, “it took me a year or so after that Christmas to comprehend what you told me about the pride you felt, but I finally did. You had built your life around the place, and I was starting to build mine around computers. I put in long hours, too, so I finally understood why you had to work so hard.”

“Listen, Jim, you still find time for your wife and son. I haven’t even met them.”

“Stop beating yourself up, Mom. You were always there for me when I was little.”

“Well, I should have sold the restaurant when your father died. It’s too late for that, but I’m thinking about selling it now so I can spend time with the people I love.”

Jim did not respond immediately, and Joyce feared she had waited too long, too many years, and that Jim no longer wanted her in his life. Finally he asked in a tone that sounded to her solicitous, “Does that mean you’ll be moving out to the coast?”

“I’m not sure. I have to think about my mother in Florida. She’s eighty years old, you know.” And Joyce also wondered how Will Morris would react to her decision. She had not spoken with him in four years and certainly had no right to expect his proposal would still be in effect. “But I’ll visit a lot,” she added. “I want to get to know my adult son and his family. In my heart you’re still eighteen even though I know you’re thirty-one.”

Just before eleven Will Morris called with the news that Scott had gotten out of the south tower safely and was on the ferry headed home.

“Thanks for calling. I was worried.”

“He asked me to. He said you waved to each other this morning and knew you’d be worried. He’s always liked you.”

“And I’ve always liked him.” That was true. Joyce had liked Scott the first time she’d met him. He was a fine young man, sensible and sensitive, an educated version of his father. “I’ve always liked you, too, Will.”

“Well, thanks. I’m glad you don’t hate me.”

“You know how I’ve always felt about you. Uh, listen, would you want to wait for Scott at the restaurant? I could sure use some company right now.”

“Scott said there are four hundred shell-shocked people on the boat. Most of them were ushered on by the rescue workers just to get them out of lower Manhattan. All eight ferries are running back and forth. Our fire department is trying to arrange rides home for people who don’t live around here. So, yeah, I’ll be over in five minutes, then as soon as I see Scott, I’ll be driving the rest of the day.”

“That’s very kind of you, Will, but it doesn’t surprise me. You always looked at things from the other person’s point of view. I never learned to do that.”

When Will walked through the kitchen door of The Admiral Benbow, the first thing he said was, “I got an idea on the way over. Did you make your twenty-gallon batch of clam chowder yesterday?”

“Yes, I did. And I started heating it as soon as you called. It should be ready in twenty minutes. I have the waiters setting up tables out on the ferry pier, along with plastic cups and spoons.”

“Just in time for the first ferry. I think a lot of those people will appreciate it.”

“Well, I doubt I’ll do much business today, so there’s no sense in wasting good food.”

“And, if I remember right, there’s no food as good as your clam chowder.”

Joyce felt hot tears streaming down her face before she realized she was crying.

In 1990 Joyce Benbow Hawkins had decided to add another addition to The Admiral Benbow, the bayfront restaurant her father had built in 1946. Since Jim planned to stay in California after graduating from college, she decided to sell the Island Watch condo she had bought for the two of them after James had died. All she used it for was sleeping, and she could sleep in the apartment above the restaurant which her father had built for her when she married. She’d always felt safer there where she could literally keep an eye on things. Jim said she was married to the place anyway, so she might as well move back in.

The idea took shape rapidly. Since her mother had moved to Palm Beach seven years earlier, Joyce had been renting out the little bungalow in which she’d slept every night of her life until her marriage. Her father had never had the time to insulate it properly, so it was cold in the winter and hot in the summer. Her mother hadn’t complained, but the tenants did. She hated to tie up cash so did as little as possible and charged minimal rent. Now she decided to give the present tenant three months’ notice to move out. She would have the bungalow torn down and the lot paved for parking. Then she called in the architect who’d designed the 1983 addition to draw up plans for a new twenty-table wing to be built where the old parking lot was, with a wine cellar below.

All sixty of The Admiral Benbow’s tables were reserved for its grand re-opening on Sunday, April 1. Joyce was in restaurateur’s heaven. In February, she had allowed herself three days with her mother and step-father in Florida, but the rest of the time she was needed on-site to make decisions. Delivery of tables and chairs had to be coordinated with the carpeting contractor. China and flatware couldn’t arrive until the cabinetmakers were finished. An executive chef and a sommelier had to be chosen, and three more line cooks trained. The succession of details seemed endless, but Joyce pulled it off. As plate after plate was presented for inspection, she thought only of how proud her father and her husband would have been. She also realized how much she missed her son and her mother. It would have been so much better if they were there to share her accomplishment.

The one remaining job was landscaping, and that would start the next day. Joyce had never thought about it until the architect showed her some sketches. Yes, she agreed that foundation shrubs would unify the building—it had been erected in four stages—and anchor it to the land.

Joyce was pleased when the landscaper pulled into the parking lot at five minutes to eight on Monday morning. She had been in Florida when the general contractor had hired him, yet he looked familiar. So did the name on the pickup truck, William Morris. It was a sunny and warm day, and the view across the bay was especially clear, the towers of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge framing the twin towers of the World Trade Center. As she stepped outside, she realized there was no wind and wished she didn’t have to stay in her office all day. Well, perhaps she’d have to do a lot of conferring with William Morris.

“Morning, Mrs. Hawkins,” he said, walking toward the door. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his face tan and wrinkled from years spent working outside. She guessed he was about her age, perhaps a few years older. “The place sure looks different,” he added. Of course, he would know her name from reading the contract, yet he seemed to be addressing her as someone he already knew. She did not recognize him as a customer but she was sure she had seen him before in jeans, plaid shirt, and work boots.

“Good morning, Mr. Morris.”

“You don’t remember me.” It was a statement, not a question.

“You look familiar, but I can’t seem to place you.”

“Me and my father framed the addition you had built seven years ago.”

“Yes, now I remember—William Morris, the carpenter.”

“And I’m Will Morris, the landscaper. Actually, my dad was a handyman—he could do anything. Taught me all the construction trades, too, but I sort of took to landscaping. He moved to Florida the year after we finished here—couldn’t take the cold weather with his arthritis and all. I usually spend winters helping him, but I like it better around here the rest of the year. Been looking forward to this job since I seen the plans George sent in February. Any changes since then?”

“No. I was very happy with his sketches.”

Will Morris smiled and said, “Just don’t forget it’ll take ten years for the flowering pears to look like they do in the sketches. Maybe five for the junipers.”

“I understand.”

“Lots of people don’t. Truth is, most are disappointed and think they got gypped. Trees and plants ain’t finished products like bricks and wood. Got to start them young and feed and prune them. It’s more like raising kids than framing a building.”

Joyce thought of Jim and wondered if she had tried to frame him rather than raise him properly. Well, it was too late to change anything. At least he seemed to be doing well in college. They communicated by e-mail now. He sent her a message every Sunday morning and she replied every Monday night. “How long do you expect the job to take, Mr. Morris?”

“Two or three days to prepare the soil, another two or three for the planting. Then I’ll be back to water every morning for six weeks unless it rains. Twice a week summer and fall. Contract calls for me to prune and fertilize next spring.”

“Will you need me for anything?”

“Not if you’re satisfied with the plan. If something comes up, I guess I know where to find you.” He smiled again.

“Well, yes, but things get awfully hectic around here. If you need to talk to me, please try to do it first thing in the morning.”

“Okay, but you’ll probably not even know I’m here.”

But Joyce definitely knew Will Morris was there because she could hardly take her eyes off him. As soon as she had got back to her office she spotted him through the window digging. He had removed his shirt and she felt an urge to study his upper body. He was leaner than she had imagined, especially at the waist. When he bent to lift the shovel, no roll of flesh appeared as it had on James even before he started putting on weight and as it was starting to do on her. Will Morris must be in his forties, she thought, but he had the lean, wiry-strong body of a young basketball player. Then Joyce realized that she could not recall seeing a shirtless man other than her husband since the last time she’d been to the beach, when she was ten or eleven.

When Will Morris had worked his way far enough along the building to be out of sight, Joyce decided it was time to eat breakfast. She usually had toast and an orange or grapefruit mid-morning, a hot lunch around four, and a tiny portion of the day’s special after closing at ten. She sat down at a table in the inner dining room where she could watch Will working. The south windows were tinted to prevent the sun from glaring in. She was only a few feet away from him now and could see the muscles of his chest, arms, and shoulders ripple powerfully beneath the tan skin. When he stood up straight his belly compressed so tightly that the ribbons of his abdominal muscles were distinctly visible. She felt a sudden longing to see below his belt, to see his thighs and calves, his buttocks —his genitals.

Joyce had to order herself back to work, but as the day slowly progressed, she slowly realized she was sexually attracted to Will. She laughed out loud at the thought when she had finally found the nerve to frame it as such. It’s perfectly normal, she told herself. I haven’t had sex in eight years, and I’ve been working too hard to even realize it’s been that long. But lying in bed that night, Joyce no longer saw humor in the situation. If it was keeping her awake when she needed to sleep, it was a problem that needed to be solved. As with any problem, the best course was to examine every possible outcome and alternative. If the sexual part of her nature was demanding action, she shouldn’t jump into bed with the first man she’s attracted to. No, she should look around, see who’s available. If, on the other hand, seeing shirtless Will Morris was simply an unexpected turn-on for her, she should simply avoid seeing him. He had said she wouldn’t even know he was there. It was she who had deliberately looked at him, then positioned herself where she could observe his body in action without being seen by him. Her behavior had been wrong, stupidly wrong. Tomorrow she would avoid him.

Tuesday was cloudy with a cold northeast wind coming in off the bay. As usual, Joyce made her morning run to the Fishermen’s Co-op to select the daily specials for delivery by ten. Then she stopped at the depuration plant for clams. Back at the restaurant, she happened to catch a glimpse of Will digging, wearing his shirt. Good! she thought, realizing she was indeed attracted to him. She liked the way he looked working. His movements were fluid and seemed effortless. He was a man who loved his work. Perhaps that was why she felt such a kinship with him.

It was a good thing Joyce loved her work because the staff served two hundred sixty-three lunches that day, breaking the previous Tuesday record by twenty-four. She herself had to man one of the stations for two hours. If this kept up, she’d have to hire at least one more cook.

For lunch Joyce decided on a bowl of clam chowder. Peggy, the soup chef, had made it that morning. She hoped Peggy would never leave. Eleven years earlier, she had taken a chance on promoting a nineteen-year-old waitress-turned-line-cook. Anyone who could equal Joyce’s chowder on the first try had that special sense of taste that all top-notch cooks possess. The sun had come out by mid-afternoon, so Joyce decided to eat an apple and walk outside to check on Will. The wind was blocked by the building and he had removed his shirt again, but he was so intent on his work that he didn’t see her right away. When he finally looked up he smiled warmly and said, “You must serve a fine lunch. That was quite a crowd.”

“You’re welcome to a bowl of soup or a sandwich. Just come in the kitchen and tell us what you’d like. I forgot to mention it yesterday.”

“Thanks. I might take you up on that one of these days. Get tired of my own sandwiches.”

Does that mean you live alone, Joyce wondered but dared not ask. Instead, “How’s the job coming?”

“Taking longer than I expected. Lots of concrete rubble below the surface.”

“Couldn’t you just bury it under the new topsoil?”

“I could, but it’s best to get it all out to make room for roots. Concrete drinks water faster than plants do. Soil preparation is the key to healthy plants.”

But I never would have known the difference, Will. You really take pride in your work. I admire that in a person. “It’s like food, I guess,” Joyce said. “People don’t know what it takes to make a great sandwich.”

“Now you’re really tempting me, Mrs. Hawkins. I think I’ll try one of yours tomorrow.”

“Whenever you’re hungry, just knock on that door.” She pointed toward the exterior kitchen door. “I’ll tell the staff to expect you.” She thought for a moment, then added, “Ask for the shrimp scampi on Portuguese bread.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

During Joyce’s four o’clock apple break on Wednesday Will told her it was the best sandwich he’d ever had.

“I knew you’d like it. It was my first signature dish when I took over the restaurant. The only change I’ve made in twelve years is less butter and more olive oil.”

“Well, don’t change it any more. It was perfect.”

Joyce had just taken a large bite of her apple and couldn’t respond immediately when Will said, “So you’ve been running this place for twelve years,” then quickly added, “That’s a long time.”

“Actually, I’ve been here all my life. My father opened it as Benbow’s Fish-and-Chips in 1946, right after he got out of the Navy. Then he married the waitress he’d hired and taught to cook, and I came along in 1947, followed by the first addition and the new name—The Admiral Benbow.”

“I didn’t come along till 1950, but I look a lot older than you. All that working in the sun while you’re sweating over a hot stove. I’ll tell you one thing, moisture must be great for the complexion. So when did you learn to cook?”

Joyce felt herself blushing in response to the compliment and answered quickly to get her mind back to the restaurant. “My father got a liquor license when I was sixteen, so I had to stay in the kitchen and help my parents. By the time I turned twenty-one and could serve again, I was hopelessly in love with the bartender. By the way, I have a twenty-year-old son.”

“Mine’s twenty-two. Gonna graduate from college in June. Don’t know where the years went.” When Joyce didn’t respond Will added, “Fact is, I knocked up my girlfriend in high school. Our parents agreed we had to ‘do the right thing,’ so we got married. It was okay in the beginning with us living in a rented trailer. But I was too young to know what marriage meant. I was a lousy husband and later a lousy father. She couldn’t handle the kid by herself and I just complained whenever he cried, which seemed like all the time. She finally insisted we move in with her parents so she could get help. Things went from bad to worse after that. We split up when Scott was two. I sent her alimony and child support but I never bothered with the kid till he was sixteen. By then I had taken over my father’s business and, like I told you the other day, was getting more into landscaping. I hired Scott for the summer—against my judgment, but his mother was afraid he’d get into trouble with nothing to do—and he took to the work like a duck takes to water. I was real proud of him. And I was proud of his mother for doing such a good job raising him by herself. We get along fine these days. In fact, I’ll be having dinner at her house on Easter Sunday. Scott’s coming home for the weekend, and I’m looking forward to it.” When Joyce glanced at her watch, Will added, “I guess I been rattling on about myself.”

“I was just thinking, Easter is our busiest day. Being in the restaurant business, I never had any family dinners at home. Jim—my son—went off to Cal Tech. He came home that first Christmas and got real angry at me for putting him to work in the kitchen. He hasn’t been home since. We never worked well together, but you had the opposite experience. Will Scott be joining you in the business when he graduates?”

“No. He’s got a job lined up with one of the brokerage firms on Wall Street. He did an internship with them last summer and they made him an offer.”

“Jim’s hoping for something like that, too. He’s had two summer internships so far—in computer programming. I’m still hoping he’ll come back east after graduation.”

“You can’t just tell them what to do any more.”

“I learned that lesson the hard way. Well, I’ve got to get things started for the dinner crowd. You know what happens when the cat’s away.”

“Well, thanks again for the sandwich.” Joyce felt a wave of pleasure pass through her body as she realized Will didn’t want her to leave. “What should I have tomorrow?” he asked.

“Lobster salad tomorrow and croque monsieur Friday.”

“Croak what?”

“Croque monsieur. It’s a French version of grilled cheese and ham. Only it’s baked in the oven with a very thin coat of canola oil to give it the crunchy crust or, in French, croque. It’s a great way to use up leftover scraps of meat, but that’s a trade secret—don’t tell anybody.”

The next Monday when Will knocked at the kitchen door, Joyce greeted him with genuine pleasure. “I hope you like Manhattan clam chowder,” she said.

“It’s my favorite,” he answered.

“I made twenty gallons Saturday morning and saved two bowls for us. It gets better every day. This way, sir.” She led him toward a table on the dining porch that she had set for them.

Will smiled and shook his head as he sat down. “I can’t imagine making twenty gallons of anything. How many clams do you need?”

“Seventy-five dozen. I steam them open in four gallons of white wine to produce eight gallons of broth. While they’re steaming, I fry up two pounds of diced salt pork till the fat is rendered. Then I sauté four dozen finely chopped Spanish onions, ten quarts each of chopped carrots and celery, and ten heads of smashed garlic. To that I add eight dozen chopped large, ripe tomatoes with their juice, the clam broth, four gallons of water, two cups each of minced parsley, basil, and thyme, a quarter-cup of hot pepper sauce, and two dozen bay leaves. I bring it to a boil and simmer it, covered, for an hour, add twenty pounds of diced boiling potatoes, simmer another fifteen minutes, then add salt, pepper, and the chopped-up clams and simmer it all seven more minutes, uncovered. I remove the bay leaves and garlic and it’s ready.”

“How much salt and pepper?”

“More than you’d believe if I told you.”

“How many does that serve?”

“Three hundred twenty cups and two hundred bowls—typical for a weekend.”

“Well, if it tastes as good as it smells, I know I’m in for a treat.”

“You said you liked clam chowder, so I’m sure you’ll like mine.”

During lunch Will seemed distracted. He insisted the chowder was the best he’d ever had but Joyce sensed that his mind was focused elsewhere. She was suddenly afraid that he was not as attracted to her as she was to him. Finally, after they had finished, he spoke his mind. “Sorry for not holding up my end of the conversation,” he began, “but I’ve been thinking about a new landscaping idea.”

You should have been thinking about me, she wanted to say, but instead asked, “Aren’t you almost finished?”

“Oh, I’ll finish what the contract calls for this afternoon, but to me the place needs something else.”

“I think it looks great. You did a wonderful job.”

“Don’t worry, what I have in mind won’t cost you anything. I have the plants and I’d be happy to give you another morning’s work in return for all these lunches you’ve given me.”

I’m ready to give you more than lunch. “Tell me.”

“I just thought about it sitting here looking at the view. What do you see between here and the water?”

“The beach—and the old railroad right-of-way.”

“I’d like to plant some American beach grass there. It would catch the sand and start to build dunes. Then next year I’ll add beach plums, bayberries, and heathers, maybe a few rugosa roses. Some day it’ll look like it did a hundred and thirty years ago—before they built the railroad.”

“That would be beautiful.”

“You just need patience, which I know you have.”

“How do you know that?”

“When you look at what I’ve planted so far, I know you can see what it’ll look like a year from now, five, ten years down the road. Most people can’t see that far ahead. They need instant gratification.”

“You explained that to me last Monday, so I understand. I take a great deal of pride in what I do, Will, because I know I do it well. God and everyone who ever ate at The Admiral Benbow know it’s the best restaurant in the county and one of the best in the state. I respect you as fundamentally the same kind of person as I am. What you do, you do extremely well. You’re a gifted person.”

“Well, thanks. I feel the same way about you—especially after this chowder.”

“May I ask you something personal?”

Will looked directly into her eyes and answered, “Only if you’re willing to tell me the same thing about yourself.”

Joyce smiled, confident now that he felt something special between them. “That’s a deal, and I’ll go first to prove it. My husband died eight years ago. There has been no other man in my life. Is there a woman in yours?”

“I had a lady friend for quite a while but she got tired of waiting for me to marry her. My ex-wife takes me in on holidays since I started being nice to our son, but there’s nothing else between us.” Will hesitated but when he saw Joyce looking at him as if expecting more, he added, “There’s only one woman I’ve had any interest in lately, and she’s sitting right here at this table.”

“Well, the woman sitting at this table also has an interest in you and would like to invite you to stay for dinner tonight.”

“I’ve got a better idea. Let me take you somewhere to eat. Give yourself a break and get out of the kitchen for one night.”

“I’m not sure I could eat someone else’s cooking. When I first took over I used to eat out every Monday to compare notes and get ideas, but I stopped doing that years ago. This past February I ate at my mother’s bed-and-breakfast in Florida for three days, but she taught me how to cook, so the food seemed familiar.”

“Try something different.” Will rested his chin in his right hand and closed his eyes, appearing to be lost in thought. “I know,” he suddenly said, “when was the last time you had pizza?”

“In 1983 when I hired my first trained chef. Mario had grown up in a pizzeria in Brooklyn and had his father’s recipe. Pizza was on my menu for the six months he worked here.”

“Why did he leave?”

“To finish his degree at the Culinary Institute. The next four chefs I hired couldn’t make it the way Mario did, and neither could I. It was never a big seller, so I dropped it.”

“There’s a tavern in Riverton that makes the best pizza in the world—real thin crust. Let’s go there tonight.”

They split a mushroom-and-sausage pizza and a bottle of cheap Chianti wrapped in straw. Joyce, who wore a baggy sweater and loose jeans so she could climb up into the cab of Will’s four-wheel-drive truck, had a delightful time. Will wanted to hear all the details of her life, and she felt herself wanting to share them. By the time they got back to her place, she knew they were going to be lovers and she knew that he knew it, too.

Will continued to maintain his own house in the old section of town, which he had bought from his parents when they moved to Florida, but for the next four years he spent most nights at Joyce’s apartment. Will told Joyce he loved her. He expressed willingness to sell his house and buy a place with her wherever she wanted. He tried working Saturdays and taking off Mondays to be with her, but she was always so busy that she scarcely saw him outside of lunch.

Joyce was quite pleased with the affair and never gave a thought to marriage. Will was a considerate lover. After her exhausting, exhilarating days, she loved to come upstairs, shower and slip into a nightgown, sip a glass of wine with Will, then go to bed and have him make vigorous love to her. After the first few months she found it hard to believe how long she’d lived without sex. It was a wonderful, immensely satisfying release after work and she slept better than she had ever slept in her life. She awoke warm, refreshed, and ready for the challenges of another day. She thought Will felt the same and was surprised when he told her he wanted to get married.

So they had a long talk that night and Joyce learned that what Will really wanted was for her to sell the restaurant and help him manage his business. He said he wanted her organizational skills, not her money. Whatever she got for the restaurant was hers, not theirs. As a compromise, he offered to move to Florida with her and take over her mother’s bed-and-breakfast if that was what she wanted.

“I’m not sure she’s ready to retire,” Joyce told him, knowing she was talking about herself. But she knew she’d have to find more time for Will or risk losing him. Actually, marriage and a bed-and-breakfast appealed to her—but it wasn’t time yet. Perhaps in five years, she told him. For now, though, she agreed to delegate more authority to her executive chef so she could take off on Sundays and one or two evenings during the week. They tried spending those times at Will’s house to keep her away from the hubbub of The Admiral Benbow. But she grew nervous and restless, especially when the accountant’s ledger showed a sharp decline in profits for the second and third quarters of 1991. After that experiment failed, it was soon business as usual.

Will drove to Florida a week before Christmas and stayed with his parents until the end of March. The first thing he told Joyce the night he got back was how much he had missed her. “I missed you, too, Will,” she said. “I’ve been so lonely at night, but now you’re back and I’m happy.”

In the morning Will asked her once more to sell the restaurant and get married. She said she wasn’t ready to sell yet but would marry him if that was what he really wanted.

“Why get married if I’m not gonna have a wife to be with?” he asked.

“I’m with you in bed every night.”

“So the sex is great, but that’s all we have. I hate spending evenings and weekends by myself.”

“I thought men wanted great sex with no strings attached.”

“That’s what I wanted when I was eighteen but now I know there’s a lot more to married life. This ain’t gonna work for us. As long as you’re married to the Admiral, you can’t marry me.”

“Can’t we just go on as we have been?”

“I don’t feel right about it. I feel like some kind of stud horse. I guess I’m more old-fashioned than I thought.”

But they quickly drifted back into the previous year’s pattern. They slept together. In the mornings Will drove home and had breakfast, worked all day, ate the lunches and suppers Joyce had packed for him, went home to watch TV, returned at 10:30 for wine, sex, and sleep. He spent Thanksgiving, Easter, Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day with his ex-wife and son, and he spent winters with his parents in Florida. At the end of four years he gave Joyce an ultimatum: either she sell the restaurant and marry him or he wasn’t coming back.

She refused, of course. The Admiral Benbow had just received a four-star review from the Times, which meant Joyce would have to be more vigilant than ever. When people ate at a four-star restaurant, they expected perfection. Food, wine, atmosphere, and service had to be better than anything they’d ever experienced—consistently better. If Will could not accept her for what she was, then so be it. She wasn’t going to give up what she had worked for all her life. Besides, she knew he’d be back.

In October when he came to oil-spray and mulch the shrubs, he stayed the night. He stayed every night until he left for Florida a week before Christmas. When he returned in March he was a bachelor for another month then dropped by for spring pruning and fertilizing and the delights of Joyce’s warm bed and delicious food. By Memorial Day his principles returned and he repeated his ultimatum. The same thing happened in 1996 and 1997 until he stormed off for good one morning insisting he would not be, as he shouted, “pussy-whipped.”

“So how do you feel, Joyce?” Will asked as they sat at a table in the darkened restaurant late on the night of September 11 sipping brandy. He had driven more than three hundred miles shuttling home strangers who had been herded all day aboard ferry boats leaving Manhattan.

“I’m glad Scott made it home safely, but terrible sorry about all the people who didn’t.”

“The last number I heard on the radio was between four and six thousand.”

“I still can’t believe what happened.”

They sipped their brandy in silence for several minutes. Joyce was exhausted, physically and emotionally. She felt strangely grateful that the day’s events had led her to see a truth about herself to which she had been blinded all her life. At the same time, she felt depressed over the way she had treated her mother, her son, and her lover. Then a great wave of guilt surged through her spirit and her body for daring to think of herself when thousands of innocent people had died and many thousands more had lost what could never be replaced.

“Did you go through all that chowder?” Will finally asked, and Joyce felt relieved to be in the presence of such a kind, wonderful, unselfish gentleman.

“I had to make a second vat this afternoon. Lots of families were here all day waiting for their loved ones to get back. It must have been awful watching boat after boat unload.”

“There’s still sixty or seventy cars in the parking lot. Looks like their owners won’t be coming home.”

“Maybe they’re still stuck in Manhattan. After you left this morning Scott told me the streets were jammed with people. He said he was lucky to make it to the pier.”

“I think he’s feeling guilty about his luck. His company had been planning a move to the ninety-eighth floor next month. Three of the men I drove home and one woman told me the same story—you know, there but for the grace of God . . .”

“I’m also glad you’re here with me. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“Another glass of brandy like this one and we’ll both pass out.”

“I don’t want to wake up alone again, either.” Joyce felt herself about to cry. She shouldn’t be talking like that, she thought. She had no right. “That’s the brandy talking. Forget what I just said.”

“Maybe the brandy is letting you say what you really mean, Joyce. You’re not the only one who doesn’t want to be alone tonight.” After a few minutes of silence, Will went on. “I can’t help thinking about the thousands of people who will be alone. It makes me tell myself what a fool I was for dumping you.”

“I was a bigger fool to let you get away. I should have sold the restaurant when James died. That’s what my mother told me. Jim said the same thing a few years later, and I didn’t listen. Then I wouldn’t listen to you, either. Well, I’m going to sell it now.”

“Joyce, what happened today made me realize I was wrong to ask you to. It was my stupid male pride. I wanted to support you and I felt like you were keeping me. I was in love with you—I still am—but I know enough now to take you as you are, not try and change you.”

“Maybe I want to change myself. I told you I’m going to sell the restaurant and I meant it. Ordinarily, it would take time to find a buyer, but I don’t really care about the money now. I’ll find someone—probably one of my chefs—and I’ll give them back as big a mortgage as they need. I want to spend Christmas in California with Jim and his family, then visit my mother in Florida. If you’re down there at the same time, maybe we can all get together. I’d like to meet your folks and I want to show you off to my mother and step-father.”

“Will you marry me, Joyce?”

“Of course, if you’ll still have me.”

“You don’t have to sell the restaurant on my account.”

“Thank you for saying that—and I know you mean it. But it’s the right thing to do now. I want to spend time with the people I love. I want to expend my energy being good to them.”

“Will you—retire completely?”

“I don’t know. Mom said she loved running the bed-and-breakfast with Eddie, though she was glad to finally retire. Maybe we could start one here in Waterwitch. Most of the business would be during the warm weather, so we could spend winters in Florida and California.”

“Right now that sounds like a good idea, but we’ve got plenty of time to think of other possibilities.”

“You’re right, there’s no need for any more decisions for a while. I’ve already decided to sell The Admiral Benbow and to marry you. I think that’s enough decisions for one day.”

“The second decision is final, I hope, but the first is still up for discussion, as far as I’m concerned. If you change your mind in the morning, or next month, or next year, I’ll accept it. Joyce Benbow Hawkins might still have some of the old Admiral in her blood.”

“But Joyce Benbow Hawkins needs to divorce the old Admiral so she can become Joyce Morris.”

Since 1988, eighty-three of Ken Sieben’s stories have appeared in a variety of literary magazines, including Pig Iron, Words of Wisdom, The Crucible, AIM, Skylark, and Sensations Magazine. One of his stories was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 1997. Ken’s first novel, Joanie M, was published in 2007.  Ken served as fiction editor of Northwoods Journal from 1993 to 2002.